A Woman in Control - Reaching my zenith II

Reaching My Zenith II

Yes, such a conniver am I. Though it’s Friday I do not call G. Douglas’s office to arrange a time for the ‘weekly update’. Though the boss is aging he has come to expect my call and the subsequent squeeze of my buttered hand just as Pavlov’s dogs expect to hear a bell and get fed.

Late Friday, while I am riding the week’s best salesman, Bob buzzes on the intercom. It must be important, because he knows I have my skirt up and am straddling the ottoman, slowly frictioning my quim and driving crazy a young bull who wants to get his rocks off too soon.

“Yes,” my tone direct, somewhat cloaking my annoyance.

“It’s Mr. G calling,” Bob using the boss’s diminutive. “Says he needs you right away... ah needs to see you right away.”

I smile with the slip. Yes, of course G. Douglas needs me. He spent I am sure a long evening in a home reeking of the scent of butter... and his only relief to beg the Mrs., stroke himself which has been forbidden, or struggle through the night and await my gracious hand... which he did... and I have withheld.

“Tell him I am busy, Bob,” offering my salesman, name temporarily forgotten, another slow, pleasurable-for-me, frustrating-for-him, thrust.

Later, well after five p.m., Bob having licked his penis clean, my rooky bullstud dresses. I rode him long and hard, wearing him to mushy pulp despite his young age. He smiles wanly, still not accustomed to the lascivious prize for the week’s best sales effort. And though I climaxed thrice, I glow in knowing that a servile Bob awaits to offer more.

“Send in Bob back in. He sucks a good cock, wouldn’t you agree?” adding further ignominy to the afternoon’s romp.   

The boy nods in quiet, smiles then steps out. I take my place at my desk, hiking my skirt before sitting down. Then Bob enters and disrobes. For the third time this afternoon I have a naked male in my office.

I like having my male sycophants strip for me. It’s a nice reversal.

Bob silently crawls under my desk and begins the cream pie clean up. More accomplished than Jack, it’s a refreshing change. I sometimes wonder if the cyproterone acetate is shrinking Jack’s remaining functioning sex organ.

Moments after my first clitoral orgasm, my phone rings. It’s now close to six. With the switchboard closed I know it is an internal call and since Bob is preoccupied, I answer myself, reveling in talking while having my cunnie licked clean.

“It’s Mr. G, Miss Desiree. I stayed late hoping you’d have time for the weekly update I find so invigorating.”

He is desperate. Being old and horny is a terrible way to go through life. It demeans. And of course I find that quite amusing.  

“Nothing to update. I will have more next week. Meanwhile, have Mrs. Olivier call me. Business. She’ll understand.”

I hear some mumbling. G. Douglas does not give orders... nor suggestions... to her Highness. The thought of the harridan brings inaudible words and he talks to himself.  

“I will... try. But I’d rather not go the weekend without my update,” his tone a curious combination of firmness and desperation.

“You will have Mrs. Olivier call me. Only then will I update you,” offering a saucy enunciation. “Meanwhile surely you must have some butter in the house, Mr. G,” my tone innocent in mocking how the codger now gets his rocks off. “Does not Mrs. Olivier cook with butter?”

“Well half the house smells like it. It’s annoying.”

“Did you say annoying or arousing?” I hang up so as not to laugh directly at him.