Problems in the Office

You gotta see your husband's fabulous new office, was the way he'd put it. Even now the words ring in my ears as I masturbate to climax on lazy afternoons. Frank Finlay was Peter's new boss. Peter's my husband -- a kind, good looking, trusting soul. Perhaps it is his trusting ways that are the cause of this. If he hadn't been so trusting he would have said something when Frank Finlay, mid forties, a touch overweight, but otherwise big and impressive, had suggested that Peter stay with the HR guys to 'finish off the paperwork', as he took the 'Pretty young bride' -- me -- off to see this fabulous new office that was to be Pete's.

It was late in the day. The offices had closed and most of the staff had gone home. So when big Frank -- Mr Finlay -- showed me into what was going to be Peter's new office, he had to switch on the lights. Then it was adjusting the blinds to best display the view. We were on the forty-eighth floor. It has to be admitted, the view was spectacular.

"Whatja think?" he asked as he came up behind me and put his large hand on the back of my neck. I wear my hair short. Like a boy. I do some photo stuff with the ad company I work for. The in-house photographer likes my head and neck. And ears, where Cartier earrings are sometimes displayed -- client property, given back after the shoot.

But right now I was wearing a short black Coco Channel dress. Peter had asked me to wear it because, as he had put it, his acceptance to the firm was to be followed by a 'little something'. What the 'little something' was we hadn't been told -- or Peter hadn't -- but we had assumed some cocktails, perhaps, at one of the bars nearby ... or even in the boardroom ... or perhaps dinner, if we struck lucky with the Chairman, the afore-mentioned Frank.

"How would you like to work in an office like this?" Frank Finlay asked me, his hand caressing the back of my neck, fingers curled around it toying with an earlobe -- no Cartier tonight, just a little gold ring through the lobe. A little gold ring he was gently rotating through the hole as he talked. Have you ever had that done? I hadn't! I told him I thought it was a beautiful office. and that the view was divine, and that Peter would love it here. I wondered, as I spoke, what I was supposed to do about the hand on my neck and the fingers at my earring. Should I be showing appreciation for the fact that he was spending time with me? Or the caring way he was making me feel at home in the firm, especially when he must have a zillion other more important things to do? It was as if I was already a part of the team, although Peter didn't start until the first of next month.

"All our high flier's have started at the bottom," Frank Finlay said next, then gave a little chuckle as he patted mine. "Know what I mean?" he asked, his lips not a million miles from my own. Then my attention was directed out the window, at the evening skyscrapers lighting up, the streetlights and car lights already on. I said that I did -- know what he meant -- although in fact, I had no idea. He asked me if I though that was fair, having to start at the bottom like that, as he gently curled his hand round mine. I thought it was fair, I told him, looking out at the night.

"Tell you what," he said, "Lot of people don't realise it's important."

I had no idea what he was talking about, but didn't move as his other hand left my neck and ear lobes and started exploring my other buttock. "Loyalty's important!" he said.

"I'm sure it is," I agreed.

"Hell yes! Sure is," he repeated.

I nodded some more. But I was starting to feel kinda dazed. It seemed my buttocks, and hip, and tummy round the front, were part of this 'loyalty' thing, because as he was talking about the importance of loyalty his hands were exploring me over my little black dress.

"Why don't you give him a call?" he said next, as one of his hands slipped lower towards the hem of my dress and ended up underneath, over the skin at the top of my self-supporting stockings.

Peter has this thing about stocking tops that others can see when you sit down and cross your legs. Says it showed how 'mature' our relationship was. How what I had was for all to see ... but only for him to touch.

Had he told his boss this, I wondered.

For the next two minutes, three, maybe five, I was taken round the room and had my attention drawn to certain key points. Then I was standing behind Peter's new desk. His boss was in Peter's new chair. I had Peter's new phone in my hand. He had dialled. It was ringing. But somehow I'd managed to end up between his spread legs. Or maybe he was showing off the casters on the chair? It had come about by a sort of pincer movement. One minute I was at the desk, phone in hand. Next minute he and the chair had me corralled.

"Hi, this is Peter Rutherford," I heard my husband's voice. I turned to look at his boss as if to ask him what came next. He leant forward, I thought to help, but then his hands curled around my knees. He nodded encouragingly, gently running his hands over my knees as he did. I turned back to the desk, leaving my knees in his hands, the curve of my butt not a mile from his face, with Peter, my husband, on the phone.

"We're looking at your office," I said. It was the first thing that came to mind.

Pete seemed happy to hear me.

Perhaps he thought I'd been kidnapped.

He started to ask me questions about the office. I answered them. He wanted me to be happy with him working here, he said. Yes, I knew that. He wanted me to like what I saw. Yes, I was sure he did. But the problem right now was not so much what I was seeing, but what I was feeling when I saw it. Which right now was Finlay's broad hands turning me to face him. Then his fingers climbing the inside of my legs. I stood with the phone at my ear, telephone wire over my shoulder and snaking back behind me to the bit of the phone that sat on the desk, my feet apart, speaking to my husband, between his boss's legs, who right at this moment had his hand between mine.

"It's a most impressive view," I said, looking over his Finlay's head at the lit upper stories of some nearby buildings. I didn't want to see what he was doing. His hands slipped over the band around the top of my stockings and onto the skin at the top my legs. Peter started to question me about this and that -- the view, the desk, the colour of the carpet -- but it was difficult to be objective with a man's hands up my skirt. When fingers started to play with what was ineffectually guarded by my brief silk panties, objectivity was not the only casualty. Concentration too became more difficult.

I am horribly sensitive down there.

Actually I'm sensitive all over, but one or two places are worse than others.

This was one of them.

Pete's boss seemed to find the silk of my knickers interesting. He was certainly lavishing attention on the part that ducked between my legs! I tried to pay attention to the phone. "So what do you think of the desk?" Peter asked. I did not see it as my place to tell his boss off, or make him stop what he is doing, as most things in the office appeared to be his. Me included for the moment, it appeared. But even if I had been inclined -- whoops! my pelvis just spasmed, alarmingly, into the fingers that concerned it -- even if I had been inclined to lash out at the man, Peter being on the phone at my ear, and Fleming being his boss, were added complications.

My pelvis curled in anguish as it tried to get away from fingers that showed little interest in it's apparent discomfort - but when you don't move your legs not much happen. I didn't see how I could. Move them. Not as I was currently positioned. Not without offending Fleming. And I didn't want to do that. I wondered if Peter might have a solution. Should I ask him?

"Solid, big," I told my husband, leaving the finding of a solution to my current problem, to myself, as my hips were pulled towards his boss. Solid and big as well. He started to nuzzle my groin. Fingers were toying with my pussy, a mouth was tonguing my pubis over my dress, a hand was caressing my butt, and while this was going on I tried to find more to tell Pete, about the desk, the chair behind it. I did not mention who was in the chair, or what he was doing, nor what I was doing in response, although it has to be said it was taking up a large part of my attention. And the more he did what he was doing, to the part he was doing it to, the greater the attention he was getting!

Did I tell you I was ... Ngaaar! ... my pelvis thrust into his mouth like a wild stallion paying no heed to the reins I was pulling back with all my mental might.

I was turned around the other way. Stroked and fondled some more. Face of the seated gentleman in the cleft of the pert behind of the standing chick. I tried to find some interesting topic about the office that might interest Pete. And that I might be able to tell him about as his boss found other parts of me, to interest him. "Where will you hang your hat?" I asked, rather stupidly, as the hem of my dress was pushed over my hips, and my brief silk panties were exposed.

"Tell him I like what you wear," said Finlay, out of nowhere, surprising me -- I didn't think he wanted to be involved in the verbal part of this exchange -- as his hand, reaching from behind between my legs ran over the panties' front panel, neatly embroidered with little black flowers.

"Mr Finlay likes ... what I am wearing," I said to the phone, trying to keep my voice calm. I almost said 'my panties'!

Pete asks some questions about that. About what I am wearing. Or rather, about what it was about what I was wearing that his boss liked. And how his boss liked me. And how we are getting on, together, the two of us. And whether or not I was making a good impression on the man. And wasn't he charming. Then he went on to tell me how much he was looking forward to working with the guy, as the guy he was looking forward to working with used the tip of his right forefinger to gently caress his wife's clitoris over the top of some neat black flowers. Then the fingers started to figure out how to get under the flowers. By slipping in the leg-band of the brief black panties ... which they did, without difficultly ... and suddenly I find that I have other things on my mind than my husbands dumb questions.

Like, for example, how the fuck was I already so moist. Because although the wifely me, the well brought up me, the Sunday school teacher's pet me, was pulling on the reins of this thing for all I was worth, there was another part of me, the part that had made me wet as hell below, and my nipples hard as heck above, that had its smutty nose deep in the trough. The weakening knees. The pelvic pulse when he touched me right. The gasp as his fingers wormed inside and onto skin. The curl and the arch of my back as the pressure started to build. The inner pressure responding to the outer feel of fingers from this somehow important person in our lives. Someone I'd never even met until today. Yet now I was permitting him licence, to caress me all he liked! Why?

Why should I let him?

Why didn't I ...

"Mmmm," I grunted non-committally into the phone.

I had missed his question

On the one hand it pissed me off, being taken advantage of like this, and by someone who should know better. But on the other, I could feel my juices oozing into play. The workings of the hotter parts of body, pumping out approval as it were. And say what you like, there are far worse feelings in the world than the turn on of excitement that kicks into play when bodily urges grab the reins. And the feeling of guilt, the secrecy, the deception involved, were making this no less arousing. However much I wished they would were. "It's good," I gasped, though what about, I wasn't sure.

My fingertips were examining the surface of the desk. I felt myself being pulled into his lap. I tried to hold myself from going, arguing internally that so long as I was standing of my own free will -- regardless of where his fingers were -- then I was in command of the situation. In control of my emotions. Protecting my modesty ... and stuff like that ... but that once I was settled in his lap -- as I was now, regrettably -- then I had become no more than an acquiescent plaything for this large and forceful man. By definition when that happened -- as it just had -- then I was no longer the respectable wife of one of his staff. Though precisely what it made me, I wasn't yet sure.

Sheeeee- ite ... I responded wantonly, this did NOT feel make me feel homely in a hot mug of cocoa sort of way.

"I think it's mahogany," I said. Meaning the desk. My husband just asked. One of my hands lay at its edge. The other hung limp by my side. I tried to ignore the mouth that nuzzled my neck, just below my ear. Not easy. Pete's boss had a heavy, active tongue. Right now it was exploring the inner whorls. I didn't move. Pete asked me something else, I don't know what. I found a multi-purpose 'H'humm' in response, as his boss found the zip of my dress.

It is at the back.

The zip.

So too were two large hands. Running it down ... all the way. Looking for my bra catch ... finding it ... flipping it open. I hadn't a clue what to do, other than catch the top of my dress as it fell to my waist. And collect my bra as it's fell off my shoulders. I was turned on his lap, one leg unceremoniously hoisted in the air as he lifted me with ease and twirled me around. Before I could do anything but marvel at the move I had a pair of authoritative lips around a nipple. Suckling me more gently than I'd imagined he might. If given the chance. Which I didn't think he had been, but had taken it.

My nipple, aroused alarmingly anyway, stood up and looked around like an interested pea when divested of its coverings. It was now was at the back of an interested mouth being eagerly attended to by an interested tongue. For some reason I was cupping his head in my hand as his mouth and tongue gently toyed with my throbbing nipple. I had started to bite my lower lip. I could feel the furrows that had formed on my brow. My back was arched. Not heavily arched but lightly, as if at the ready, prepared, ready to curl at the slightest ... ngaaaar!

Like that!

"Blue," I groaned, in response to Peter's latest question. I cleared my throat, "I think it's blue," I said with care, my eyes tight shut. He laughed and asked why I couldn't be sure.

Because I'm astride your boss and naked to the waist and have his mouth on my tit and his hands in my knickers, I wanted to say. But didn't. I tried to turn, to see the wall he was talking about. It faced the chair his boss is in. I was astride his boss and facing the other way. I tried to turn my head while leaving my breasts where they were. The head that was enjoying them moved from my right, to my left, and started to work on that one. Possibly to see if he could make it as hard and engorged as its neighbour. "It's definitely blue," I said, head swivelled around, breast in the mouth of his boss, as I noted that the nipple was every bit as hard as it's neighbour.

"Ghaaaaaagh!" I gasped, as he lightly bit.

"Sorry?" said the phone.

"I just ...ngaaar!" he did it again, "... sat on a paper clip," I gasped, becoming alarmed with my reactions to the man in whose lap I had found myself. "Mr Finlay was showing me ..." (I almost said Frank!) "... some of the things they issue you with." I turned from the phone, putting my hand across the mouthpiece, as Frank's left hand started yanking at my panties. You'll rip the damn things, I want to tell him -- scream at him -- my breasts now tingling and buzzing like fire tenders at a fifth alarm fire.

"Is Frank there?" said Peter on the phone.

"Yup," is all I could manage, before clamping my hand back over the mouthpiece and letting out a groan as a thick finger slipped inside ...

THAT'S MEANT TO BE OFF LIMITS!

"Wow," said the phone at my ear. "He's still there. That's great. He must really like you. Wow!" For some reason my husband was now whispering. As if not wanting 'Frank' to know what he was saying. I could tell him right off that 'Frank' was not in the least bit interested in what he was saying. He was far too interested in me! "That he should stay so long, spend so much time with you ... wow!" Peter was burbling, soto voce, in the phone in my ear. I could of course have explained to him why Frank was spending so much time with me. But as I considered this, I was also aware that most of my attention was riveted on the finger slipping gently into my vagina. And the feather-light thumb that had started to brush softly over my clit. My pelvis reacted. Thrusts in the air like a very large fish at a very tasty fly! Ngaaaaaargh! I gasped, hand tightly clasped over the mouthpiece.

"Tell you what," said the whispering voice in my ear. "Play it cool. Don't let the boss know we're pleased at the attention he's giving you." At which point I wanted to tell him that HE would not be pleased with the attention the boss was giving ME if he knew what it entailed! "Just tell me some more about the room. But don't let on that you're happy he's there."

Who said I'm happy?

I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE!

"Hey, Pete baby," said Frank, mouth off me and onto the phone he had quickly wrenched from my grasp.

I'd never been happier to lose a phone!

I had a broad hand on the top of my head. Pushed from lap to the floor. "Some gal you got. Pete. Wow. Hot. Tell me about hot!" I could hear Pete laughing delightedly in the background. His babe meeting his boss's approval. Now I was on my knees. The hand on my head still there. His legs were spread and I was between them, as if in prayer. Then he released the god of war for me to worship.

"Someone this hot didn't choose you for no reason, Pete. Know what I mean. Means you are quality." The laughter, more embarrassed on the phone. Pete isn't good with praise. The god of war was in my mouth. "Impressed? Me. You don't know the half of it, Pete!" The tip of Thor had just touched the back of my throat. The hand at the top of my head wanted more. I curled my shoulders and straightened my neck and strained my mouth and felt the tip ease into my throat. Felt it descend, knew that he liked it -- my little party piece -- then I took some more and the bastard was impressed. Two ... three ... four. Then I had to get rid of the thing, before I strangled myself.

He gave me the phone back!

"Pete!" I gasped, out of breath but unable to gulp it in as I needed to do.

I raised the phone in the air, straight armed like a torch, and gulped in the mother of all breaths.

Finlay grabbed my outstretched arm and yanked me up.

Now the Statue of Liberty, phone in the air, dress round my waist, panties round my ankles. In one impressive motion I was lifted off the floor and turned around and laid on my back on the desk, legs apart, knees spread, heels on the edge of the desk. In one way this was helpful. It let me describe some additional features to Pete. Like the moulding round the ceiling. The lights overhead. The small red sprinkler heads if a fire should start in the room. Then I stopped for a while. Partly because my distant husband -- where the heck was he, anyway? -- wanted to ask me some more about the room, and whether or not his boss was still sufficiently interested in me still to be in the room.

If only he knew!

And partly because I can never speak, or do anything in fact, other than groan and squirm and gasp a lot, if I have a well-aroused penis is inside my vagina. And boy! He was well aroused.

My pelvis angled up, to help, and I opened like a flower that seeks the sun.

Man, was I aroused!

"Pssst ..." said my earpiece, suddenly.

My attention was elsewhere.