Fellatio from Priscilla became part of Martin’s daily routine. He couldn’t talk her out of it any more than he could stop her from bringing him coffee. Usually she did both at once. She pretended it was an imposition to which she acceded only to keep her job. The panting enthusiasm with which she engulfed Martin’s rod made that a little hard to believe. So did the glassy-eyed, sex-drunk look on her face when she finished. Once, she walked into a chair as she was leaving.
Martin felt a little guilty for not resisting her more vigorously. It was entirely her idea, he reasoned, much like her novel interpretation of office attire. If Priscilla felt more secure in her position when she spent a quarter hour between his legs every morning, who was he to argue? On busy mornings he checked his e-mail while she sucked.
It was on one such morning about a week later that Martin came across a message that piqued his interest. The heading was “Interview?” It was from Calpurnia Scott, the newspaper reporter. He opened the message. Between his legs, Priscilla’s head bobbed up and down in a slow, even rhythm, pleasurable but not yet overwhelming.
The message read:
“Hi Martin. I’ve talked my editor into letting me run a special series on the new Council, and the issues facing City Hall. I’ve lined up the Mayor and a couple of the others, but it wouldn’t be complete without an interview with the hottest new Councillor in the City. What do you say? Can you give me an hour some time? I’d be glad to come down to your office.”
“Please let me know soonest—I live and die by deadlines. CS”
Martin considered the request. “Priscilla,” he said after a moment, “maybe you should take a look at this.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” Priscilla hummed, without stopping what she was doing.
Now it was becoming distracting. Reluctantly, Martin eased her mouth off his pecker. “No, not finnnnished,” she whined, craning her neck forward. Her cheeks were flushed.
“I, I know honey but—hey, come on, hold on a minute, this could be important.” With some difficulty he got her to turn a little so she could see the computer screen. She read the message. She stroked him with one hand at the same time, keeping him hard.
“So, what do you think? Should I let her have an interview? She’s a pretty sharp reporter. Could make a fuss about the Higgins connect—oh, man that’s nice.”
The pretty office manager considered, still on her knees. “I think you should agree. A long interview would give you a chance to set your position on McGrath Park. Much better than seven-second sound bites.” She apparently had no difficulty splitting her attention between public relations and pubic fellation.
“Ah, ah OK then,” Martin said, a little distractedly. “I’ll write back and tell her to come by Tuesdaaaaaaaay.” Priscilla had caught him off guard. Her lips worked up and down his member, sucking harder now. Her tongue worked its magic.
Martin groaned in surrender. He leaned back in his plush chair. His eyes rolled back in his head as Priscilla drove him relentlessly toward his climax. He decided to worry about the interview later.
“I appreciate you taking the time for me,” Calpurnia Scott said, settling into the leather chair. “I know how busy you must be as a councillor now.”
She took a small tape recorder out of her handbag and set it on the coffee table. Calpurnia was a trim, energetic woman with deep brown hair and honest eyes. She was dressed stylishly in a high-necked sweater and brown suede pants over black ankle boots.
“Always time for you, Callie,” Martin replied. He took a seat in another chair across from her. “What specifically would you like to cover today?”
She shrugged. “Well, to start with, how does it feel? To be the new councillor, I mean. Given your predecessor’s record, you couldn’t have expected to win the election.”
The question seemed artless, but Martin knew better. “Every candidate expects to win every election,” he parried, “otherwise no one would ever run for office.”
“Yes, but when the election was called Councillor Higgins was facing multiple counts of corruption and malfeasance. You were his chief of staff. Surely you expected that to weigh heavily against you?”
“Elections should be about the future, not the past. Clement Higgins has passed on, so he no longer has to defend himself. Now that those clouds have cleared, I think the public is more interested in how we are going to handle the various problems facing the City.”
So the interview ran, a verbal fencing match of thrusts and ripostes, lunges and parries. Martin tried to turn the conversation toward his plans for the ward. This proved a difficult task because he didn’t have any.
Calpurnia was clearly intrigued by how Martin had come to win the seat in the first place. Did the Higgins electoral machine come to his rescue? Did Martin have access to levers of influence of which others were unaware? How was it that, as a junior councillor without experience, he was being so successful at advancing his agenda?
Martin had anticipated this line of questions. He denied that he knew anything about Higgins’s double dealing. That was true enough. He also confirmed that he knew nothing about the rather sizable sums that had gone missing during Higgins’s tenure.
Martin attributed his early success to hard work and the public’s patience with a newcomer. Privately, he was as baffled by this as was the attractive reporter sitting across from him. He rubbed the worry stone in his pocket as he talked.
Inevitably, the conversation came around to McGrath Park. “What made you decide to take a position so unlike your predecessor’s?” Calpurnia asked. Martin remembered that debate clearly. He had named it the Night of the Babe.
The debate had been held at a small community hall, sponsored by one of the local radio stations. Civic elections tend to ignite public interest like a wet match. Most of the disgruntled people half-filling the hall were only there to complain about Higgins’s indiscretions.
Naturally, the debate had not gone well. Martin attempted to continue Higgins’s campaign while at the same time distancing himself from him. Martin and Priscilla had worked out neutral, uncontroversial positions on the major issues. At least they could lose the election with some grace. Finally though, one of the radio people asked a question about McGrath Park.
Martin looked out over the empty seats and the collection of scowling voters. He studied his notes. The rehearsed answer was a carefully constructed smokescreen of obscurity and evasion. Martin genuinely liked McGrath Park. He had played there as a kid.
There was a long pause. Martin realized suddenly that the hall had gone silent. Everyone was waiting for him to speak. The election was hopeless. What else did he have to lose? He set his notes down. “My friends,” he said, “let’s talk about McGrath Park.”
So he did. He laid out a plan, off the top of his head, for a permanent ban on buildings that crowded the park. He spoke with real passion for the first time in the campaign. He forgot about his notes. Off in the wings he could see Priscilla gesticulating, panicked that he had departed from the script. For once he didn’t care.
Martin’s opponent was quick to condemn his plan. A feisty debate followed. Martin could not claim to have won. He did get people listening though.
Yet the debate was secondary in Martin’s memory. Another anomaly was even more remarkable. Sitting in the front row of seats before the stage was the most spectacular woman he had ever seen.
She was blonde. She was bright-eyed. She was fabulously well built. She was wearing a sleeveless, stretch-fit microdress and shiny white platform sandals. She could have walked out of a centrefold for a classy adult magazine. Every time she crossed her knees Martin forgot what he was saying. She was watching the debate with casual interest while holding hands with a well-dressed man who must have been her senior by at least half a century.
“Martin. Martin?” Calpurnia said.
“What? Oh, sorry Callie, I was uhm, collecting my thoughts. I’m glad you asked me about the park. I stated during the campaign, and I still feel, that urban parks are an important part of the fabric of cities; they make cities vibrant and livable instead of cold and stone. But we must remember that parks are for all the people, not merely the lucky few that—”
He was interrupted by a polite knock on the door. He glanced at his watch. “Oh, that will be Priscilla with tea.”
Calpurnia raised an eyebrow. “Priscilla brings you tea?”
“It’s quite impossible to stop her. Come in!”
The door opened and Priscilla stepped in, carrying a full tea service on a silver tray. “I thought you might like some refreshment,” she said, smiling.
“Thanks,” Martin said, “set it down here on the table, won’t you.” He looked over at Calpurnia nervously. He was unsure what she would make of Priscilla’s demeanour—or her decoltage.
The office manager was wearing a gauzy, indigo top that showed off the outlines of her lace brassiere, decorated in front with rows of ruffles along the plunging neckline. She set the tea tray down on the low table between Martin and Calpurnia. Her silky miniskirt stretched tight across her derriere.
“Thank you,” Martin said again, “that’s all right, we can—”
Priscilla was already pouring out. She carefully decanted a cup of tea for each of them. Martin noticed that she faced a little more toward him than the reporter. The view of her cleavage was unimpeded. She set down the teapot and handed Martin his cup. She left the other cup on the tray.
“I put out some treats too,” she said, straightening. “Will there be anything else?”
Martin kept his voice neutral. “No, that’s fine, Priscilla. I’ll call if we need anything.”
She smiled again. “Fine. Nice to see you Calpurnia.” She shuffled out of the room in her bright red slides. Shuffling was about the only way she could walk. Over the past few weeks Calpurnia’s heels had been rising as fast as her hemlines.
Calpurnia Scott picked up her teacup and took a sip. “She’s changed,” she said evenly.
“Who? Priscilla?” Martin replied, playing dumb.
“Yes. I never imagined Priscilla as the tea-serving type.”
“Oh, uhm, she’s just being polite. Let’s get back to that question about McGrath Park.”
When Calpurnia decided she had enough from the interview she thanked Martin and left. Martin watched from the door as she made her way through the outer office. He was a little concerned about Calpurnia’s impressions of his office.
Scott was observant, and sensitive to the nuances of politics. What would she make of the formerly cool and sensible Priscilla acting so sexy and feminine, right down to the seamed nylons slinking up her long legs? How could she not notice Angela and Summer, both dressed today in tight crop-tops and short-shorts, though only Angela had troubled to wear a bra? Or the ever-docile Joan, squeezed into a corset until her impressive cleavage threatened to spill out the top of her straining suit jacket?
When Martin’s telephone rang the reporter was deep in conversation with Priscilla. Both women were very serious. Martin’s fingers worked the worry stone in his pocket.
Martin didn’t have much time to worry about the interview for the next few days. He was too busy building support for a permanent moratorium on construction around McGrath Park. He continued to have difficulties with his staff. Especially Priscilla.
She shuffled into his office one morning looking put out. She served him coffee, as usual. Then, instead of her usual day-starter blowjob, she launched into another complaint. “I know what you are up to,” she began.
Martin took a tentative sip of coffee. “Uhm, pardon me?”
“I mean I’ve figured out what you are trying to do, and I won’t let you. You’re trying to get me, like, all sexed up. That’s the goal here, isn’t it? I’m on to you now.”
“Uh, right. On to what, exactly?”
“Don’t play coy with me, Martin. I’ve got you figured out. You fooled me for a while, I admit it. At first I thought you were a typical boorish male, looking for a bit of flash and skin around the office. Well, I went along with that, since you obviously have the upper hand, and besides I had to set an example for the other girls. I didn’t even see it when you started raising the ante a little bit, pushing me into shorter and shorter lengths, and higher heels. I kind of got used to it even. Which is exactly what you wanted. You played on my self-image, letting me feel good about myself and my new look.”
She was pacing again. Her butter-yellow platform slides rendered her steps dainty and eye-catching. Martin watched her warily.
“I should have known better. I underestimated just how smart you are. Hey, Priscilla, you look terrific. You’re getting me all excited. How about a little head you foxy thing. To think I actually fell for that! You not only talked me onto my knees, you even made me feel obligated: after all, it’s my body in all these sexy office clothes that’s getting your hormones in a knot. Can’t have the boss too uptight to work. Of course by that time I had forgotten that it was your idea to put me in these get-ups in the first place. Oooh, you’re a cunning fox!”
She stopped for a moment, hands on hips. She wore big, wooden bracelets on each wrist that matched her scarlet mini. Her sweater was tight and white, like the lace stockings shimmering up her legs.
Martin tried to jump into the pause. “Priscilla, I never said—”
“Exactly! You never said anything. You persuaded me to become your happy office decoration and personal cock-sucker without ever saying anything. It’s brilliant! But even that wasn’t the final objective. There’s still more to the plan, isn’t there?”
“There is?”
“Oh, yes, I see it now. You figure, get me used to looking super-sexy, let me get spoiled by all the attention, make me feel goody-good about it, until I’m so into looking hot I’m wearing club clothes to church. Not that I’ve ever done that! Of course not. Maybe once. Or twice.
“Then you ramp up the heat a bit more. You get me down under your desk with that scrumptious stiffy down my throat and my pussy singing hymns, not just once, or twice, but oh sweet glory! every single day, until I start thinkingthat is normal, and start expecting it, start needing it, like, you know, you need a good cup of coffee in the morning, even start looking forward to Mondays and spending spare time on weekends practising with a . . . uhm . .. . not that I’ve done that either.”
She paused for breath. Her breasts pressed against the fabric of her sweater, as if they were eager to come out and play.
“So that’s the plan. You’re trying to make me oversexed. You think you can get me thinking about sex all the time, night and day. You want me to think with my pussy. Then you figure you can manipulate me into going to bed with you because I’ll be so horny and receptive and sexed-up and I’ve already blown you too many times to count so what’s the difference and that way I could get off from a nice bone for once instead of using my fingers in the shower every morning. Not, not that I do that!
“But it’s not going to work. I am on to you. For once I’m one step ahead of your scheming manipulation. You can keep that, that awesome woody in your pants from now on because my days of granting you favours are over. Are we clear?”
“Perfectly,” Martin breathed.
“Good.” Priscilla walked, or rather wiggled, out of the room with her chin high. Martin noticed that she was carefully setting one foot in front of the other, exaggerating the sway of her behind beneath her slinky mini. Her stockings had decorative white bows on the back.
Martin contemplated the closed door. He rubbed his worry stone. His pants were uncomfortable. Maybe he should feel guilty, but Priscilla’s rant had given him an erection like iron.
The door opened suddenly. Priscilla was standing there, looking flushed. She tottered into the room, closing the door behind her. “Ohhhhh, you tricked me again,” she whined.
Martin was speechless. Now what?
“Every time I think I’ve got the upper hand, you unravel another layer of cunning. I should have known better. That was exactly the reaction you were looking for, wasn’t it? You expected me to say that.
“Then you were planning to crush my independence a little further. You were going to let me think I had won, then remind me what I was missing, how plain and ordinary the workday is without a dash of dalliance. Perhaps a little hint each day, what? You were going to let me stew in it, let me get horny and frustrated, until you can make me ask you for sex. That was the final power play, wasn’t it?”
Martin was still speechless. He gaped at her like a beached fish. The long-legged office manager stepped around his big desk. She approached his chair. “Well, you’re not going to get the chance,” she said haughtily. She bent her knees and dropped gently into his lap. “You are never going to hear me beg for it. Because you are going to fuck me right here, right now, and no excuses.”
Martin had a difficult time rebutting such a forceful argument—especially when he found himself with a beautiful woman in his lap, kissing him hotly while she pressed her body against him. She cradled his head in both of her hands while her lips and tongue danced with his. Martin’s erection strained beneath her; he was sure she could feel it. He tried to say something, anything, but Priscilla simply drowned his protests in more kisses.
She took his hand in one of hers and gently guided it downward. It landed high on one stocking-clad leg. These were the same legs he had been admiring with increasing ardour as Priscilla’s heels and hemlines drifted skyward. The hand decided to stay.
“You lil manipulator,” Priscilla cooed, between kisses. “Making me .. . . mmmmmmmmm . . . all horny . . . so, so you can . . . fuck me right, oh god, right here in the office” Her hands worked his tie. He surrendered the hand on her thigh long enough to get his jacket off. Then he returned the favour by helping Priscilla struggle out of her clinging sweater. Her hair fell down in a loose tangle.
Underneath the sweater he found two uplifting demi-cups posing as a bra. They offered no real resistance to his quest to liberate her tits. When those perfect orbs came into view the last of Martin’s restraint evaporated. He dove downward with a grunt of desire to lick and suck and nibble. Priscilla made a keening sound. Her nipples were hard and pink.
The office manager began to topple backward. Her legs lifted high in the air to compensate. One garish, three-inch platform tumbled to the floor. “No, wait, Martin, not here, let’s, let’s at least use the oh! the s-sofa,” Priscilla cried. A hand disappeared under her red miniskirt. “Please, not . . . oh lord I’m so hot . . . but please not on the fl—Oooof!” The pair tumbled onto the carpet, still kissing and licking and groping.
Priscilla landed with her legs spread wide, shiny skirt rucked up over her behind. Her panties were as immaterial as her brassiere. They matched her garter straps. “All right, I don’t care, just hurry,” she gasped, as Martin paused to unfasten his trousers. “I need you so bad, you li’l manipulator.”
Martin’s underwear followed his trousers. He collapsed back on top of her, too aroused for more foreplay. “Wait, let, let me help,” Priscilla coaxed. She took his hardness gently in both hands and guided him down. Her panties slipped aside, practically inviting him into the pink moistness beneath. Grunting, he pressed downward. Priscilla gasped and arched her back.
“Any-anything to keep my job,” she panted, as Martin sank into her.
The two office lovers fucked eagerly on the carpet. Priscilla raised her legs and wrapped her ankles around Martin’s back, driving him deeper. She lifted her hips to meet his downstrokes. She wailed protests about being forced into sex against her will. Nevertheless she did manage to orgasm. Twice.
They never did find their way to the sofa.
A fortnight later Martin was back behind his big desk, surrounded by papers and files. His second council meeting was coming up. He wanted to be ready. If the telephone would stop ringing for a few minutes, he thought sourly, he might actually get something done.
Martin had decided to introduce a motion to make the moratorium on development around McGrath Park permanent. Why not? At least that way his tenure as a councillor would mean something. He couldn’t spend the next two years running in place. A permanent moratorium would be a hard sell, but it gave him something to work toward.
There was a gentle tap on the door. Now what? It didn’t sound like Priscilla’s firm knock.
“Yes, come in,” Martin said.
The door opened. Summer and Angela stepped in. They looked nervous. Angela closed the door behind her.
There was silence for a moment. Martin said: “What’s up? You look like you have something on your minds.”
The girls looked at each other, silently deciding who was to speak first. Summer said, “Mr. Miller, we, uhm, we have to . . . like, talk to you, about . . . uhm, something.”
“Yes, of course. Come on, out with it.” He smiled to show he wasn’t angry.
It was easy to smile when his junior clerks were in the room. Summer was decked out in a red pullover and stretchy black miniskirt, the latter about as short as a summer night in Norway. Her lovely legs curved down and down, finally disappearing into bright red socks and black leather boots. Angela wore a metallic stretch top and matching hipster pants that skimmed well below her navel. The ultra-thin material shimmered over her youthful curves and completely covered the enormous wedge platform sandals on her feet. The girls were behaving more and more like they were competing to see who could be the more distracting.
Angela spoke up. “It’s just that, well, I know we’re only like, clerks and that, but, we, uhm, we feel that we should, like, get the same, uhm—”
“the same privileges as everyone else in the office,” Summer finished for her.
“OK, I’m with you so far,” Martin said. “What’s the prob—”
“We know you’re having sex in the office with Priscilla,” Angela said.
Martin said nothing. He blushed red. There was no point denying the obvious. He had been having sex in the office with Priscilla: exuberant, hot, unrestrained sex, almost every day for the past two weeks.
It was all Priscilla’s idea. She insisted. Somehow she had convinced herself that fucking the boss was a requirement of her job, like coming to work dressed as a beauty queen.
She wiggled into his office the day after their first frantic coupling, looking sexy and sullen. “Here’s your coffee,” she said, setting the cup on the desk. “Don’t get any ideas about getting any other favours from me.”
Martin sensed another speech coming. He rubbed the worry stone in his pocket. “Priscilla,” he said carefully. “I want you to understand that you never have to have sex with me if you don’t want to. What happened yesterday—”
“Was another attempt to seduce me into becoming your personal office sexpot. It, it won’t work. I’m drawing the line here, Martin. I won’t be cajoled into more horizontal dictation—even if you are the best fuck I ever had.
“I guess it was partly my fault, what happened yesterday. I was the one that forced you to stop teasing me. I did insist that you slide your big, hard wang into me, and it, it felt good, I can’t deny that. Oh who am I kidding, it felt darn good, better than I imagined, I mean, really, really good, and when you started pumping in and out and in and out and mmmmmmmmmm, kissing me like, everywhere and making me hot, hot, oh yes, soooo hot!—and then going faster and faster and I felt so slick and full and alive and oh yes, darling! you were so big inside me, stroking hard and deep and faster, mmmmmm yes, till I was sure I’d pass out from the pleasure but you went faster still and then I—”
She stopped abruptly. She exhaled. “OK, OK, that’s enough. This is exactly the kind of oversexed behaviour you’re trying to fool me into. Well I won’t have it. I’m the office manager. From here on I insist we keep fucking on all—I mean, we keep this on a professional level.”
She was walking toward Martin as she spoke. She slid gracefully into his lap. “There will be no more hanky-panky in this office,” she said firmly. “Uhm, after like, today.”
“After today?”
She was facing him, very close. “I’m, uhm, trying to let you down easy,” she explained. She stopped to kiss him softly. “I’ve given you (kiss), expectations (kiss, kissssss)... and mmmmmmmm, I, I have a mmmmmm, your hand! No don’t stop—I have a responsibility to—oh, OK, let’s get the sweater off—a r-responsibility to (huff, huff), uhm, lower them gently, otherwise, oooooh, I’d be, be, be—oh yes, baby kiss my titties!”
The rest of Priscilla’s explanation was lost in a haze of gasps and moans. This time they ended up with Priscilla sprawled face down over the desk, naked but for her lacy stockings and high heels, while Martin ploughed into her hungrily from behind.
At least for the second bout they made it to the sofa.
To Martin’s astonishment, Priscilla was back every day that week with another, different, detailed explanation of why she had to let him screw her one more time. Some of the arguments seemed a trifle contrived (“I’m only wearing a T-thong, and with this little skirt you’re bound to see things that give you ideas, so I may just as well . . .") and Martin didn’t follow some of the others, because by the end of the week Priscilla was usually pawing at his zipper, panting, before she was half finished.
She maintained steadfastly that she tolerated the boinking only to keep her job. Nevertheless, she never failed to cum, usually loudly. It was inevitable that the rest of the office would hear her.
Martin remembered this situation as he considered the two pouting young babes in front of him. He had known all along that he ought to have curtailed Priscilla’s advances—or at least stuffed her panties in her mouth more often—but the sex was too wild and wonderful to resist. Now his staff had caught him with his pants down, literally. He fumbled for something to say.
“Uhm,” was the first thing he came up with. “Well, OK. True. But before you jump to conclusions, let me explain—”
“It’s not fair,” Angela interrupted.
“Well, I admit it is unprofessional, and I want to assure you—”
“It’s not fair to us.” Summer this time.
Martin looked at them. “What’s not fair?”
Summer took a step forward. “We’re part of the staff too,” she explained. “We should get the same, like, benefits and stuff as Priscilla.”
“Benefits? What are you—”
“We try our best,” Angela resumed. “Priscilla explained how everybody had to look pretty for you, and we try, we really do. She even tells us what styles you like.”
“She does?”
“Don’t you like us?” Summer asked, doe-eyed.
“Don’t you think we’re pretty?” asked Angela. She took a step toward him, swaying attractively in her preposterous heels. The little stone in her navel sparkled.
Martin’s eyes swung from one tempting view to the other. “Of course, of course I like you,” he said. “And you’re both very pretty. Very pretty.” They were still stalking toward him like panthers. “But I, I don’t see—”
“Just cuz Priscilla puts out, doesn’t mean she should get all the favours,” Summer sulked. She tugged down the hem of her already tight sweater. “We have a right to, like, defend our jobs too.”
Martin found himself studying Summer’s swelling chest. He felt distinctly uncomfortable. It didn’t help to look at Angela, whose spray-painted, silvery pants barely covered her pelvis.
He tried again. “Look, girls, you don’t have to—”
“We don’t want to, like, lose our jobs because you didn’t like us,” Angela said. She shuffled around the end of Martin’s enormous desk. She sat on the arm of his chair.
“Uh, now girls, I, I don’t think you should—”
Summer settled on the other arm. “Not when, like, you don’t even know everything we can do,” she whispered. She swung her boot-wrapped legs across his lap.
“My boyfriend says I’m terrific,” Angela boasted. “You should at least give me a chance to prove it.”
Martin wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, but his cock strongly approved. Trapped by two young beauties who were now stroking his hair and loosening his tie, he didn’t know which way to turn.
Summer helped him make up his mind. She took one of his hands in both of hers and laid it gently on her bare thigh. “You’ve never even made a pass at me,” she complained.
“Or even tried to kiss me,” said Angela, leaning over him. Before he could protest further she closed the gap between their lips. She kissed him gently, slowly, working her lips. Summer began to lick his ear.
When their mouths separated a few centimetres, Angela’s eyes were half-closed. “That was OK, wasn’t it?” she asked, concerned. “Good enough to keep my job?”
“My turn,” Summer interrupted, dipping her head to take Angela’s place.
The two girls generously let Martin sample the wares, alternating politely. His right hand slipped up Summer’s thigh. Angela took his left hand and placed it firmly over one plump breast.
“Wow, I’m getting like, really turned on,” Angela breathed, between kisses. “Just like Priscilla said.”
Martin may have said something in reply but Summer was kissing him now, squirming on the edge of the chair as Martin’s hand moved higher. She gasped and broke away. “Please, Martin,” she cooed, “make love to me now!”
Angela was already unbuttoning his shirt. “And when your finished,” she whispered, “do me too!”
“Wha, wait, g-girls,” Martin gasped, as the assault on his clothing continued. “We can’t just—I, I shouldn’t—Aaah!” A delicate female hand found the hard-on straining his trousers. A moment later his zipper slid down.
“Oh, it’s so big,” said the brown-haired girl on one side.
“Just like Priscilla said,” replied the blonde on the other side.
“Dibs!” somebody cried. A moment later Martin felt soft, moist lips sliding down his twitching shaft. He surrendered.
It is not physically possible for a man to satisfy two women at exactly the same time. Martin gave it his best shot. The girls were willing to take turns. They really wanted to keep their jobs.
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