I’m on my knees to him in his office, as I so often am, lips sliding up and down his saliva-slick shaft. His cock is by no means the biggest I’ve sucked, but it is one of the most beautiful, perfectly straight and smooth, the taut skin silky. It’s as poised and polished as the rest of him; with his cultured voice and manicured nails, impeccable grooming and ocean-fresh scent, he’s a little older, more reserved and urbane than my easygoing, game-for-anything boyfriends. Making him groan, “Oh my god…” when his cock’s in my mouth is the closest I’ve ever come to making him lose control.
He’s told me this is what he thinks about when he jerks off — his cock thrusting between my lips, my tongue stroking, swiping, caressing as I suck. It’s what I think about too, sometimes, when I touch myself. We’ve had sex a handful of times, he’s licked and fingered me to orgasm, but this is what excites us both: the snatched moments in his office, me on my knees or sitting in his swivel chair, my hands on his hips, his hands holding my long hair out of my face as I suck him.
I lick him up and down at first, tongue swooping and spiraling around the head of his rigid cock, teasing the slit, strumming the frenulum until I can tell he’s struggling not to thrust his hips forward. He’s too much of a gentleman to thrust until I invite him to; that control thing, again.
His dick’s wet enough to take between my lips now, and I glide up and down with just enough pressure to make him groan, my tongue still dancing, easing the way. When his breathing is coming in gasps, I suck him in and pull back, suck and pull back, reading his body language, matching my rhythm to his.
What is it I find so hypnotic about sucking cock? It’s the swell and surge of hard, virile, pulsing life stretching my mouth wide, the intimacy of my face pressed to his warm skin as I take him deep; it’s no secret that nothing gets me wetter than sucking cock and I immerse myself in it utterly, relaxed yet hyperfocused.
I’m deepthroating him, my breathing steady, thrilled by every twitch and spasm of his body. He’s leaking precum, the flavor hitting the back of my throat, making me swallow around him, loving his low groans of pleasure. My pussy is wet, my panties soaked, and I know after this it will only take him a moment with his dextrous fingers to get me off; the taste of his cum in my mouth always makes my orgasm that much more intense. I’m in a cocksucking trance, but still aware of every minute detail — the scratchy carpet beneath my knees, the smooth fabric of his suit pants, bunched around his thighs, the fresh scent of his cologne. I’m tuned in to his body in a million tiny ways…
…and yet I have no idea why he suddenly pulls out of my mouth just as he starts to cum, instead of letting me gulp it down as I would usually do.
The result is spectacular. Bucking like a rogue fire hose, his cock blasts out spurt after spurt of hot semen, splattering over me. I have never seen one guy cum so much, in real life or in a porno. Part of me wants to just stare and admire the sight, even while I’m scrambling backward to avoid the shower.
With a strangled cry he tries to catch the rest of the downpour in his cupped hands, but it overflows and splashes down onto the pale carpet.
We look at each other, bemused.
“Well that was… impressive…” I say faintly. I lap up the pool of cum from his hands like a cat, partly because yum, why waste it, and also because I have no idea how else to clean up. Then I approach the mirror to survey the damage.
I’m wearing my favorite dress, a simple black sleeveless wrap dress that drives him wild whenever I wear it. The entire front of it is streaked with cum. He’s also got it all over my neck and cleavage, and in my long hair; in fact it’s a miracle he missed my mouth when his aim was so comprehensive.
It’s a good thing he’s the boss and has his own executive bathroom. He shuffles in there with his pants and shorts still bunched around his thighs, and grabs a handful of paper towels. After he’s wiped himself down, we both start dabbing at the semen stains on my dress. It soon becomes obvious they are not going to come out.
This isn’t really how I envisioned our post-work quickie evolving, but he cracks open a bottle of Grey Goose I gave him and we take swigs, between scrubbing at the carpet, my dress, my hair, his pants, the wall, and everything else that got in the firing line.
“Next time, can we try that with me naked?” I suggest. He likes that suggestion a lot. He picks me up and dumps me on my back on his desk, knocking over a pile of documents and a glass of water, just to add to the mess. He pushes my knees back to my ears and licks me through my soaked panties — he knows I love that, the friction of the wet fabric adding to the hard pressure of his tongue. Then he tugs them aside and shoves two fingers into me, hooking them upward to catch my G-spot, licking my clit until I’m convulsing up against his face. I bite down on my hand to stifle my moans as I cum, hard.
“Am I forgiven?” he asks with a guilty grin. “I’ll buy you a new dress.”
“Yes, you’re forgiven, no thank you to the dress, pass me the vodka,” I say fondly, charmed by him as always.
It’s lucky I had a long coat with me; I keep it buttoned up as I travel home on the tube, even though the carriage is warm. I soak the dress in stain remover and wash it three times, but still the marks remain, unmistakable snail tracks that fluoresce under artificial light like bloodstains in Luminol. I throw the dress out.
When he makes an oblique reference to Monica Lewinsky in a client meeting, I have to fake a coughing fit so I don’t have to explain why I’m laughing so hard…
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More confessions from me here — if you think you can handle it! Maybe take a cold shower first…
