Part Three - Improv, Fucking A Co Worker

Then he removes my undies (until now still modestly covering me) and starts

running his hands up and down my inside thighs, again avoiding the centre of

sensation. I start moaning — the suspenseful sensation is taking over my senses,

and my whole being contracts to the spots being teased and touched by his

fingers. Any time I try to move my thighs towards his fingers, he stops, until I

realise what he is about and desperately try to control my trembling urging and

listing and attempt to hold still. For another few eternities he teases and

torments, then with a whispered “Good Girl”, he runs the tips of his fingers over

my clit and along the slit, briefly outlining the labia and sparking the nerves

into unsettled activity, eliciting a loud groan from my tensed throat. Then he

stops again.

I am turned around and laid back on the keyboard of the computer. My hair is

loosened slightly, so my head lies straight, but I am still unable to see

anything below my neckline. My legs are around his middle, as he sits back on his

computer chair and contemplates my position and his assignment.

“Please — touch me” I beg, my skin acutely aware that the most minimal caress

will be more erotic now than many more carnal handlings later.

He shifts in his chair, his hands engaged in cryptic activities, his breathing

controlled and yet as charged as mine.

Then something starts moving over my skin. It’s cool, small — I feel like it is

leaving a trail of sparks behind as again my synapses start firing in response to

the sensation. It glides and rolls over my breasts, pressing moderately on my

nipples and standing them upright and quivering. Slowly it tracks over my

stomach, nestling briefly in my navel before continuing its journey south. I

raise my hips to meet it, wild with a frenzied need to identify the intruder. He

laughs low, amused by my distress and need. The object slides smoothly into the

fold between the thighs and the pudendum, tracks down each valley, rolls across

the bottom and up past the cleft to the top, where it rotates around the clit

like some tiny moon. My entire body undulates in response to its movements, my

moans becoming more and more frenetic. Finally, the enigma slides across my clit,

followed closely by his tongue and teeth as he stimulates me to close to the edge

– then stops again.

I cry out at the sudden loss of sensation, then lose my breath as my nipples are

touched, held, taken, pinched, and pulled. The change in intensity confuses me,

and my body arches in pain-and-pleasure and total overload. By my nipples I am

pulled upright, my head still tilted back and held immobile. He kisses me once,

brutally, tongue probing deeply, teeth clashing and lips bruising mine. I am

turned, his hands swapping to hold my nipples firmly as he seats himself then

lowers me down onto his lap. His hard-as-nails cock which fills me utterly, and I

almost come as I attempt to impale myself completely upon it. His adjustable

chair sinks under the combination of both our weights. With one arm across my

hips and left breast he forbids me to move, while his other hand creeps down and

starts gently rubbing and circling and inflaming my clitoris and driving the

tingles of orgasm through my body. I  cannot contain myself — I scream with the

complete overload of my senses and the spasms of my body force me up and down a

little on his cock, the friction adding to the charges bouncing back and forwards

through my body.

As I come down, his fingers trace around my mouth and the taste of me on my lips

augments the endnote as my vagina spasms around his cock for one last thrill. He

is still hard, still ready, and still inside me, and he brushes his palms in

front of my breasts and teases their tips.

Then he leans over to the computer, still holding me on his lap. On the desk, I

see a mouse-ball — the enigma from before. He touches a few buttons, then leans

back and puts his hands in front of me again; the merest touch on my nipples a

twinge so intense I gasp.

I raise to follow the sensation, and the chair raises with the loss of weight –

but not far enough. I realise I am about to lose him from inside me, and stop –

but I’ve lost the touch on my breasts. My head is still held high, and in the

vexing seeing-and-not-seeing is another sense gone crazy. And in the background I

can hear another woman screaming. In a less-confused quarter of my mind, I

realise it’s me — he’s been recording me. Somehow the fact merely arouses me

more, and I am closer again to orgasm than I thought a body could be without

actually being there. The other screams stop, he presses a key, and I know he’s

recording me again. And instead of silencing me, the knowledge makes me helpless

to stop myself — my groans are more liberated (and louder) than they were

before.

Without him needing to do more than hold his palms just in front of my breasts, I

am driven into a rhythm of raising and lowering, seeking the animation of the

nerves at alternate ends as my nipples pursue the palms and my genitalia ride his

pistonning lap, courtesy of the pneumatic height-adjusting chair. In my

frustration, my groans rise rapidly to a succession of cries from the depths of

my soul, and faster than I thought possible, I am brought to another seismic

orgasm.

In sweaty fulfilment I lean back against him. “You haven’t come yet, have you?” I

ask.

“Not yet — you still have some work to do.” He lifts me up from his lap, the

chair rising one last time with an exhausted sigh. He loosens my hair, but keeps

my arms bound. I am pushed forwards, my front over the desk as he drives into me

from behind, pulling me back onto him in a rhythm both faster and harder than any

other used tonight. The change, and the pressure on my thighs, and the strength

of his need send me over the edge for one last, monstrous orgasm that coincides

with his own cries as we come together. He loosens my arms, and rests on top of

me, holding me. Gently, he bites my shoulder.

“Bravo” he says.

“Encore!” I whisper.