Man, that pissed me off.
I found it hard to calm down enough to get the key into the keyhole, my handbag slipping down my shoulder onto my underarm, drops of sweat trickling down my forehead, my boobs jiggling, my panties too tight for my even tighter cunny, my high heeled shoes causing my feet to bleed.
“Come on,” I spat to myself, “don’t let this creep get you down!”
Had I really thrown the content of my glass onto his face just now?
I believe so.
Had I left my job too early without permit?
Yes.
What did that mean?
How the fuck would I know?
Getting fired?
Bring it on, buster.
There were other jobs.
On the other hand, I could sue him for sexual harassment.
One question, though.
Did I really have to hide my beauty to be taken seriously?
I mean, yes, I knew I had a sexy D-cup-rack on my chest, knockers that the men loved to fondle – yes, I had raised a few cocks – but had I chosen to grow boobs? Had I chosen to be born a woman? In my eternal soul, maybe. Sociologically, no. No way. And even if, damn, were my superior looks a reason for my boss to dress me down as a mere decoration?
I know my ass looked like two ripe peaches, I know that my mouth had the appeal of a cocksucker-dream. But as Sting sang in his song on his album
“Ten Summoner’s Tales”: “That is not the shape of my heart.”
I believed that I was a relatively genderless soul born into a woman’s body. So what was sex if not just a method in exchanging emotional energy, becoming one body what was once two? Why not respect each other as equals at the same time as trading erotic vibes?
My boss seemed incapable of doing this. Respecting a sexy woman, I mean.
If my legs were long and my long fingernails red, did that mean I was also dumb? Just because I liked elegance?
I loved having a man sticking his dick up my butt, but I also loved being respected.
Why couldn’t my boss separate his dick from his brains? Why couldn’t he treat a woman he found sexy like a lady? Wasn’t that the treat beyond all treats?
If my boss was more than one thing, why shouldn’t I be so as well?
I found many men sexy, but it would not occur to me to look down on them because of their sex appeal.
Men. Damn it, they pissed me off.
Sex, to me, was no joke.
It was a revelation.
It deserved responsibility.
Wrath bubbled up within me and made me feel like a tornado in action.
In comparison, Shake, Rattle and Roll would feel like a snooze in Battery Park.
“BASTARD!”
I basooned that last word out so loud, my rich and cockraising mezzosoprano echoing way down the three floors of my apartment building, jiggling my funbags, so much so that my neighbour, curious little Mrs. White, glued her eyelid on her spyhole just to see if Victoria Badham now finally had gone totally nuts.
“It’s okay, Mrs. White,” I sing-songed ironically, play-acting calm cordiality while eyeing heavenward. “Nothing YOU have to worry about.”
I heard some grumbling noises behind the door, these noises sounding like “Foul language” or “The young people today, they have no manners” or something of that sort.
Me, trying to detect her Gruffalo-like mumbles calmed me down enough to open my apartment door, storm in and finally slam it shut vehemently.
“Chah,” I croaked, “Mrs. White, have you ever,” I said, raising my long middle fingernail at the door, throwing off my black high heeled shoes onto the bathroom floor, “been treated like a sex object? DO you know what that’s like?”
I waited, pretending the door was her, fixing my gaze at my own apartment spyhole.
“What? Oh, yes? Back when there were no cars?”
I sneered.
“Yeah, well, back then you HAD to shut the hell up and do the laundry. I don’t HAVE to be the …”
Throwing my hair about, walking into my living room, I threw my handbag onto the couch, happy I didn’t break my Chopard Wish flask in it in the process.
“… the … the … the …”
I searched in my head for the word.
“… the … damn.”
I screamed, finally slumping down onto my warm couch, numb with rage, feeling like a hawk after an explosive firestorm.
“I don’t have to be your dartboard.”
I really don’t know how long I sat there staring into the kitchen. It could have been about four minutes, but for all I knew it could have been four years. I had really drained myself of all energy.
My mind switched to numb disbelief, entering a weirdly comical version of a totally drenched Nirvana, utterly gobsmacked that there actually
were people as narrowminded as this. What had he told me, that creep?
“Stay in your corner, baby, it’s safer for you that way.”
Holy shit, now the worst thing about that was not his patronizing comment. It was the fact that he looked at my titties while telling me not to mix in. If my advice had saved the firm from bankruptcy before, why not now?Because of these Asian CEOs? I had studied in Asia, for crying out loud.
But relate to me as a bedspring and discard everything else.
“No,” I told myself, springing up and marching toward the kitchen, as if speaking to him, “my boobs don’t talk … and neither does my butt. But you go ahead and patronize your firm down the drain. I will give you the finger, you fucker.”
I flung open my fridge door and ripped out a beer. That creep of a boss, he would probably have peed in his Calvin Klein underwear if he saw his 38-26-36-sexy-hourglass of an employee acting like a regular homey. I gulped down half of my beer, brought it down to my hips and belched.
“After all I’ve done for the company,” I whispered to myself, “all the surplus hours amount to one thing. My boobs.”
Stay in your corner?
What corner?
I had my office right next to his.
In the middle of the top floor.
Oh, and by the way, who had the degree in economics?
Who had saved the company from extinction?
Who had convinced many clients to stay with the firm?
Who had worked too many hours without getting paid?
Me, me, me and me again.
And now, these Japanese tradesmen were not good enough for me nor I for them? After my year in Tokyo? After having lectured financial economics to a bunch of drunk Japs in Japanese?
I shook my head, grabbed the bag of chips laying on the fridge and slumped into the pillows.
“Calm down, Victoria,” I told myself. “He ain’t worth it.”
I figured that turning on some silly TV programme that made me snigger would help, but all I saw was Charlie Sheen admiring his girlfriend’s boobs in “Two and a Half Men”, Kenicky breaking his old condom in “Grease” and deciding to fuck Rizzo anyway. I switched to a game show, but what I saw there was a bimbo with big gazongas turning letters. I even switched to CNN, some political discussion about the White House, but the smart women there just looked like hookers. I even plucked out my 7 inch dildo and stuck it up my hairy pussy, looking at it and called it names, but it didn’t really help my frustration. In fact, it frustrated me even more. So I ended up eating too much for my own good, finally snoozing off at 7:39 p.m. just when Ally McBeal gave Robert Downey Jr. her last good byes.
I dozed off and dreamed about tieing down my boss to a bed and fucking the sweet salsa out of him, calling him my toy-boy.
When I woke up, I felt really bad about myself.
I wanted to be fair.
Revenge was not fair.
An old rerun of Dynasty was on when my smartphone exploded into coronary oblivion at 8:46 p.m., playing me Lara’s theme from “Doctor Shiwago”. Lara, who looked for love, looked for me.
Eyeing heavenward, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I plucked out the silly golden Samsung and looked at the display,
I pressed the receive button:
“Yes?” I groaned.
The voice on the other end halted, holding its breath and then found enough courage to continue.
“You sound distraught.”
I sighed, shaking my head,
“Men,” I moaned, sleepily, “they suck.”
“Uuuhm,” the other voice drawled. “Not all of us suck.”
There was a slight chuckle.
“There are a few exceptions,” I mused.
“What happened?”
I moaned. “My boss treated me like property. Although I am the one with the higher education, he told me to get back into my corner.”
I sniggered.
“The worst thing was that he inspected my breasts while putting me down.”
“What a jerk,” Tony croaked. “You deserve better.”
The warmth in my heart spread from my diaphragm to my stomach into my head. That sounded nice.
“I’m on your side, Victoria,” he crooned. “You know that. Get another job.
You’re too valuable for shit like that.”
“That’s sweet.”
There was a slight pause.
“Hey. Are you the mood for some Chianti?”
I waited, trying to decide if I was in the mood for company. I wanted to say to hell with all men, but what really surprised me was that something in me wanted Tony here. Now. Not just to fuck. Something needed to prove to me that there were good men, after all. Respectful men, friendly men, gentle men who saw women as equals.
Thinking of Tony, this guy whom I had chosen just to fuck now and then, a feeling of warmth came over me. We were more than just fuck buddies, weren’t we?
I deserved better, but Tony’s respect definitely deserved a blow-job.
“Come on up,” I said, “maybe I could use someone sane to brighten up my evening.”
“See you shortly,” he whispered, tenderly, moisturizing my cunny.
Funny thing, how we rarely said hello or good bye, we just gave each other snappy statements. But there was respect. Respect.
I looked around my couch and on my own self.
Chips on my blue skirt, beer on my blouse, chocolate stains on my stockings, loads of napkins on the pillows. Sexy? Messy was more like it.
I slouched myself toward the loo, went there and then redid my make up, threw away the messy stuff. I even had enough time to billow up the couch pillows.
Okay, I washed off my private parts with a soapy washcloth, sprayed some Chopard on my throat and brushed my teeth.
I mean, I had enjoyed so much fast and spontaneous sex with Tony in so many odd places, it was almost ridiculous: changing stalls at Primark, behind bushes in Hyde Park, in airplane restrooms. One or two squirts could only make my mood better.
As I got ready to look good for my “walking cock” as I called him, something very deep and profound hit me. Although we had agreed to keep our relationship sexual, for a long time now it felt like more, much more. He respected me. Normally, society would tell us that sexual affairs were respectless and irresponsible. This was neither. My boss had never hit on me – sexually, I mean – but, thinking back, he had always treated me as a sex object.
Tony and I had never ever exchanged a disrespectful word.
When I looked into his eyes, I saw love. That’s what I needed.
No slippery innuendos.
The question was why we had agreed on a sexual friendship at all.
Freedom. Maybe that was it. Freedom.
When Tony stood there, my favourite 2015 Italian wine in hand, naturally I embraced and kissed him, my tongue slipping deep into his mouth, his hands grabbing my buttocks, his huge groin swelling, my nipples stiffening.
It felt good to feel him around me once more, our on-and-off-relationship seguing into something that felt like love, not only just giving us some hot sex now and then. I really felt that I needed to commit myself now, find something real, at least after being treated like a slut this afternoon.
Was I searching for truth? Yes. Did I need to experience love and respect after having men patronize the hell out of me? Yes. Was that vital in order to save my faith in love? Yes. Unanswered questions:
Was I to blame? Had I spent too many hours putting on false eyelashes, buying tight skirts, blowdrying my sandré locks? I wanted to look good for work just to feel good about myself. But some men took that the wrong way, I guess. My boss, for instance. Him and his 100 % newly pressed Versace suit, his ivory white Pepsodent smile and Bruno Banani Magic Man cologne, he saw women as things.
In any case, embracing Tony was what my soul craved, his arms everywhere over me. I felt there was more there, which made me wish I had showered.
Tony didn’t seem to mind when I kneeled down in the hallway of my flat, unzipped his Wranglers, reached into his underpants, seeing his giant penis bobbing into place in front of me.
I carefully lay it on my tongue, licking its juicy length from balls to helmet, sucking on it like on an oversized lollipop. It tasted like salty pop corn, felt like a corn on the cob, growing stiffer on my tongue and making my pussy oh so wet. Oooh so moist.
In fact, his dick inspired me so much that I went further down and sucked on his hairy balls, as well. I put both his testicles in my mouth and sucked on them like candy while he masturbated over my face.
That inspired his testosterone to rise.
He grabbed me by the shoulders, lead me into the bedroom and smiled.
And as he ripped off his clothes, I ripped off mine. Soon enough, bras and panties shared floor space with a belt and a pullover.
My body tingled as he pushed me on the bed, grabbed my huge breasts and licked my nipples, licked my clitlips, buried his face inside my wet vagina. He came out soaked, his face dripping with female clitjuice.
As he finally lay down on me, thrust his rod inside me and fucked the crap out of me, I saw stars, whimpering in impossibly high tones, my Yin to his Yang, my moon to his sun, my sea to his land. His balls slapped against my butt, my huge jugs bounced and my legs lay wrapped around his hips.
His rod was bigger than my dildo and I must admit that having him thrust and slide the entire eight inch length of his prick up to his testicles into my body, up to my titties almost, made me squeal like a high coloratura soprano.
I came first, a real orgasm this time, followed by a really long orgasm on his part, long sticky strains of sperm in a seemingly unending row of squirts into my uterus. I was all respected woman. He was all hard and gentle man. Neither Tony nor I had really regarded the fact that we had just made love without even greeting each other nor that he had squirted into me without protection. Given the fact that it came on the right time, time itself would tell us if and what would happen, if anything.
We lay there in each other’s arms for a long while, cuddling, kissing, exchanging hugs and looks and caresses, but exchanging no words. It was then that I realized, in a moment of truth and enlightenment, that we were faithful to each other, although up until now we had enjoyed more of a sexual friendship, an on-and-off-agreement of sorts. I was not having sex with anyone else at the moment. I was sure it was the same for him. No, I knew it was the same for him.
And I could safely say that everything that society had told me about sex was a lie. The act that created us all was, at best, just an act of love that we were programmed to like. So who actually told us that sex was a sin? Could it be a sin to do something that was necessary for the survival of our race? As I lay there playing with his chest hair, in a positive Nirvana as opposed to the negative Nirvana I had been in before, I realized that our emotional energy bound us together, hurt no one and only made life better. So what was this whole problem with celibacy and priests? As far as I knew or had heard, even St. Paul had assumed the bishops should marry in order to understand the congregation. What was this sex-is-a-sin-thing? Power play? I drifted away into my own thoughts, asking myself why eternal souls living in bodies, travelling from body to body, really, could want to force each other to give over responsibility for a conscious creator to an organization. I was at one with Tony, a peaceful union.
As I thoughtfully played with these images in my mind, I wanked Tony up to another hard-on, sucking on his sticky and hairy cock and licking his on yummy balls.
“I love you, Victoria.”
Tony’s words were as humble and sweet as morning rain after a drought.
I looked up at his face, his penis half onto my tongue, me pleasantly smiling, surprised, joyous, my big and beautiful breasts pressing against his body, my commitment shining upon his trust.
“You are and have been the only woman for me ever since I met you,” Tony whispered.
I grinned, almost crying in the process of hearing his words.
“So this affair-just-for-sex was our mistake,” I told him. “It’s more …”
He nodded.
“Will you marry me?”
I took a deep breath, my eyes opening wide, my emotional energy tingling, the idea of marrying this gorgeous hunk of freedom fascinating. Me, the career girl out to impress the CEOs, dressed to the nines, had hit a wall, a slimy border where gender had been used as a power tool. It had driven me to beer, chips, chocolate and depression. Now I saw the faithful side of sex. Intimacy. Heat. Sensuality. Union.
Without a word, I crawled up toward his mouth and dived into his glory. The kiss we dived into was terrific, to say the least. It really felt like swimming inside his soul, two spirits literally swimming inside each other, for one instance ceasing to be two, becoming one. Our emotions reached such a zenith when his rod again entered my pussy, I fucked it blue, his hands on my buttocks, my hips rising and sinking onto his manhood. Believe it or not, he came into me again. Peace on Earth is two good shags with someone you love.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Tony joked.
And together, we laughed.
I remember this day, years ago, as the evening I saw the good and bad sides of sex. My former employer’s belittling chauvinism, going down on me for being what he felt was a sex object. And then the mutual respect of true love, shown through fabulous sex and a huge and delicious dick.
I resigned from my job that next day. My former boss tried to keep me there, but I felt I couldn’t accept disrespect.
What became a tough time eventually paved the way for my own company
Mrs. White and I had a chat which ended in a careful handshake, so I guess all is well.
Now I am the mother of twins, they used to be cherubs, now they are working actors in California, Amoria, my girl, named after love, and Fidelio, my boy, named after fidelity. Was the birth of my twins the fruit of Tony’s two rounds of cum that day? Who knows? Maybe. Amoria and Fidelio are loving and funloving people. Maybe that is proof of our twin fucks.
Tony and I still have sex, raunchy and hot sex. I have ceased to call it dirty. I believe there is nothing dirty or sinful about a good nuptial shag. It might even be a necessity. Not only does Tony’s manhood still entice me, every time we meld and morph, as I call it, I also feel like I just entered heaven.
I can only encourage other men to respect their women. Remember that there is an individual looking out at you from inside that sexy brunette or blonde body. Any body. Any soul. We might look good, smell good, have pretty and tasty pussylips you love to lick and fuck. We might be good shags and sound great when you stick your schlong into us, but we are not your toys to play with and neither should we be and neither are you. We please you if you please us. We bring your babies to the world, we support you to be your best if you do the same unto us. So be old fashioned. Open up the door for us when we leave the restaurant and, for God’s sake, literally, let us be equal partners in professional life. Then we will suck your dicks. We bring your babies to the Earth. That should be enough of a reason to respect us. And why not? Painters have always loved nude women, composers have always loved writing songs about pretty girls, and finally, sex inspires art. We love to take care of our babies. Let’s love how they’re made, as well. We have a lot to learn from each other.
This mother of twins, namely me, will finish off with a few words I told my husband before driving to work this morning:
“I love loving you!”
That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?
Without love, we’re lost.
Let’s remember that.
The fact that our relationship continues to work so well is due to the fact that we occasionally give each other space and freedom.
Fidelity and respect are necessities.
Beyond that, his wanking to porn sites and my big dildo inside my pussy, those things need attention, too.
Then it’s time for him to squirt on my face in long and sticky strains of yummy cum.
I love my husband and I just cherish his long, hard and sticky cock.
My pussy is throbbing again.
My nipples are stiffening.
I would like to end with a few wise words by Moliére:
“The grand ambition of women is to inspire love!”
I know that I certainly have that ambition.
And I am certain I do.
Temptation Magazine 