“I’m considering working from home….”
“If you work from home, can I come fuck you?”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
So began our latest tryst. As I approached, she warned me that she had to buy casters for her bed, to keep it from rolling around and making a racket, and that I might have to wait a few minutes while she ran that errand. Also, that she had a conference call in forty minutes.
“Skip the casters,” I said.
I arrived. We kissed hello. She looked professional, in a pencil skirt, black tights, and a blouse.
I sat on her couch.
“Undress for me,” I said.
“Any particular order?” she asked.
“As you wish,” I said.
First, she took off her top. Then, her skirt. Then, her tights. She stood there, pausing, in her bra and panties.
“Keep going,” I said.
Ever-compliant, she got herself naked.
“Now, go stand by your bed.”
I walked over to her. I kissed her, hard. I put my hands around her neck and tightened them, just a little, before pushing her, hard, onto the bed.
Just four days earlier, she had written me: “Touch my pussy incessantly with your lips, your mouth incredibly softly and gently. I want to feel an intensity not based on the pressure of your touch but the relentlessness of it. Make me beg before you allow me to cum.”
I didn’t make her beg, but I aspired to this sensation for her. The pressure of the impending phone call made begging improbable.
In the short time between when we began and when the conference call was due to start, I went down on her, she sucked my cock, and she rode me just a bit. (Did I fuck her missionary, too? I think so.) All I know is that she came once or twice, and I filled her mouth with my cum.
And then the call began. She sat, in a t-shirt and panties, at her kitchen table, sipping coffee, and periodically muttering words like “content” and some other shit into a call that clearly had a lot of participants. I sat, three feet away, on my computer. I texted her:
“Should I be fingering you now?”
She didn’t immediately answer. I added, “I just don’t want to be shirking my responsibilities.”
“I don’t think you’re capable of shirking your responsibilities,” she replied.
“So, yes?” I wrote.
“Yes please,” she typed.
I stood up and walked over. She pressed mute. I bent down and shoved two fingers deep in her pussy. She let out a moan and collapsed her head onto my shoulder. I squeezed a breast, hard. Pinched a nipple, and started rubbing her clit. Faster, faster. Fingering her, rubbing her clit. Fingering her, rubbing her clit. I could feel her orgasm approaching. When it came, she nearly dropped the phone, collapsing sideways, resting nearly all her body weight on me.
“Shouldn’t you be listening?” I said, and walked back over to my chair.
Within moments, she was talking again. Something about optimizing something or other, preparing in advance, reducing workloads.
The call ended. There was another call. That ended.
“So where do you want to suck my cock?” I said.
“You want me sitting or lying?”
She’s getting better. She’s learning what I like. She’s giving it to me. More tongue, less teeth. More gentle, less rough. Once more, I filled her mouth with my cum, moaning, “Jesus CHRIST.”
“Where do you want me to lick your pussy?” I asked.
“Um, my bed?” she said. “My feet are getting cold.”
We adjourned to the bedroom where I collected two more earthshattering orgasms from her before a few minutes of pillow talk, a lengthy hunt for a missing sock (it was in my pants leg), and then, I was off, just as her next conference call – this one, on video – began.