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Foxy Lady
Star
- Joined
- Jan 30, 2014
- Location
- United Kingdom
I had to make a decision.
'I'll book a quiet table in the restaurant for us on the first night.'
That was my boss, talking to me about the conference we were attending the following week. He wasn't inviting me to dine with him; he was just telling me what he was going to do. He wasn't taking advantage of me; don't think that for a second. You see, I had already made the decision while we discussed his presentation during the conference. No words were exchanged; none were necessary. There was a clearly established code between the VPs [Vice-Presidents] and their private secretaries. I was standing beside him, looking at a document on his screen. That was when our conversation began.
His hand touched the back of my knee. His opening move. I could move away slightly and he would understand that I wasn't interested. No offence taken or given. Mutual respect. I didn't move away.
His hand moved up the back of my legs, to the bottom of my buttocks. He's seeing how far I will go. I do not stop him, so he caresses my butt. Still I do not stop him. Each of these stages has a particular meaning. My reaction tells him we can skip the preliminaries.
Next his finger tries to slip between my thighs. I do not open them. Meaning = I am not a push over, buster. He maintains the pressure. Meaning = he's keen. Eventually, I relent and let his finger in, only to trap it. Meaning = don't take me for granted.
At the end of the session, I turn and rest my buttocks on his desk, my crotch is pointing at his face now. Meaning = I'm going to peel your cock raw.
And that is when he tells me about the table he'll be booking.
And, sure enough, on that first night we dined at that table. And when we had left the restaurant, and when we were safely away from prying eyes, apart from the ever present CCTV, he rested his hand in the small of my back and guided me to his suite.
I stripped, no fancy performance, just practical undressing. He did the same. Then he spun me round, pushed me onto the bed and penetrated me. One thrust, right to his balls. Then another and another and another and – well you get the message.
After about 15 minutes, I came, moaning softly to let him know he could let himself go now that I was satisfied.
But he didn't. He kept going.
I came again, screaming this time so that he couldn't miss it.
He didn't miss it. I was sure from the expression on his face – I was facing a mirror.
Then I went multiple, screaming and shaking, my hands clutching the bedding.
Still he kept going, with no sign of running out of steam.
Impressive for a guy in his mid-50s. A stallion.
Which is why I'm lying here, limp as a lettuce leaf, my body glistening with sweat, my hair matted, my makeup smudged, screaming for him to stop, frightened that he may stop, certain that I will pass out before he cums.
He owns me.
Bastard.
'I'll book a quiet table in the restaurant for us on the first night.'
That was my boss, talking to me about the conference we were attending the following week. He wasn't inviting me to dine with him; he was just telling me what he was going to do. He wasn't taking advantage of me; don't think that for a second. You see, I had already made the decision while we discussed his presentation during the conference. No words were exchanged; none were necessary. There was a clearly established code between the VPs [Vice-Presidents] and their private secretaries. I was standing beside him, looking at a document on his screen. That was when our conversation began.
His hand touched the back of my knee. His opening move. I could move away slightly and he would understand that I wasn't interested. No offence taken or given. Mutual respect. I didn't move away.
His hand moved up the back of my legs, to the bottom of my buttocks. He's seeing how far I will go. I do not stop him, so he caresses my butt. Still I do not stop him. Each of these stages has a particular meaning. My reaction tells him we can skip the preliminaries.
Next his finger tries to slip between my thighs. I do not open them. Meaning = I am not a push over, buster. He maintains the pressure. Meaning = he's keen. Eventually, I relent and let his finger in, only to trap it. Meaning = don't take me for granted.
At the end of the session, I turn and rest my buttocks on his desk, my crotch is pointing at his face now. Meaning = I'm going to peel your cock raw.
And that is when he tells me about the table he'll be booking.
And, sure enough, on that first night we dined at that table. And when we had left the restaurant, and when we were safely away from prying eyes, apart from the ever present CCTV, he rested his hand in the small of my back and guided me to his suite.
I stripped, no fancy performance, just practical undressing. He did the same. Then he spun me round, pushed me onto the bed and penetrated me. One thrust, right to his balls. Then another and another and another and – well you get the message.
After about 15 minutes, I came, moaning softly to let him know he could let himself go now that I was satisfied.
But he didn't. He kept going.
I came again, screaming this time so that he couldn't miss it.
He didn't miss it. I was sure from the expression on his face – I was facing a mirror.
Then I went multiple, screaming and shaking, my hands clutching the bedding.
Still he kept going, with no sign of running out of steam.
Impressive for a guy in his mid-50s. A stallion.
Which is why I'm lying here, limp as a lettuce leaf, my body glistening with sweat, my hair matted, my makeup smudged, screaming for him to stop, frightened that he may stop, certain that I will pass out before he cums.
He owns me.
Bastard.