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By Lauren McAllister
I had been employed as an executive secretary at Johnston and Brickbat’s for about six months. It was a good enough job. I didn’t want to slit my throat with the can opener the second I got home from work, so I took that to be a pretty good sign. The boss was a pretty cool guy and my phone-answering abilities seemed to make up for my woeful typing and shorthand deficiencies. Or perhaps it was my tits…it’s so hard to gauge the core of one’s own appeal sometimes.
One morning, around 11:30 I got called into Mr. Brickbat’s office. I swung my hips into the room (I always played it a little sexy – see typing and shorthand deficiencies.) and cheerfully asked what he required.
Brickbat smiled at me like he was going to ask for a hot cup of Joe, but instead he handed me twenty dollars and said, “Can you pick up some Vaseline on your lunch hour? I’d like to stick my finger up your ass this afternoon.”
I was a little shocked, to say the least (though I did have a very tight and desirable derriere)! During my break, I sat in the coffee shop, stirring my caramel Macchiato cold and wondering what to do. Should I quit? Should I report him? I did like the job. And I quite liked him. It was such a weird thing for him to say. I mean the guy was, like, sixty or something. Aren’t men a little past that sort of thing by then? I was quite perplexed.
Just in case I didn’t slap his pudgy face and quit, I bought a small jar. What was my husband going to say about all of this?
I sat at my desk for almost two hours, practically peeing myself with nerves. Every time the phone rang, I wanted to scream like Jamie Lee Curtis in a closet. Then the dreaded call finally came. I sat for a minute in silence and stared at the container of lubricant in my purse, trying to decide what to do. I thought of Bruce (my hubby). I thought of our wedding vows. I thought about what would happen, if he ever found out. Finally, I thought of our mortgage and I picked up the jar. As I entered his office, I still wasn’t sure if I was going to hand it to him or bean him in the head with it. When I got in there though, he had such a friendly smile on his face, I placed the container gently on the desk and handed him the receipt and his change. I can be such a schmuck sometimes!
“Excellent,” he complimented me, as he removed the protective rapper from the jar. I almost tossed my Caramel Mocchiato but somehow I managed to retain small vestiges of my soon-to-be-lost dignity.
Brickbat stood up beside me. He was quite a large man for an old guy. “Could you just make yourself comfortable by bending over my desk, about here,” he instructed. My face must have turned as red as the apple that killed Snow White. This was completely insane. There was absolutely no reason in the world that a grown woman should allow herself to be put in this kind of deeply degrading and absurd situation. I did as he said.
Bricky slowly pulled up my skirt, making sure to rub it against my blushing butt cheeks. The feel of the rough material dragging across my flesh sent rapid-fire shivers dashing to my nether parts. I think I may have gasped. Mr. Brickbat then pulled down my panties, even slower than he’d raised my skirt. My aft was now thoroughly exposed and nervously awaiting further unspeakable violation.
Pop! A cold dark shudder rumbled down the length of my spine to my cowering poke-hole as I heard the jar being opened. My heart skipped a beat and my vagina gave me a frightened little tug. “I need you to reach back and gently pull your beautiful cheeks apart,” Mr. Boss Man ordered.
Oh my God! I clumsily grabbed a hold of my meaty mounds and did as he requested. The utter shame and disgrace that was coursing through my veins was making me lightheaded. At first, Brickbat just placed his jellied-finger gently onto my puckered posterior and traced tiny circles around its epicenter. I was trying to be so calm but I’m sure my sphincter was winking at him like a drunken uncle. After several agonizing minutes of tactile trauma, the tip of his longest, thickest digit came to rest on the core of my anal aperture. I was praying that my corn cave was demanding all of his attention so he wouldn’t notice how brazenly swollen my labia were. How could I be turned on by this humiliation? Fortunately, I didn’t have long to ponder my bizarre choice of aphrodisiacs for poop-button penetration was nigh. A careful but steady pressure allowed Brickbat to gain the anal ingress he sought. I almost sank my teeth into his oak desktop to help me deal with the otherworldly sensation of having one’s asshole breached by his big chunky finger. Time (and certainly my self-esteem) ceased to be as his pudgy four-and-a-half-inches wormed its way up into my rectum. The intoxicating mixture of self-loathing and perverted-horniness took my breath away as he explored every millimeter of my lower colon and beyond. It was like I’d had Lewis and Clark plus their entire canoe shoved up my fudge cupboard.
When Bricky finally tired of committing this atrocity of impoliteness upon me, he carefully removed himself and wiped the Vaseline off his finger onto my ass-cheek. He then pulled my panties back up and lowered my skirt.
“Thank you. That will be all.”
I got home that night and immediately sucked Bruce’s cock in the kitchen and I let him fuck me under our dining room table. My orgasm was absolutely massive. Bruce nearly cracked his head open when I bucked him into an faux-oak table leg. I had no idea what was getting into me (besides my husband and my boss) but this was only the beginning of a most extraordinary adventure.
The next week, Brickbat violated my viscus thrice more. There was no hint or warning given. Brickbat could simply be calling me into his office to give me dictation or to play a spirited round of butt-billiards.
Well, my sex life at home went through the roof…almost literally. The weirder things got at work, the kinkier I got around the house. I’d never seen Bruce so happy or so sore. I actually blew him at the movies!
One Monday, Brickbat beckoned me into his lair and, without looking up from whatever he was writing, told me to remove my underwear. This was new. On every previous occasion he’d chosen to pull them down himself. As soon as I had removed my “attire most dainty”, he looked up and announced, “Excellent. I think today provides the perfect opportunity to find out all about your vagina, don’t you?”
I believe he was speaking rhetorically.
He ordered me to jump up and sit on his blotter pad (computers weren’t an item utilized by a old world executive like Bricky) and spread my legs. It’s hard to believe that I was in any way embarrassed after the ego-eviscerating treatment I’d been receiving at his hands (or fingers), but this set me back an additional peg or two. Needless to say, I immediately did what I was told.
So there I was, perched on top of his desk, with my legs stretched wide, like a Cirque de Soleil performer, and Brick’s nose was so close to my hoo-haw that if he’d sneezed, I would have inflated like a beach ball. Even at the gynecologist’s, there’s a privacy curtain erected so you don’t have to see what the old pervert is doing to you “down there”. Bricky provided no such visual divide. There were also other significant ways that my employer deviated from the accepted norm concerning female pelvic examinations.
“You have a very pretty vagina,” he matter-of-factly informed me.
I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “Ah, thanks boss,” came to mind but I refrained.
He slid his index finger tenderly down the length of my left labium (I had to look that up. I had no idea what one of those suckers was called.). “So soft,” he sighed. Then Bricky reached into his desk and pulled out a magnifying glass. It was like I had fucking Sherlock Holmes looking for clues between my legs. “Wrinkled, yet so moist and alive. And it quivers to the touch. Amazing.”
Had this guy never seen a cooch up close before? To be honest, I’d never paid this much attention to a lady’s privates and I’d done my fair share of drunken muff diving in college. He inserted his finger and thumb within my swollen lips and pried them apart to expose my tunnel of forbidden wonders. Boy was its face red! My box was really receiving a thorough going over. I’m surprised he didn’t have a speculum in that goddamn drawer of his.
Was I turned on? Jesus Christ! I was afraid I was going to crank out a huge one but luckily, I was way too embarrassed to allow myself the pleasure of going off in front of his magnified face.
The next item on his agenda was sampling my “inner moisture”. You could have drowned a cat in it by now, but he just removed enough to test its viscosity. I sooo wanted to beg him to jam his cock inside me and put me out of my erogenous misery but no, that might have harmed our professional relationship. It was essential that a certain amount of decorum be maintained. A small vaginal fart escaped my loins.
I thought that I could survive this mortifying orificial ordeal with my orgasm cherry intact, but when he employed my own nether emissions to coat my clitoral hood and yippee button, I almost slammed my thighs tight against the sides of his head and cum squirted into his eye.
There was no option but to bald-face lie and say that I felt ill. My vagina was about to explode and take half the room with it. I grabbed my panties and dashed out of his office. Once ensconced in the ladies’ room I proceeded to psychotically wank it for the next 45 minutes. I have never had so many orgasms in immediate succession in my entire life. When I got home that night, I had another three with my unsuspecting husband inside me.
While Bruce and I were pelvicly wearing each other out, I wondered where all this was going. What was Bricky’s eventual goal? Sexual intercourse? Why was he taking so long to ask for it?
The next four weeks turned out to be “Breast Inspection Month”. Every few days, I’d be called hither and asked to take off all my clothes and sit. First he’d place his cupped hands underneath “the girls” to test their heft and consistency. I tried and stare straight ahead, like I was at the doctor’s office or having my eyes examined by a pervert. Bricky would touch them from in front and from behind and then from the side. Every possible angle of feel-uppery was explored. It was all I could manage to keep breathing normally and not start yowling like lovesick coyote as he exquisitely massaged my mammaries. He dragged his nails gently along the underside of each tit until my chest tingles became so intense; it almost set my hair on fire.
His masterful nipple work was also unbearably delicious. The way his fingers circled, caressed and squeezed my nips and areola had me looking around the room for a leather strap to bite down on. Yowsa!
Lastly, he put his right hand between my legs and massaged my clitoris to pump my boobs up to their fully engorged limit. Bricky would bring me right to the very cusp of cunt combustion but then evilly stop before I started screaming like Cheetah in those old Tarzan movies. By the time he was through with me, my poor sticky pud was plumped up to the size of an African termite mound.
I now required at least three climaxes and a shot of Jack in the Ladies Room to calm me down sufficiently to return to work. Things were getting out of hand (or my hand was getting out of hand, I’m not quite sure which). I’d even started wanking behind my desk (This is one of the advantages our girlie parts have over those big sticky-out things men have.). Right up until “the end” you’d hardly know anything was going on…and then I’d blame any overtly orgasmic behavior on cramps.
My last official “assignment” was a blessing in disguise. Brickie asked me to masturbate for him. By this time, he could have told me to suck his cock in a room full of nuns and I would have done it without blinking and eye.
I took off all my clothes, sat down and spread my legs. He didn’t want me to “perform”, just whack at it like I’d do at home, only sitting up. Little did he know that I was whacking it, sitting up, almost non-stop on the other side of his office door. I massaged my breasts and nipples first. His eyes were soaking in every last detail of my self-pleasuring maneuvers. I was so turned on; I practically came before going anywhere near my dewy tumescent twat. By the time I reached between my legs, I needed a snorkel for my fingers. They were completely coated in cunt goo as I enthusiastically stroked my ludicrously enlarged labia up and down and robustly circled my blast-off button. Bricky focused his attentions in on “cum central” as my breathing quickened and my blister bashing became almost cruel. WHAM! I snagged one so large it practically threw me off the chair. I remember hoping that he was pleased with me as I contorted and convulsed like a poisoned Las Vegas chorus dancer. The overwhelming spasms lasted for an eternity and he stared deep into the heart of my vagina for each and every one.
After I’d finished thrashing about and messing up his expensive leather upholstery, he very warmly smiled at me. It made me want to do it again for him but I didn’t want to seem like the out-of-control masturbating whore that I’d turned into, so I put on my clothes and made my exit.
Over the next few weeks, I pounded it almost daily for him. We’d talk about how my sphincter and vaginal opening would pulsate simultaneously when I came. How my tits would turn bright pink and my neck muscles would tense. Why did I decide to finger myself that time and not the time before? I don’t think I’ve ever had such frank conversations about my sexuality and sexual experiences in my life. One Friday, he had me cum twice for him. We didn’t talk afterwards. He just kissed me on the forehead and thanked me for everything I’d done. It was the first time he’d ever acknowledged our “activities” like that. I was a little freaked out by it.
The following Monday, the staff was informed the Brickbat had committed suicide. He’d been terminally ill for awhile and had decided he’d had enough.
I’m not going to lie. I cried for a week and a half solid. It was the worse thing I’d ever been through. Stunningly, Bricky left me a sizable sum in his will and a hand written note.
He apologized for his inappropriate requests and behavior but he’d always loved women and wanted to truly get to know one/me before he died. Boy! Did he ever!
I smiled between the tears as I read it.
Now, every time I lie down to have a serious wank, I look up, wink to heaven and say, “This one’s for your Bricky.”
In fact, I think I’ll say hello to him right now.
Copyright 2014 Lauren McAllister