Whispering Silk

It's been a slow day so far, and so I don't feel the least qualm about taking my evening run a little earlier than normal and then knocking off for the day. Life in the office is turgid on Friday afternoons anyway, with a large number of my peers heading off for an illicit three-day weekend at this beach condo or that mountain cabin. All in all it means that Fridays after noon I find myself more or less alone, with only a few of the interns and my own sense of obligation to amuse myself with.

My run is not to standard at all. The roads, although nearly deserted as they are wont to be on a late summer Friday, conspire with the streetlights to interrupt any pace I might try to get going from one block to another. Its frustrating on a surface level, but the realization after just a mile that I will not be making any records allows me to throttle back and just relax, letting the miles take care of themselves and being satisfied that at least today I did not allow my sense of urgency outweigh my sense of self. It's a slow run, cool in a very non-D.C. way, and I find myself back in front of the office before I know it. A few minutes cooling on the steps outside and I head in to the realm of unreality again.

Just as I get to my office the phone rings. It is the receptionist downstairs. "Sir," she tells me, "there's a lady here to see you."

Only one woman might be downstairs tonight, I only know one woman. But the fact that she's announced as "a woman" speaks volumes.

"Send her on up," I tell our matronly receptionist.

A few minutes later, with sweat still rolling from my brow I answer the door.

"Hello Deb. Fancy meeting you here."

Of course it sort of had to be you, didn't it? After the initial shock wore off I didn't even really need to ask the receptionist what the "lady" looked like to confirm my suspicion. I am well known in some circles, but not well enough yet to have visitors seeking me out. Seeing you outside my door, black dress, silken hair and all was not really a surprise anymore. I was four minutes into our conversation before you took my mental train off the track.

"So," you say, with a teasing voice that, when you use it I find so disconcerting, "when will you be showing me what I've come to see?"

"What is that?" I respond, not actually knowing if you'll say what I suspect (and hope) but curious to see how far your 'direct and frank' act goes.

"Your dick, silly boy," you respond, trumping my assumptions (that "Deb" would never dare to say that word out loud) and at the same time making it a confirmed necessity that I change out of my running shorts and into my clothes before someone remarks upon my obvious physical reaction to your mere presence.

"Dinner first?" I ask, buying time and mentally backpedaling. "Surely you don't expect me to give you the goods without so much as caging a meal from your extensive accounts, do you?"

You laugh politely and then turn in a combination of moderate surprise and mild indignation as I usher you from my office and bid you wait outside as I go down to men's room to change. It's a sponge bath, but fast. Still, I rather enjoyed the look on your face as you cool your heels outside my office door. High maintenance indeed.

As a turn the corner towards the stairwell, however, I chance a glance back towards you, hoping to get another visual fill of you surreptitiously. There you are standing, cooling your heels outside my office, your back to me and the exquisite lines of your legs and back encased in black reward my efforts for a split second before you suddenly whirl, smiling. Caught. You knew I would look, that I had to look, and you wanted me to know that there is more than one level of power being played out right now. I cannot help but grin to myself as I stroll then walk, then break into a trot to get to the changing room.

An hour later we're sitting in a nice seafood restaurant near where I work. As I've only been there a few weeks I haven't taken the time yet to wander far a field and this is the nicest restaurant in the area that is not Thai or Indian. Seated and ordered we've been exchanging pleasantries for most of the hour. I learn something of your interests in the city, you feigning interest in my own bucolic origins, when I feel something that everyman periodically dreams of beneath the table, a silk encased foot sliding slowly and languorously upwards along the inside of my calf. It is the stuff of movie scenes, and perhaps conditioned by Hollywood I once again have a natural reaction. Feeling my cock harden in my slacks and my pulse take up a pace or two I remember how this all started.

"Feeling frisky are we?" I tease.

"You promised me entertainment," you pout, "This I can get anywhere."

Your pouting lips, even in the false, play-acting pout they are in now, are themselves sculptures of near perfection. They are simultaneously both the very image of coy womanhood, something to be preserved and protected; and something that immediately brings to a man's mind the mental image of those same pouting lips wrapped around his cock as he grasps your hair in one hand and looks down to see your lips and mouth engorged with his glans, taking you orally, ravishing and possessing. It's a curious juxtaposition that pops instantly into my mind. Sometimes I think too fast for my own benefit.

Your foot suddenly slides upwards dramatically and what seem like prehensile toes almost wrap themselves around my dick. I jolt at the suddenness of the sensation, banging the table upwards and jarring the glasses so that great sloshes of water and wine spread across the tablecloth.

"Check please."

Twenty minutes later we're walking back past my offices enroute to, where, I don't know. I suddenly realize that I am so new in town that I don't even know where the nearest hotel might be. At the same instant I realize that this is not really a hotel sort of situation.

"I need to stop in my office to pick up something. We'll only be a minute."

Your grin is reaching almost from ear to ear. If I hadn't just made up this plan in my head I would think that you knew perfectly well what I had in store for you for the coming hours.

It's well after work hours, the offices are darkened and I fumble with the pass codes in getting to my internal office. You stand right behind me, stealing my breath with the scent of your perfume and the occasional brush of your thigh against me. For me, at least, anticipation is a large part of this experience. We finally get to the office, small as it is, and I usher you in, turning my back to you to close the door. In the second that I am doing this I hear the whisper of silk behind me. Turning again I am struck that Aphrodite must not have broken the mold as so many said that she had. They made at least one copy.

Standing before me, still swathed in silk, but now just a collection of delicate items that support here and constrain there, you look like you've walked out of the pages of the most recent Victoria's Secret catalog. From the stockings to the garter-belt to the ridiculously rich collection of material pinching your breasts and accentuating your cleavage you are the stuff of dreams, and wet dreams at that.

"I've never been very patient," is all you say, grinning, as you step out of the circle of your dress, laying in a heap on the floor and close the gap between us. In an instant our lips come together, and with barely a discernible pause your hands slide down the narrow gap between our torsos and start working on my belt. In a second it is loose and you break your lips from mine and drop to your knees, grinning. Power is power, is power. You have a firm grasp on that idea I know that your smile reflects your feeling of power over me, as right now I am feeling quite powerless in the wake of your initiative. Not a position I am used to, but one that is not exactly without its benefits.

Your hands work quickly, unbuttoning and unzipping my trousers, but they do not smoothly fall as did your dress. Slacks and boxers alike are caught on the pole now protruding upwards in a curve from me. Grinning even wider you delicately extricate my cock and they do fall to the ground around my ankles. I've taken not a step from the door. Looking down I see those pouty lips I fantasized about less than an hour before once again pouting, in exactly the image I had formed in my mind. How often does that happen to a man, where his dreams become reality so quickly after creation?

For a second the wet heat of your mouth takes my breath away and my head rolls back. I cannot see exactly what you are doing, but I feel lips and tongue and hands all at once, in what feels to me like a jumbled kaleidoscopic mix of sensations playing upon my dick. Catching my breath and looking down again I struggle to regain at least some modicum of control of myself. You must feel the shift in my balance and know that I am looking down at the top of your head because, very deliberately, you look up.

With my cock halfway in your mouth, and one hand on the rest of the shaft, you look up at me...slowing what had been until now an oral assault upon me.

When, or where, do women learn this? Or do they know it at all. Do you know what you are doing when you create that tableau? The psychology of it is fairly easy. Woman/girl, ostensibly without power, in the submissive position on her knees, looking upwards into the face of the man who's cock she is taking in her mouth...it strikes something primal in a man. At the same time I feel sure that, still, you knew what you were doing, that by looking up you were controlling me, indirectly.

I cannot help myself. My hands reach down, one hand sweeping up and taking your hair in a great swirling twist, the other cupping the side of your head. I am going to fuck you, fuck your mouth. I can already feel the pulsing feeling building at the base of my cock which signals that I haven't all that long to do so. Holding your head, gently but in a firm grasp, my hips start moving forward and backwards of their own accord. You only make it worse by tilting your head slightly, so that I can see your face and your mouth as my thrusts bury my cock between your lips. Moving faster and faster, but not at a full sexual pace, I let the cum build inside of me. Then I cannot control even that any longer. Shooting hard into your throat I haven't given you even so much as a polite warning, you were my receptacle in this, not my partner, but there is no denying the strength of my orgasm when it comes. Blasting forth out of my cock it feels like there is a small jet pump inside me, as I suppose there is, powering my seed into the back of your mouth until, like a revolver, the chambers are eventually emptied.

You stay on your knees for a moment, cleaning my cock with your lips and tongue, grinning the whole while. You know that from start to finish, despite our physical positions, you were in total control of that situation. As you stand and press the full length of your body against me, nuzzling at my neck and hiking one leg up to my hip as you gently grind yourself against the hardness of my thigh, I realize it too. I also realize that you would like to not be in control for a little while, and as it seems we've arrived at our venue for the night, I might as well start now, while I have the willpower and coincident inability, to not to just throw you on the floor and fuck the hell out of you.

"You were a naughty girl Deb. I wasn't quite expecting that, at least, not right this past instant."

"I told you, in some things patience is not my strong suit."

"And you made me spill the water, not to mention the wine, all over the table."

Laughing, you smile and say, "Yes, that was quite a reaction. Sorry about that." But you're not. Not in the least.

Suddenly lunging forward, throwing you back off your balance I hold you tight with your arms pinned to your side. Staring into your face I see you making mental calculations.

You know, in hand-to-hand terms, what you are capable of. You don't know what I can do, other than theoretically, nor even have a solid measure of my physical strength. I feel you flexing your arms slightly, testing that in a limited way. You know of my training, but not how well I performed in that training nor if it's relevant today. A few subtle shifts of your hips, responded to by shifts of my own, satisfy you that whatever the state of my abilities, they, combined with the fact that I already have you in a close hold and am at least strong enough to the task at hand, I have you in my physical control for the moment. It is a welcome realization to you, you can surrender. I am stronger, more powerful, and at least in this situation entirely capable of restraining you. I rather expect that if my hips had not shifted slightly I'd have felt a rapidly rising knee intersect with my testicles by way of your experimentation, but they did and you understood that I was aware. I feel you relax a second time (the first time obviously being a test.) All the while I've been slowly maneuvering you around my desk.

You are, I find, very light.

Twisting you rapidly in a variation of an old wrestling move that I am sure my coach never dreamed of, (not everything useful is taught in Ranger school) I spin my own body as well. In less than a second you find yourself lifted and placed face down, pinned across my knees with your arms pressed into your sides, as I simultaneously drop into my chair. Looking down I see the curious combination of softness and hardness that is the curves of your buttocks. It's a sight to make any man catch his breath just seeing it clothed and on the street. In this context, bound and presented upon my lap, it's enough to make me aware that the clock is ticking already towards the time when I won't be able to constrain myself and dally about with domination games for our mutual pleasure but will have to bury myself once again within your body and succumb to the more bestial aspects of my nature. Thrusting and grunting and slamming into you like some animal. But for now, I have a few moments...