I'm not a sex goddess. In fact, before that night, I had never considered myself particularly sensual. I always liked sex, don't get me wrong; I loved sucking and being sucked, licking and being licked, fucking and, well, you get the picture. But I had never been the "I want it anywhere, any time, any way you want it" kind of girl. I'd never felt the kind of desire that couldn't be satisfied by a quick, or even a lingering, more pleasurable, standard fuck with a like-minded partner.
Until that night. Now, I know something about the incredible pleasure of surrendering to a man. The right man, that is. A hot, sexy, passionate man, who knows what he wants and isn't afraid or embarrassed or tentative when he tells me he wants it; who lavishly praises and encourages and responds to me when I give it to him. Oh yes, I know all about it. Since that night.
Before that night, I was a junior partner at a boutique law firm in LA; 32 years old, career oriented, romantically inclined, but having survived a disastrous marriage (only a few short months during undergrad school, dissolving when we both realized we didn't really like each other very much), very cautious about romantic entanglements.
I knew I wasn't bad looking; 5'6", about 130 lbs (depending on my level of trial stress), with straight, thick auburn hair, warm ivory skin, and eyes the color of English toffee, or so my last boyfriend had called them. He had also commented very favorably on my firm, rather full breasts (a size 34D, but hey, I can't take credit; it's all genetics) and well-shaped legs, while courteously failing to mention my not exactly tiny waist and somewhat flat hips. For me, though, boyfriends and relationships tended to last only a few weeks, and then died semi-painless, natural deaths (well, the relationships did, anyway). Sex was almost always good, occasionally great, but rarely fascinating enough to take much of my attention off my next trial for longer than the time it took to complete the act. True to form, it took the last boyfriend only about a month to realize that what we had wasn't exactly the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, for either of us.
So when I met Scott at a casual party given by the firm's newlyweds (he a slightly-more-senior partner than I; she a legal secretary at a different firm), I was intrigued, but not much more than that. At first. Scott was an engineer, a client of the new wife's law firm, invited for business rather than social reasons, I understood. He was just turned 40, divorced 3 years, about 6'1" with dark hair a little shorter than I preferred; broad shoulders, a powerful chest, and nicely trim at the waist. I'll admit that my first good look at him came when I found myself rather absorbed in studying how well his charcoal dress slacks fit across his butt. I paid the price for the intensity of my scrutiny when he turned suddenly and caught me staring. He was sipping his Scotch, cool amusement lighting the green eyes that had me pinned like a butterfly about to be fastened to the display case. I managed to close my mouth, bite back the startled expletive I'd nearly uttered, and nod in rueful acknowledgement that yes, he'd caught me.
I was about to turn away when he approached me, introduced himself, and proceeded to charm me thoroughly. I had been searching for a waiter to ask for a martini; a Lemon Drop, to be precise. Scott was able to conjure one, almost from thin air, simply by turning his head and raising one hand. My drink appeared in mere moments, and again I had to acknowledge he was one up on me. Well, two up, really, but I told myself I wasn't keeping score. We sipped, we got acquainted, and for the next 6 weeks or so, I found myself growing more attracted by the day. Scott apparently felt the same.
He was attentive without being pushy; dominant without being domineering; thoroughly competent at getting things done, a thoroughly masculine man who genuinely liked, and enjoyed, the company of women. He was easy to talk to. He was sure of himself always, and most compelling of all, he was sure of me. I don't mean he was taking me for granted; not in the least. But he had an incredible knack for seeming to know exactly what I wanted just a fraction before I knew I wanted it, and for making sure I got it. He kissed with a thoroughness and passion suggesting depths of sensuality beyond anything I had yet experienced, and when he slid his thick, stiff cock into my wet pussy, I reached levels of pleasure I'd never felt before. He demonstrated a level of skill I hadn't realized existed outside the pages of erotic novels, but even so, I knew he was holding something back. I didn't know what it was, but I was growing more and more anxious to find out.
At work, I found myself daydreaming about him; a novel experience. At my desk, I would find myself remembering the previous night's activities, and feel warm, sticky liquid seeping out between my pussy lips as my pulse accelerated. I would squeeze my thighs together and return to my research, trying in vain to banish the feel of his tongue between those lips, sliding up and down my slit before circling my hard, aching clit till I sank my fingers against his scalp and pulled him tighter to me, pressing harder, grinding my soaking cunt against his avid mouth till I gasped out his name in a pulsing, spiraling orgasm. Sometimes as I remembered it, I would sneak a hand under my skirt, hidden by my desk, and spread my thighs as far as I could under the narrow-cut skirt of my suit. With one eye on the door, praying my secretary wouldn't decide to see if I wanted anything, I would let my middle finger trace the path of his tongue till I came again, reliving that pleasure, experiencing again the sensations now indelibly etched into my brain.
I was caught, and I knew it. Dangerously, almost frighteningly caught in a powerful attraction I couldn't detach myself from. Most terrifying of all, I didn't even want to.
When he called me that afternoon to ask me to meet him at a very upscale hotel in the downtown area after work, I felt a delicious, shivering knot of anticipation begin inside me. "Don't worry about anything," he told me. "I have everything you need, Vanessa. Everything. Just come here and get it."
One of Scott's most devastating qualities is his deep, velvety smooth voice. And when he's aroused, it goes deeper, more velvety, more hypnotic. I swear that when he said that, I broke out in a cold sweat. My toes were literally curling in my high-heeled pumps. I stared at my desk for at least 5 minutes after hanging up, unable to think, unable to move, unable to do anything except hear that unbelievably erotic voice in my head. Today, that voice was oozing heat, desire, hunger; in other words, sex.
My body was on full alert after that call, but I couldn't get away from the office until long after dark, when the moon was high. He wasn't in the lobby, and there was no message asking me to meet him at the bar, so I took the elevator up to the room he'd told me he had taken, trying to compose myself. I didn't like to let him see, too easily, the effect he had on me, but some things I couldn't help. I was already wet, my delicate silk panties nearly soaked through, and I could barely remember to breathe. As I entered the room he was sitting in an overstuffed armchair in the corner, open windows on both sides, sheer curtains billowing. He was completely in shadow, only the moonlight reflecting off of his white shirt revealing the muscled outline of his chest. I closed the door behind me and moved slowly forward, my already sensitized nerves soaring into high gear.
"Stop right there, Vanessa." His voice was quiet, but firm in the silvery silence. I paused, a little uncertain. "Drop your briefcase there in the corner. Yes, that's good. Now please take off your jacket." Uncertainty coiled inside me, but finally, almost hypnotized by the smooth velvet voice, I let the jacket slide down my shoulders and tossed it over the dresser nearby. "Come here sweetheart." Standing directly in front of his chair, I could see only that gleaming white shirt highlighting the strong angles of his face and the streaks of gray in his hair. What are we doing, I wondered, and my body temperature rose by at least 5 degrees.
"I want you to unbutton your blouse for me. Slowly. Yes, that's it." I almost bolted at this, nerves sizzling as I caught my breath, but he waited, unmoving, and that voice had its inevitable effect. My fingers were stiff, awkward, slipping buttons through button holes, one by one. "Now, pull it open. Slowly, sweetheart. That's good. No, don't take it off. Just take the ends and pull them back behind you. Tuck them into your waistband. Ah, yes. That's gorgeous. Now come closer."
I moved, my heart racing under the lace of my now-exposed bra, until I stood between his legs. He leaned forward in his chair and reached out, lightly skimming his fingertips up my thighs, and my vaginal muscles clenched involuntarily. When they reached the hem of my skirt he slid his fingers just under the edge, moving smoothly upward, further under my skirt. They brushed lightly, softly, in tiny circles, barely skimming the lacy tops of my stockings. Then he ran his hands upward, palms firm against my skin, teasing and caressing me while he pulled my panties down, steadying me while I stepped out of them.
.... There is more of this story ...