I take care to dress in a respectable, professional way. My thoughts, however, are anything but. When I take down notes in a meeting, you might see me smile, nod, sip a cup of coffee. However, only I will ever know what’s running through my head. It wouldn’t be polite to share the fact I might be thinking about whether you would make eye contact, while I licked and sucked the length of your cock, or whether you like the control of your hand on the back of my head, while you close your eyes.
I might watch you to decipher your preference; fucking me on the desk, skirt hitched up, spread wide, or you bending me over it, to enjoy just how wet and tight I can be.
***
Paris calls, often. Our biggest clients are based there, and I travel at least once a month. London to New York to Paris the same week is gruelling, but not unheard of. By now, the doorman to the corporate apartment greets me by first name.
I’ve learned to spot an insecure man a mile off. They struggle with my schedule and the fact that I manage the trading floor. In fact, it’s best not to get attached at all. It makes things less complicated.
The city is full of personality and reveals its secrets to you slowly if you take the time to get to know it. Hidden plazas and terraces, where you can openly people watch, savouring a coffee so deep in flavour you forget what day it is. I’ve come to realise that Parisien women prioritise two things: impeccable dress sense and never compromising on pleasure.
***
Sitting on the last flight back home to London, I look up and think I see you. Dark hair, honey skin. As you take off your tailored navy suit jacket, the outline of your curved biceps stretching against your crisp, pressed shirt is evidence you look after your body. But as you turn to take your seat, I can see I’m mistaken and a long, slow sigh escapes me.
The first time we met, the morning had been a train wreck of meetings. I had stood in front of the board for several hours, justifying my team’s decisions on the trading floor that had lost us an unholy amount of money that week.
Every muscle was tense as I fixed a smile and carried on. I followed you into the lift on automatic pilot, ensuring nothing broke the veneer. I hadn’t seen you before and assumed you were a new client. Your cologne penetrated me first, leather and musk. I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply, stealing a private moment. Something like fascination and amusement rested on your face as you watched me. You stood at the back of the lift, jacket casually in hand. I offered a curt morning greeting turning my back abruptly, silently admonishing myself. With the offices on the top floor and the lunchtime rush, the lift was soon at-capacity. I had taken a step back each time the doors opened to make room for more people, and was now so close to you I could feel your heat.
The first graze of your hand against my ass I put down as accidental; it made me straighten, immediately. The second, more of a long caress with the back of your hand, was unmistakable. I looked down and saw your coat draped over your arm, blocking any view of what was going on the other side of it. When the third stroke came, my body reacted before my mind was able to keep up. I arched back onto your hand. It had been so long since I’d been touched; it had been all work and no play recently. You found the slit up the back of my dress, and caressed the inside of my thighs, forcing me to bite my lip. I could see the floors counting down on the lift to the ground floor and was trying to steady my breath to stop myself from panting. As the lift bounced to a gentle stop, you slid two fingers past my lace panties and straight inside me. I had to cough to cover the loud moan that escaped me. The crowd of people shuffled out the door and you ground yourself into me, making sure I felt how hard you were. You stood level, shoulder to shoulder with me, but so no one else could see you. When I looked at you, you smiled, refusing to make eye contact. Instead, you slid the fingers that had just been inside me moments ago into your mouth, sucking them gently. Pulling them out again slowly, you gave a long, slow lick to your fingertips and then slipped your hand into your pocket, exiting the lift with an unwavering nonchalance. I diverted straight to the bathrooms to get some reprieve. It wasn’t nearly enough.
I looked for you in the office after lunch, but there was no sign of you. Asking at reception, Colette smiled knowingly, making accurate assumptions about my queries. I smoothed a casual lie to mask my overzealousness, explaining that I found an expensive Montblanc fountain pen at the desk you were working at. I detracted with a shrug and a finders keepers, excusing myself. But I now knew your name, and it caressed my tongue as I said it quietly to myself, Benoit.
***
The second time I saw you was on my next visit. The most senior officials from Euronext took up half the boardroom. The meeting was intense, and my pre-agreed role was to observe and report back to my seniors on the individual dynamics of the room. I hadn’t seen you slip in behind me. The room exited in a hurry before the market opened, and as I finished packing up my things and turned to leave, I realised we were the last ones in the room. I couldn’t help blushing, remembering our last encounter. You held the door open for me and followed me out. The throng of meeting attendees had dispersed, and I had thirty minutes before my debrief with my execs.
I headed straight for the bathrooms and could hear your footsteps behind me. The privacy screen outside the toilets gave the impression of seclusion, and I could see we were the only ones there. As I opened the door of one of the unisex toilets, you quickened your pace, entering swiftly behind me, closing the door.
You intently placed your hands in your pockets and silently watched me, giving me total control to ask you to leave. I could feel my nipples go hard through my shirt just remembering your warm fingers inside me. I reached past you and locked the door.
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You kissed my neck, undoing my top button, moving down to my breasts with your mouth. I could feel your urgency through your trousers, and as I stroked you, you growled, turning me around. You slid your hands up the inside of my skirt and pulled my panties down, dropping them to the floor. Rubbing gently at my clit, you caused a moan to escape, and my hips told you I wanted to go faster. I was so wet. You continued to rub me in long, teasing strokes and undid the zip of your fly, touching yourself. I watched as your hand became slick with your own juices. When you slid three fingers from the same hand inside me pumping away at me, I damn near lost my mind. I lifted a knee onto the sink as you sped up, watching me buckle and rock back and forward onto your fingers. I came loudly, my head resting on my forearms up against the wall. Then, as quickly as you entered, you left. I heard the door close behind you. I was entirely satisfied but aching to pleasure you.
***
I now volunteer for additional Paris trips. We never exchange contact information nor try and meet up outside of work. It’s part of the game. At work dinners, you leave the keycard of whatever hotel room you have, folded into my napkin. In the office I return to my desk and find the keycard placed under my laptop, even when I haven’t set eyes on you. There is never a note or any instruction on time. Too early and you will know how keen I am. Or perhaps you won’t even be there. Too late and there won’t be enough time to enjoy ourselves fully.
At work functions we find ourselves in each other’s orbits, sometimes sat at the same table, but never next to each other.You pose polite, seemingly innocuous questions over dinner disguised as small talk.
“What do you do for pleasure outside of work?”
The others look away in boredom while you drink in the minute details I offer you. Fixing me with your direct gaze, you look like you want to consume every inch of me. It’s the same look you wear when you answer your hotel room door. Or just before you bury your head between my legs, pushing your tongue inside me. Hungry. Greedy. The thought makes me squirm. I don’t know anything about you, except your name, the company you work for and your title.
But I do know what your tongue and fingers feel like inside me, and how I can tell you are about to come from the thickness of your throbbing cock. I know when you pin my wrists above my head, I’ll be in exquisite trouble. I know you enjoy sitting back sometimes to see how frantic I get, begging you with every inch of my body. I know with an after-dinner cognac you won’t be in a rush, and you like it deliciously rough.
In meetings and at the dinners everything is polite courtesy, distanced. I behave indifferently; on the inside I am anything but. We sit at an impasse. Perhaps it’s the expectation of civility and manners on such occasions. Or the pressure of being ready to answer any business question at any time. But I always catch the twitch in the corner of your mouth when you break your professional façade to whisper something entirely inappropriate; I’m going to fuck you so hard tonight, and then I’m going to bring out the toys. You glide on past me, shaking hands with the corporate exec waiting for you, quoting trading performance and targets. All smiles, never breaking your stride. When we lock eyes, I can see you are amused at the impact you’ve had on me, while I stand breathless.
***
As I walk into the restaurant I can’t help scanning to see if you are there. It frustrates me how disappointed I am not to see you. I usually don’t drink at work events; however, a glass of wine will take the edge off the restlessness I feel. When I’m with you I let go entirely. You bring out my feral side. I lose all inhibitions and let my body take over.
Taking our seats, you arrive uncharacteristically late, looking effortlessly chic. I’m openly staring at you, willing you to catch my eye.
All through lunch I play my part. I smile. I nod. I recite the highs and lows around the global exchanges, discuss algorithms, market predictions, all on automatic pilot. I volunteer to provide a report to the Vice President of one of our investors by end of day. When you walk past our table, you stop to shake hands and chat with him. You rest your hand on the back of my chair, and imperceptible to everyone else, you use a single finger to stroke the back of my neck. It’s the most exquisite torture, and my nipples get hard and strain against my shirt. You move on to the next table, and I work hard to not show my disappointment.
After lunch, people stand and mingle. There’s no sign of you and I can see my napkin at the table is crumpled. Walking over to where I was sitting, I check for the hotel keycard. I’m on the first flight back to London tomorrow, and this will be a much-needed end to this trip. My hand brushes against a piece of expensive, thick cream paper. I can see my hand shaking as I unfold the note, taking in the loop and curl of the handwriting in black ink.
I’m unable to make tonight. Believe me,
I would if I could. I want you to use my gift,
while thinking about the first time I used it on you.
My new role requires me to travel to London weekly.
I’m on the first flight in the morning.
A demain,
Benoit
x
I feel an instant tug at my groin, as I think back to that night. This is the most personal thing you have ever said to me, and I’m taken off guard. When I look up, I catch you, standing in the doorway, staring straight at me. Your grey suit is tight enough that I can make out your thighs. I instantly want to lick them. You give a melancholy nod of your head and disappear.
I make my excuses to leave, deciding to head straight back to the apartment to work on the report and pack for my flight. As I climb in the taxi, I can feel my body coming down from the expectation of you. I’m wet, but my mind is already mapping out my report. This opportunity could lead to a promotion.
Back at the studio I sit down in the leather chair to start researching figures, but my mind keeps pulling me back to thinking about you. I know from your note I’ll see you tomorrow, but the restlessness pervades. When I get like this, touching myself doesn’t lift the feeling. It’s not about the orgasm, I need to feel you inside me, filling me entirely. Your gift sits on the desk next to my laptop, it’s my favourite toy. I stroke all seven inches of the glass dildo you bought me, my fingertips tracing the raised red hearts, designed to give extra pleasure.
I can’t help thinking about the first time you used it on me. My nipples are straining against my bra and I’m not fighting the feeling anymore. My body is sensitive, and even my own touch makes me horny. My skirt has a split at the front, and it’s ruched up around my waist. Sometimes you tear my stockings off with your teeth. Undoing my shirt, I rub at the dampness between my legs. I slip my hand inside my panties enjoying this office wank. You love to watch me touch myself. I tug my nipples. They are fully erect. You take them in your mouth, gently biting until I cry out.
My fingers glide over my clit and I’m panting. In your hotel room, you always make me slow down and work for it. I’m used to getting my own way and when you see the flash of fury behind my eyes, my raw longing makes you harder. I slip two fingers inside me, massaging back and forward thinking of last month when you told me you couldn’t wait, and then bent me over and fucked me in the office toilets. You frantically pumped away at me. Hearing me cum took you over the edge. Later that night over dinner I was stood at the bar and as you ordered your drink, you whispered I’ve been thinking all night about your juicy pussy full of my cum. I saw your smirk as you walked off and saw my mouth hung open.
Pumping my fingers, I’m so swollen. I can tell when I’m dirty and taste myself how much it turns you on. I’m the last person to do as they are told, but I know I need more than just my fingers. Sliding my panties off I go to the desk to get the dildo. I like teasing strokes, but before long I need all of it inside me. I work the dildo, pumping away at me, like you do. I tease myself, pulling it out and sliding it up and down across my clit, my lips hugging and spreading at its girth. You do this to me with your cock. My breath quickens as I get closer. I can hear how wet I am.
I can’t wait any longer and thrust the dildo inside me, stroking my clit. Past the point of play, I want it harder. I need to feel it deep inside me taking up every inch of me, like you do. I rock my hips back and forward, frantically. Sometimes you like to cum inside me and then use the dildo, watching your creaminess spill down the inside of my thighs while you caress my g-spot. I’m entirely lost to you in these moments; primal.
I’m so close and push the dildo right inside me, up to its hilt. I pant and moan, pumping it deeper and deeper until I climax hard, crying out. As I slide it out, I think about you, and what I’m going to do to you tomorrow. You like to call me your dirty girl when I swallow. I lick and suck the length of the dildo’s shaft, working the tip across my lips, tasting my sweet tang.
I cancel my four o’clock online meeting and sit back thinking about what you just made me do. I wonder if we will be on the same flight, and whether I will see you in the lounge. I try to stop my mind wandering too far, but I’m already thinking of the shower rooms in the lounge and you lathering soap over my nipples and between my legs. The hardest part will be trying to keep quiet.
The End
Read all about the wonderful author: Autumn Moreau
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