Chapter 4

The hours ticked by with painful tardiness that day. Project progression was almost impossible as my mind whirred with the experiences, feelings and potential consequences of the previous evening. The screen stared at me, tiny cursor blinking, silently yet stubbornly demanding that I set fingers to keyboard and put some new characters into the file I had open. No such luck. My mind was engaged elsewhere: replaying last night's deep throat session in graphic, and yet still frustratingly faded, detail. The screen faded and went black, the corporate mandated screensaver kicking in to deliver its bland message, my computer obviously bored and disgusted at the lack of input.

The rest of the day was similar: deep thought eluded me and even the list of mindless tasks I reserved for when my brain was burnt out failed to get any smaller. My work mates noticed and called me on it during afternoon coffee - a ritual thankfully intact after I had headed off an attempt by Mr A to squash it. One hasty Google search and some printing later and Mr A had several reports on his desk suggesting that coffee breaks actually increased productivity. I made sure to present him with articles from business magazines which waffled and prevaricated around the issue, rather than discuss or even link to the scientific evidence - which I had also uncovered. Mere evidence, I had found, did not sway Mr A, oh no: the opinions of the rich and influential were what mattered. I had refrained from pointing out that writers for business magazines were not necessarily that rich, nor even demonstrably business savvy.

So coffee was still a ritual round here and that afternoon I took my break at the earliest acceptable time. Tim popped his sandy haired head over the cubicle wall as I passed and gave me a toothy smile. I could tell by his demeanour that the gregarious if slightly dishevelled programmer was going to join me - no doubt with the the intent of digging out the reason for today's antsy behaviour.

Join me he did and we started to go through the coffee making routine: clear out disgusting old filter, fit new filter, fill with coffee, blah, blah, blah - you know the drill, it's the same in offices the world over I guess. By the time this was done the rest of the team had gathered: Tim was obviously the vanguard of a 'prise the juicy info from Dave' movement.

I sighed: best to get it over with I supposed. I wasn't overly concerned, in truth: I was distracted, but decidedly un-grumpy. It is physically difficult to maintain grumpiness after the best, most intense and definitely strangest sexual experience of one's life (so far one must always, and with some modicum of hope, caveat). It might be best if I steered clear of sexual detail though - perhaps good advice in any case.

Soon we were all gathered: the slightly rotund Andy with his special Babylon 5 coffee mug/flask thingy; Shy Babs in the corner, slightly apart but clearly interested; Iain 1 and Iain 2, different as two folk with the same name can be and clearly two points of evidence against nominative determinism; even too cool for gossip Christopher had come, though he was hanging out in the opposite corner from Babs, trying to look like he wasn't interested. The only person not here was Jonathan "Toad" McKinlay, but then he didn't really count, on account of his never turning up to coffee time: all part of his continuing (and continuous) efforts to suck up to Mr A.

Tim, the ringleader and master of the subtle, started:

"So what's up with you then, buggerlugs?"

"Just my usual sparkling self, Tim", I replied.

Once the ice was broken, the questions came in thick and fast. My sham resistance didn't last for long: I really did want to tell the world about this amazing girl I had met last night. It was not long into the interrogation when someone, Iain 1 I think, shouted out:

"You got laid!", and then, in case that had been too obscure for anyone, "He got laid: Dave got laid last night!"

My lack of protestation confirmed the suspicions of the group. There was much congratulating followed by the mandatory fishing for details. I managed not to give away Sally's little kink, but I did have to surrender her name and the fact that we had had sex mere hours after meeting on the bus, causing Iain 2, the only regular car driver in our little group, to announce that he was "bloody well going to take the bus from now on".

As usual, our break was cut short by the sharp arrival of Mr A who, although he had been swayed by the journalists of business to allow us a coffee break, couldn't quite bring himself to allow us the full fifteen minutes.

We were mentally ushered back to the office area by the baleful stare of our boss, where I spent the remaining part of the afternoon as unproductively as the rest of the day so far. At last it was time to go home. Out. Bus (LRT no. 42 Portobello to Davidson's Mains): no break down. Visit flat: wash, shave, change, pick up toothbrush. Now I was ready for my six o'clock meeting with Sally, the girl who had occupied my thoughts all day.

As I approached Sally's door I grew suddenly nervous. What if she wasn't in yet? What if she now had cold feet and didn't want to see me any more? What if she did want to see me but wanted too much from me? Above all, for some reason, I was most nervous about bringing my toothbrush into her house. Would she see it as trying to muscle in on her private space? Did it communicate too much commitment too soon? I stood there at the threshold amongst the plant pots and fondled the brush head with my fingers, not really paying attention to the bristly wetness. Standing there at her door was starting to seem a bit silly, so I postponed even thinking about the toothbrush, took my hand out of my pocket and rang the bell.

Almost immediately Sally answered:

"Come in. The door's open."

It sounded like she was not too far from the door. I hoped she hadn't heard my hesitation. I turned the handle and pushed her door open. All thoughts of potential toothbrush embarrassment immediately fled. Sally was there. Naked. Bent over on all fours with her arse in the air naked. In a feat that I later learned had involved mirrors, lipstick and some acts of contortion, she had written 'slut' in large letters across her bum, and 'use me' with arrows pointing to her pussy. Actually it sort of said 'us<smear> me' at the moment since she currently had two fingers of her right hand buried deep inside her pussy, the rest of the hand obscuring the 'e'.

"Holy shit."

It looked like I was going to have to get used to saying that if I was to continue going out with Sally.

Sally just grunted and continued to masturbate herself with her hand.

A few nanoseconds later my cock started leading my actions even if my brain wasn't engaged yet. I let the door go and it started closing. I took my coat off and tried to hang it up without letting my eyes move from Sally's jiggling, moaning form. Of course I missed the peg and the coat fell to the floor, where I left it: there were more important things to worry about. For some reason I noticed that the toothbrush was poking out of the pocket. I removed the rest of my clothes in similar autopilot fashion and moved in behind Sally.

She was ready, had made herself ready, for me. I would have said I dispensed with all thoughts of foreplay, but I never had any in the first place. I took my cock and placed it at the entrance to her pussy, pushing Sally's fingers aside with it. She helped guide my cock head in, sliding it up and down her juicy slit before placing it an inch or so inside her pussy. I paused but a moment to savour the feeling of first entering her, of silky wetness snugly wrapped around my sensitive head. Then I pushed in - all the way to the hilt.

"Hhnng", grunted Sally.

The lust in me had risen quickly and I was ready to fuck. And fuck I did. I pushed into Sally again and again, feeling my cock glide into her and push against her cervix as I stroked. Apparently this is the sort of thing Sally wanted because she was soon grunting loudly with each stroke.

"Yes! Harder", she pleaded.

I fucked her harder, hammering in and speeding up. I could not, would not last long this way, but I was too far gone to exercise anything resembling restraint now. I kept at it and felt the tingle, felt my balls constrict as the machinery of orgasm started to grind onward. At the back of my mind I thought perhaps that I would have to make it up to Sally again later - that I wouldn't be able to make her cum. Whether it was because she had started before me and been all worked up before we started, or because Sally just loved to be fucked - to be used - this way I don't know, but Sally did manage to cum, just before I did.

It started with a "Hhn, hhn, hhn, hhn" with each stroke, followed by "yes. I'm gonna cum. Gonna cum..." and then a long drawn out "Yeeeessss!", just as I spurted my seed deep in her pussy. She slumped down as her orgasm left her, but did not remain so for long.

Just as I was beginning to think again: as the explosions faded from my head and my vision returned to normal, Sally pulled herself off my cock with a 'plop' and turned round, an eager look on her face. She virtually pounced on my cock and took the cum covered member into her mouth. I closed my eyes and sucked air in through my teeth. It was heavenly torture as Sally's mouth slid down over my now sensitised cock head. She licked and sucked and cleaned me until all that was left adorning my cock was saliva. She looked up at me and smiled. I bent down, snogged her with abandon and then picked her up and carried her through to get dinner which, I am happy to say, we ate naked.

Over the following week a pattern developed: I stayed mostly at Sally's, she kept her promise and woke me with an incredible blowjob in the morning, she went one up and met me in the evening naked and ready to fuck.

On several occasions I came to her home stressed out: one of Mr A's episodes (of incompetence or malice - it mattered little which) invariably responsible for my mood. On these occasions being met at the door by a horny, naked girl who wants you to fuck her brains out was a God-send. If you ever find yourself under constant stress I can highly recommend it. It wasn't long, though, before Sally noticed the pattern.

"Look", she said one time, obviously concerned, "I know it isn't my place, but couldn't you just quit?"

"In this climate?" I retorted, "You must be joking."

"No, seriously", she said, "I reckon you're better off on the job market than working for that prick."

"Arse", I said, automatically.

"Pardon?"

"Arse", I repeated, "He's an arse: that's why we call him 'Mr A'."

"Oh", she said, "I thought that was because his surname is 'Anderson'."

"That too", I said. "It's kind of a pun."

"Anyway", she said, trying to steer the conversation back in the direction it was supposed to be going, "You're good at what you do; you'll get another job."