It's eight-thirty p.m., the outside temperature is sixteen degrees, there is a foot of snow on the ground and I'm in my bare feet running for my life. All because I like to kid around at work. That's right! I was just kidding around and here I am hoofing down the street with my shirt and coat in one hand and my shoes in the other while behind me a voice is shouting, "I'm going to kill you, you little cocksucker."
In twenty years, if I'm lucky and still alive, I'll probably look back on this and have a good chuckle. Yeah! Right!
The whole thing started because of kidding around at work. I'm one of three guys that work in an office with over thirty women, almost all of whom are fairly attractive. Almost all of them are married or have boyfriends, but so what? I can still look and appreciate and that's not going to cause problems, right? Now I'm kind of mediocre in the looks department, not bad mind you, but nothing special, and most of the women I work with wouldn't look twice at me outside of the workplace. But at work - a totally different story.
The other two guys are both over sixty and in really bad shape; one is eighty pounds overweight, has inch thick glasses and the worst case of BO you've ever seen. The other is tall and skinny, has a hearing aid in both ears, smokes three packs a day and has yellow teeth and fingers. Compared to them I make Russell Crowe look bad and as a result all of the flirting that goes on in the office is between the ladies and me.
Actually, flirting is the wrong word. There is nothing raunchier that an office full of women who have a man they can tease and torment. I hear, "Hey Robbie, getting any?" at least once a day and "Did you keep it in your pants last night?' runs a close second. Mondays are the worst because I get a lot of, "Hey Robbie, I got laid four times this weekend (or three or whatever). Did you get any?"
Friday is also a bad day because they tell me what they plan on doing over the weekend - in graphic detail. It took me working there awhile before I caught on to the fact that they were getting their jollies by making me blush and seeing me get flustered. Once I figured that out I started to give back as good as I got (even thought it usually wasn't true) which made things more interesting. To give an example, when I first started one of the girl's came up to me and said, "Robbie, I think I have a run in the back of my stocking. Would you look and see?" and then she pulled her skirt up so that I could see her panty-covered ass. I blushed, got all discombobulated, and walked away from her to a room full of laughter. Four months later, different girl, same situation, but that time I dropped to my knees and looked and said, "I don't see any run, but I do see what I would like for lunch," and then I stuck my tongue out and licked my lips. That time she was the one who walked away to the laughter.
One thing that I quickly discovered is that women talk among themselves even worse than guys do. They compare everything about their husbands and boyfriends, from the clothes they wear to their cock size, but contrary to what most guys think, cock size is not the most talked about item. The largest topic of conversation among women, at least where I work, is oral sex - not giving, but getting. Probably two-thirds of the ribald remarks made by the women where I work are of an oral sex nature and once I got over my initial awkwardness I started to play along. I'd tell them they looked good enough to eat and lick my lips and they would laugh and say things like, "If you really know how to use that tongue Robbie, I'll take you home with me," or "Damn Robbie, I wish my husband had a tongue like that."
There was lots of give and take like that in the office and it was that give and take that was my eventual undoing. One morning a girl named Vickie, who was one of the girls who used to tease me unmercifully, came in to work and I commented as I passed her in the hall, "Morning Vickie, looking good today!" and she said, "Shit Robbie, I look a mess and you know it."
I smiled at her and said, "Baby, on your worst day I'd eat you in a heartbeat. You're so fine I'd eat you after your old man finished doing you (the word "fuck" was hardly ever used in our office). She gave me a strange look and hurried off to her desk. The next day, during coffee break, Vickie came up to me and told me to follow her to the copy room. When we got there she told me that she had a surprise for me, "Close your eyes and don't look until I tell you."
I did as she asked, but watched through slittted eyelids as she ran her hand down inside the front of her skirt and when she brought the hand back out I could see that the fingers were wet. "Okay, you can open them now," and when I did she put a finger to my mouth and told me to lick it and I did. It tasted funny, kind of salty, but I didn't recognize the taste. Then Vickie said, "Now that you've tasted Harold's cum do you still want to eat me after he screws me?"
What I wanted to do was run to the bathroom and heave, but instead I gave her a smile and said, "Yum yum. When can I?"
She gave me a contemplative look and then said, "We'll see. Maybe soon," and then she walked off leaving me standing there with a churning stomach and a need to go and barf. You see, I had never tasted pussy before and I had certainly never tasted cum, and to be honest about it, I had never wanted to do either. But I knew that if I left the copy room and headed for the bathroom Vickie would see it and know what it meant and she would let the rest of the girls know and the laughter would be unbearable. The only thing I could do was tough it out so I went back to my desk by way of the coffeepot and hoped that black coffee would kill the taste of Harold.
.... There is more of this story ...