I had become a raving sex maniac, and she did it to me. For many long years I
had been possessed of intense sexuality; lived with it, dealt with it, coped
with
it, but this last pregnancy sent me over the edge.
Beautiful women are great to fuck, because at worst you can drool over how sexy
they look as you rub your cock into them in a reasonably delightful form of
masturbation. There is, of course, more to sexual satisfaction than a hard body,
but we take as we get. Naturally a strong sense of vulgar creativity goes a long
way in a partner, and I would surrender much in aesthetic refinements for the
glimmer of hot lust in a woman's eyes.
One summer I was fucking a tall black beauty, making her beg by licking her pink
slit to a thousand orgasms, and she pleaded for me to cum in her face or fuck
her
black ass until I could hardly walk, so desperate was her desire to keep my
tongue in her lap. There were many empty spaces in my life at that time, but
never before had I been so completely sexually satisfied. It was then that the
blonde bitch appeared.
My rocks had been balled dry when we first met, and a glimpse of her tits
through
the gap in her shirt had me cast in iron - firm white melons encased in white
lace. I struggled with the bulge in my shorts, and I saw the lust flame in her
eyes.
As mentioned, I was living an overwhelming feast of wet pussy at the time, so I
made no bold assaults on this northern cunt, preferring to watch her linger in a
lusty thrall. Her blue eyes glistened when she spoke. I wondered as she licked
her lips innocently and almost inadvertently turned her pert ass in invitation.
For weeks I watched her as she insinuated herself in my path, listened as she
glazed her comments with bold innuendo, laughed as I teasingly avoided her pass.
Finally able to take no more, I stripped the clothes from her luscious body, and
ravished her for seventy-two solid hours. It started slowly - the first kiss
lasted for three - but the eventual cascade of climaxes I discovered with this
wench gives me reverberations even yet.
The blonde, IQ, possesses a powerful sexuality smoldering in a blossom, and I
have grown quite addicted to her charms. Three pregnancies in five years,
however, have forced me to surrender a bit more of our sensual bliss than a
junkie can stand. Fix me.
We are in the ninth month of the third pregnancy, and while she still causes me
half a dozen orgasms every week, I am desperate to frolic with the nubile nymph
I
married. Two months will cure my anxiety, I know that for certain, but sixty
days contain a great deal of lusty thoughts.
The woman down the hall has a pussy. I've smelled its glow when she stopped by
my office for some help. I can picture her naked; the jagged pink hole and soft
white skin of her highest thighs, a thick snatch of black hair and a basketball
butt, the heavy sway of girl-udders rising as her brown knots tighten.
My cock strains when I imagine Terry bent over my desk, her ass held high as she
turns to egg me on and on with a litany of vulgar challenges. "I will fuck you,"
I screamed, and shot myself into her hole.
The goal established, I had no choice but to lay out a plan. Some profess to
live with a scheme of morals, and I have only this; I act as I see fit, accept
the responsibility for my actions, and face squarely the consequences. They
can't take that away from you.
So I would have Terry, Mrs. Theresa Samson, beg me to fuck her, with no real
long
term effects except pleasurable memories. The carat on her finger juxtaposed
with the gold on mine to insist that she beg. A man must have some principles.
When do I begin?
E-mail is the greatest seduction tool invented since the VCR, and I had Terry's
address (samson), so I set about doing it with style. After all, this scam was
all too easy.
"Ms. Samson," I wrote seriously, "Let me take advantage of this lull in the
storm
to tell you that you are doing a great job on the Overton project. I mentioned
your work to Steve G. (upstairs in Samcuncon) and they think you should write a
short brief on your organization of the teams. Bring it by when you get the
chance. David."
I'll take this opportunity to explain that very little of what I said in that
memo was true. Terry *was* doing a great job. Steve G. *does* work upstairs. I
made the rest up. Almost everything I tell Terry about this assignment was
false. All's fair in love and war.
I didn't know much about Mrs. Samson at that point, except that she seemed to
derive much of her self-worth from her career. As any Casanova will tell you,
improving a woman's perception of herself will generally get her wet and
grateful. The same is probably true of men - I never thought about it.
Terry wrote me back almost immediately, bubbling with excitement and spewing out
organizational theory. I'll spare you the nausea. Tagged to the end of her
memo, however;
"I can't believe this is happening. I was beginning to think I was stuck, going
nowhere but back to the same old song and dance. I kept telling myself to have
faith, that the system couldn't be that corrupted. I was right. You did notice.
Terry"
"Terry; It didn't take me too long to perceive that you were taking charge
whenever a crisis developed - and you can't blame me for wanting to keep you on
the Pilot team as long as possible. We don't get so many aces that we can afford
to ship them upstairs at first glance. David"
For the next week, Terry sent me daily revisions of her brief, which I would
dutifully applaud and point to another section which might use a bit more
polish.
With every passing of the file, another letter with growing familiarity would
change hands. Friday finally came, and Mrs. Samson stopped by my office.
She wore a dark green suit, with a modest skirt. Her hair flared to frame her
warm face in fiery black. She put her hands on the door frame, and let a shoe
fall from her foot.
"That's it," she said, "I'm willing to call it done."
"I agree. Magnificent bit of exposition, and just what they need upstairs."
"I sent Frank to make copies, and distribute it." She stepped inside my parlor,
and sat down. "I could use a drink."
"Close the door," I replied and brought a bottle of brandy from my cabinet.
"Cigar?"
"No, thank you," she said with a smile. "I don't...smoke." Her long fingers
grasped the brandy snifter. "Aren't we the naughty boy?"
"I have many principles, but some concessions must be made to real life. There
are times when we all need a...distraction."
"That's certainly what I need." Terry laughed and shifted in her seat, spreading
her black silk thighs just a nudge to reveal mysterious darkness. I could feel
myself salivating.
"Well, I'm glad we got the chance to work together on this. I've seen you in the
office, but the way they run things now we may never have gotten together." Her
nipples hardened slightly, bumping the layers of thin white cloth into a visible
murmur. I adjusted my crotch slightly, and her eyes followed my every motion.
I stood and went to the window, staring at some distant nothing. After ten
seconds she came to stand beside me, peering over my shoulder. I could smell the
rich bouquet of perfume and erotic musk sweltering in her body. Her breathe
smelled sweet with a twinge of garlic.
I turned sharply. She stood inches from my face. "Terry," I said low. She
kissed me with fierce passion. I responded with surprise and delight, feigning
the former, indulging in the latter.
Nothing more was said as we explored the heat, lips grazing every sensation,
hands fumbling to fondle flesh. I sat her down on my desk, and tore myself away
to wrench off my jacket. She slipped off her olive coat, and slowly unbuttoned
her blouse.
"I never imagined...," I lied.
She unclasped her bra, and her soft breasts, holy white, gleamed deliciously
under my hungry sight. I grasped them with my hands, and caressed the nipples
with my lips and tongue until they seemed ready to tear in their quest to
tighten. Finally I suckled her bosom, reminding the glands of their ultimate
purpose.
I pressed her back onto the desk, she leaning on her arms. I pushed the skirt up
her thighs, past the top of her gartered stocking ("I love silk", she purred
when
I complimented them) to the pearl-white panties. I picked up Terry's legs, and
released her swollen pussy from its lingerie cage.
The panties were soaked, and Terry's cunt reeked with the extent of her desire.
I knew, as every Don Juan knows, that enslavement begins with cunnilingus, and I
set my tongue gentle into the sopping vagina. I licked one lip, and then licked
the other. Her jagged pink hole fell open, and I teased the cavern. Terry
pressed her clit into my mouth, and I proceeded to lash her lusty nub.
A finger poised before her pussy, another touched her asshole. I made no
assault, but made them available for her pleasure, as a package. I knew at once
she was unaccustomed to giving her bottom to sex, but when balanced against the
ravaging her clitoris was enduring and a burning need to have something in her
cunt, Terry fucked my fingers with slutty abandon. It was barely a minute before
her orgasm began, and twenty minutes before it subsided She could hardly
breathe,
but gasped as she stared, wide-eyed.
As she lay there enduring ecstasy, I motioned her to flip over - she scrambled
to
bend over my desk, raising her ass high. Her long fingers clasped the meaty
cheeks. The juice of her pussy rippled down her lean legs. I studied the
delicious sight at my own leisure. Terry turned her head and uttered from deep
within, "Fuck me, David, Please!"
I told her that I would, and shot into her hole.
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