A couple of days later, Martin was again sitting behind his big desk, alone this time. He rubbed his worry stone in one hand. There was a great deal to think about. He had been a councillor for less than three months. Yet he was championing a major policy change for city council, regularly screwing most of his office staff—not to mention the gorgeous wife of a corrupt developer—and being investigated for embezzlement by an aggressive detective.
It was all very peculiar. Especially odd was the way the women in his office had all convinced themselves that sexual servitude to Martin was inevitable. Everyone now seemed happy to work in an office where clothing with any degree of modesty was considered a violation of the dress code. The girls spent a great deal of time making sure their hair and make-up were always perfect. Should he have the slightest whim for entertainment, Martin knew, all he had to do was press a button on the telephone. Any of his office staff would be more than willing to offer herself for his pleasure, or just sit on the desk all afternoon looking pretty.
Priscilla still complained from time to time about Martin’s perceived domination of her life. Even those complaints employed some highly irregular reasoning. A few days earlier she had come to work in a tight, white pullover and skintight, canary yellow short-shorts. The shorts matched her outlandish platform slides. Her legs looked endless and fabulous. “You see,” she told Martin defiantly, “You can’t make me wear a skirt every day!”
The best way to silence Priscilla’s complaints was to unzip and use his wang as a pacifier. Once she got his shaft down her throat Priscilla calmed right down. “You’re tying to make me cock-crazy!” she complained once, but she was already falling to her knees.
The idea that her continued employment depended on absolute obedience to Martin had become entrenched in Priscilla’s mind. Once, when she tottered into the office in ridiculously flimsy, stiletto-heeled sandals to match her ridiculously brief minidress, Martin abruptly ordered her to go away and change her shoes. He had no complaint about the shoes really. Priscilla seemed happier when she was obeying orders.
So far, Martin had resisted the temptation to give Priscilla further orders just to see how far she would go. He was reasonably certain he could make her sit up and beg if he wanted to. Somehow, he was sure, she would convince herself that barking like a spaniel was the logical thing to do.
On another front, the campaign to protect McGrath Park was gathering steam. The biggest obstacle was financial. Opponents of the idea pointed out that a ban on development around the park would mean less tax revenue for the city. They had a point.
Berculosi’s more selfish objections had been deflected, thanks to the ever-helpful Rachel. The young wife was certain that her affair with Martin would last only as long as she was politically useful. On days when she couldn’t come in to be fucked in the office, she called him from home. She liked to play with herself while she revealed her husband’s secrets. On days when she could come in, she called first anyway, to get Martin’s approval of her underwear.
Curiouser and curiouser. Martin rubbed the worry stone in his pocket.
The chime of the intercom nudged him out of his reverie. He pushed a button. “Yes?”
“Mr. Miller,” came Joan’s voice, “may I speak with you a moment?”
“Of course. Come in.”
The middle-aged secretary stepped through the door a moment later. Martin drew in his breath. For a woman in her forties, Joan was looking darn good. Her diet and exercise regime were moving her toward the perfect hourglass figure that her corsets and girdles presently enforced.
Today she was wearing a navy blue suit with a single-button jacket that displayed her upthrusting cleavage boldly. The skirt was very long and very tight. A long gore up the front flashed the entire length of Joan’s legs, dressed in dark, fishnet nylons and patent black high-heels. She wore pearls, and white lace gloves.
“Mr. Miller,” she said again. “I—we need to talk.” She was clearly upset. Joan had been moody and depressed for some while.
“Of course, of course. Here, have a seat. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
He led her to the sofa. She sat primly beside him. Martin averted his eyes to avoid staring at her chest. He ended up looking up the gore of her skirt. He decided to study a photograph on the wall.
Joan said: “Mr. Miller, I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry? Sorry about what?”
“I, I know I must be a tremendous disappointment to you. I’ve tried so hard to fit in and, and follow all your rules and show you that I’m a loyal member of your staff. I’ve tried Mr. Miller, you must believe me. I’ve been to the gym every day this week, like you want, and I never cheat on my diet, I’m really really good. But I know it’s not enough.”
She was near tears. “Joan, what are talking about?” Martin said gently. “You’re a good data manager. I depend on you to keep the records straight.” He found himself looking at her chest again.
“A good data manager, is that what you think of me?” she sniffed, eyes brimming. “Someone to keep your records straight? I know you expect much more from me. Please, I’ve tried to be good, and, like make myself attractive for you, but I’m not twenty any more like Summer and Angela and I’ll never have legs like Prissy. I know you’re terribly terribly disappointed because you never ask me to do anything except manage files and type letters when I should be doing so much more. I’m so sorry Mr. Miller, I really am. Please don’t be angry with me.”
Martin stared at her in shock. Was he hearing this right? Was Joan upset and crying because he wasn’t fucking her? Didn’t she have a husband and two children?
He stole a glance down at her legs. Sleek mesh stockings shimmered up her thighs. Martin was afraid she would start pacing. In that dress the effect would be devastating.
He handed her a tissue. “Joan, please understand, I’m not angry. Not at all. I’m very pleased with your performance here. You don’t have to do anything. . . uhm, extracurricular, to keep your job, all right?”
“Oh, Mr. Martin, you’re so kind. I understand what you mean. I know my performance hasn’t been up to your expectations, but I am trying, really.” She took a deep breath. Her boobs threatened to pop right out of her push-up bra.
“I was hoping,” she said hesitantly, “that you would give me a chance to make it up to you.”
Martin’s eyes hadn’t recovered from a moment earlier. “H-how?”
“Well, summer is coming -uhm, I mean the summer season is arriving, and most of the councillors will be taking on summer interns, won’t they?”
“Oh, yes, I suppose we are. I had forgotten. But what—”
She laid a white-gloved hand on his arm. “You’ll need a suitable candidate for this office then?”
“I imagine.”
Joan reached into the breast pocket of her jacket and returned with a small colour photograph.
She handed the picture to Martin. “This is my daughter, Tania.”
Martin pulled his gaze away from Joan’s chest long enough to study the photograph. The girl in the picture was pretty, with long brown hair like her mother.
“I was hoping,” Joan went on, “that you might consider taking Tania on as an intern.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I can only say that her name will be considered. We’re not supposed to show favouritism and—”
“Please, Mr. Miller. She’ll do a good job. She’s in her sophomore year at the university, business admin, so she already knows the ropes. I’ll make sure she follows all the office rules, and knows what to do. She won’t give you any trouble. She’ll take care of. . . everything you ask of her. I’ll see to it. Please, let me make things better between us.”
“Joan, you’re not suggesting—” He stopped in mid-sentence. Joan was looking at him entreatingly. Desperate hope shone in her mascara-lined eyes. Crushed that he hadn’t found her attractive enough, she was offering her daughter, with the implicit understanding that Martin would screw her instead.
“Joan, I, I can’t—I couldn’t possibly—you can’t really be suggesting—”
“Please, Mr. Miller. I’m begging you. Hire my daughter. For the summer, that’s all. Give me one more chance. Please.”
Martin looked at the picture. Tania was a shapely girl. She was smiling at the camera. Could he have someone like that in his office all summer—young, sexy and available—and not end up in bed with her?
He fumbled for words. “All right, I’ll tell you what. I’ll bring Tania on as an intern—but only as an intern, nothing more. She doesn’t have to do anything, you know, that makes her uncomfortable.” He seriously hoped he meant that. It was not a good sign that the idea alone was giving him a woody.
Delight suffused Joan’s face like sunlight after a summer storm. “Oh, thank you Mr. Miller, thank you thank you thank you! You won’t regret it, I promise. Tania will be the best intern you ever had!”
Spontaneously, she threw her arms around his shoulders, hugging him fiercely. Her lips found his. She kissed him happily. Martin felt her heavy chest pressing against his.
The kisses kept coming. Joan punctuated each with a little “thank you!” before returning for more. Her kisses of gratitude were rapidly evolving into a make-out session.
Finally, reluctantly, Martin pushed her away. He tried to avoid touching her boobs. He did not succeed. “Joan, whoa, hold on, that’s enough. I get the idea already. You don’t have to—gaaaah!” One of Joan’s hands had found Martin’s erection.
“Mr. Miller!” she exclaimed, delighted. “Is that for me?”
It took less than two minutes to get Martin’s pecker out of his pants and into Joan’s waiting pussy. She didn’t even have to undress. The slit up the front of her skirt went almost to the top. She had conveniently worn her panties outside her garter straps.
The sexy older woman and her young boss coupled furiously there on the sofa. Joan lay on her back with her legs in the air, high heels pointing at the ceiling. “Martin! You’re fu-fucking fabulous!” she exalted, moments before her orgasm. “Tania is such a lucky girl!”
Friday of that week found Martin sitting in his office, reading through an endless stack of reports and files. It was all background for the transportation committee. The Mayor was looking for ways to increase the number of commuters taking public transit.
He was grateful when the intercom chimed. “Yes, Prissy?” he said.
“Honey, Calpurnia Scott is here to see you. She says it’s, like, important.”
Martin wondered. By polite convention reporters didn’t usually drop in on politicians unannounced. This had to be important. “Very well, send her in,” he said.
A moment later the door opened and Calpurnia Scott walked in.
“Well, Callie,” Martin said, putting on a cheerful face, “what can I do . . . for . . . y-you.”
He stammered in spite of himself. Calpurnia had undergone a profound change of style since the last time they spoke. From the neck up she was almost the same, except for the big hoop earrings glistening beneath her dark brown hair. Below the neck she wore a sparkly red pullover that strained to cover her darling breasts, a very brief leather miniskirt, and high-heeled boots. Martin stared at her in awe. Who could have believed the woman had legs like that?
She closed the door behind her. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said politely, “but we have to talk.”
“Of course, of course. Please come on in. Have a seat.” He gestured toward the chairs by his desk. Dressed like that she could talk to him any time.
The shapely reporter approached the chairs with careful steps. It was evident she was unaccustomed to the narrow, tapering heels on her flashy boots. It was also evident she wasn’t wearing a bra. She sat down gracefully. She set her black satchel on the desk. Martin had hardly noticed she was carrying it.
“Martin,” she said firmly, “I think I’ve passed your little test.”
“Test? What test?” Were there sparkles in her hair?
“You were testing me, weren’t you? You wanted to see if I could figure out the situation by myself.”
“I was?”
“Well, I did figure it out. I see it all now.
“I was wondering, you see, how you ever got elected, after the Higgins scandal broke. I wrote most of the articles about that for the News. You were his chief of staff; everyone expected you to get roasted in the election. Instead you . . . well, you know what happened. You play the innocent well, but I could tell something wasn’t right.
“I interviewed you and the Mayor and the other councillors, for my City Hall series. I spent a long time studying my notes. I wrote up my articles. I was just about to submit your interview to the editor, when I realized I was about to make a grave mistake.
“You did?”
“Indeed. You come across as so gentle and innocent, you almost fooled me. But I couldn’t help but notice the way you totally dominate your office staff.”
“I do?” The conversation was getting strange.
“It was Priscilla, she calls herself Prissy now, who got me thinking. I hardly recognized her, she’s changed so much. She explained to me how you control her, how you flattered and pushed and manipulated her with such clever efficiency, how you outwitted her at every turn, until you made her over completely into your obedient servant.
“I was amazed. To think someone could do that to Priscilla, of all people, without any hint of force. She was so independent, so strong-willed. She’s as tame as a kitten now. She’s madly devoted to you. So are the rest of your staff.”
Martin looked guilty. He tried to think of some way to explain to the leggy reporter that he was as baffled by Priscilla’s behaviour as Scott was. He couldn’t come up with anything. For as long as he had known her, Priscilla had never tolerated contractions of her name. He slipped a hand into his pocket and rubbed his worry stone.
“That got me thinking,” Calpurnia went on. “What if I had misjudged you? What if this simple honesty you project is all a facade, with the real genius lurking underneath? Suddenly it all made sense.
“You orchestrated your election from the beginning, didn’t you? You knew Higgins was going down when you took the job last year. Of course you made sure you knew nothing about Higgins’s escapades. You were keeping your nose clean, waiting for the police to close in. Then you could step right in, with Higgins’s electoral machine working for you now, and claim the vacant seat. The fact that Higgins died instead of going to prison merely made it easier: no loose ends to clean up.”
Martin was perplexed. Every time a woman entered his office in a miniskirt she began accusing him of outrageous things. He wondered if Calpurnia would start pacing.
He tried to protest. “No, Callie, I never—”
Calpurnia crossed her knees and leaned on her elbow. Her nylons glimmered. Martin momentarily forgot the rest of his sentence.
“Now for that plan to work,” she went on thoughtfully, “everything had to be in place beforehand. You would have to play the election exactly. First, you kept a low profile, lulling the opposition into thinking that you were harmless. Then, at precisely the right moment, you rose up with a dramatic, high-profile issue that grabbed the public’s attention. McGrath Park.”
She was swinging one calf-high boot back and forth as she spoke. Martin found it most distracting. “Look, Callie, that’s not the way—”
“You grabbed an election victory out of certain defeat. To do that you must have had a lot of backing behind the scenes. You must have already had a lot of important people under your influence.
“Including, of course, the local newspapers.”
Abruptly she got to her feet. Her boobs bounced cheerfully. “Do you know how long I’ve been covering City Hall?” she demanded.
Martin shook his head.
“Six years. Six years since I started as a junior reporter. I built my career around City Hall.”
As Martin had feared, she started to pace. Her high-heeled boots made it look dainty instead of agitated.
“What was I to do? A reporter’s integrity is everything. But you couldn’t have won this election unless you had all the newspapers in the palm of your hand, including mine. I don’t know how you did it, but it adds up. There wasn’t a single editorial about you during the entire election.”
She stopped, facing him. “I realized then that if I submitted my article to the editor I would be working the midnight shift on the obituaries column for the rest of my career. I’m a good reporter, Martin. I don’t want to lose my beat.”
“I passed your little test. I rewrote the article. I have it right here. All ready for you.”
At last Martin felt he might get a word in. “You want me to read your article? Why?”
“To make sure it says the right things, of course. Here, let me get it for you.” She leaned over to retrieve her satchel from the front of his desk. She was standing beside Martin. Her nylons had black seams up the back.
She pulled out a sheaf of printed pages. She turned and settled down across Martin’s lap.
“Callie! What are you—”
“Martin, it’s all right. I know the rules now. Prissy explained everything. What you expect of me. Positive coverage. And . . . other things.”
“W-what other things?” He could smell her perfume.
“You’ve been staring at my body since I walked in the door.”
“Oh. Uhm, well, Callie, I didn’t expect—”
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you review the article, and then we’ll discuss . . . other things.” She slid her arms around his neck.
Once again Martin found himself in the arms of a beautiful and willing young woman. Calpurnia’s shiny black mini was less than 15 inches long. It was cinched up with a wide red belt. Martin could feel one round boob pressing warmly against his chest.
Nervously, he began paging through Calpurnia’s article. The piece was well-written: it appeared to carry on dispassionate reporting in Scott’s trademark style, yet provided unreserved praise for Martin Miller. Martin read it with concern. Could he really let the News print this? Did he have any right to stop them?
“Uhm, Callie, uh, there is one sentence here,” he said tentatively.
“I’ll change it,” she replied instantly, without looking at the page.
“Uhm, and maybe this paragraph—”
“Strike it out.” She was whispering in his ear.
Martin felt lips kissing his cheek. “Callie, are you, uh, paying attention?”
“Prissy warned me,” the hot-bodied reporter murmured, licking his ear, “about the way it feels. She said that your control is so subtle, so . . . masterful, it’s . . . a pleasure to surrender. It’s an irresistible turn-on. Knowing that your invisible tendrils of influence surround me; holding me, molding me, and I can let go completely and let them make me into whatever you want without a care . . . it’s intoxicating!”
She kissed him then, quite suddenly. Her lips and tongue danced against his. He pulled her closer. “M-maybe,” Callie gasped, her breath sweet and hot on his face, “we should . . . uhm . . . discuss . . . other things now and—mmmmmmmm—the article later—Aye!” She let out a little yelp when Martin tweaked a nipple through her thin top.
“I think I know a way we can do both at once,” Martin said. He was still caressing her breast. “Here, stand up a minute.”
The turned-on reporter got to her feet, swaying on her narrow heels. Martin pushed the newspaper article across to the far side of the desk and told her to read it to him. Calpurnia had to lean far over the desk. Her tiny mini rode high and tight across the half-moons of her asscheeks.
“Hurry,” she breathed.
Martin stepped behind her. He leaned over her back to push the intercom button.
“Prissy, I’m doing another interview. Make sure we’re not disturbed for at least half an hour.”
He gently nudged Calpurnia’s legs apart with one foot. Priscilla probably heard the “Ooof!” when the reporter lost her balance and collapsed against the desk.
“Of course, darling—uhm, Martin.” came Priscilla’s voice.
The term of endearment surprised Martin. He was too busy to deal with that now. He found the zipper running up the back of Calpurnia’s mini and slid it upward. The straining leather sprang apart. She wore no underwear. There was a cut-out around the crotch of her pantyhose.
“Hurry!” she cried again.
“Callie, it’s a fine article,” Martin explained, pausing to fondle her protruding behind. He unzipped his pants. “But it needs to be more critical. Readers are expecting your research to be penetrating.”
“Yes, of course, yes, yes,” Calpurnia gasped. “I need to be ah! ahh! Ahhhh! penetrated!” She cried out as Martin slid deep into her waiting pussy.
He lay still for a moment, enjoying the feeling of her around him. He pulled out slowly, almost all the way, then pushed back in. “N-now look at that third p-paragraph. You can’t just say I’m a ‘powerful rejuvenating force—oh man you are fucking beautiful!—— on city council’ without some re-reservation.”
Calpurnia Scott had her head down on the broad desk. She thrust her hips back to meet Martin’s strokes. Her giant hoop earrings flashed.
“Yes, you’re right baby, yes,” she agreed again. “Look, I’ll, oh god that’s good, I’ll ch-change it right now.”
Gamely, she picked up a pen and began scrawling corrections on the pages. Martin made more suggestions as they fucked across his big desk. He wasn’t at all sure he was doing the right thing. He wasn’t even giving it his full attention. Calpurnia made not the slightest objection as he rewrote her article for her. She merely copied his changes verbatim while she cried and groaned happily.
Toward the end though, when her handwriting had become illegible, she gave up trying to pay attention and concentrated on the screwing Martin was giving her. She reached out with both hands and gripped the front of the desk. She bounced forward and back in time with Martin’s accelerating strokes, booted legs spread very wide, her ass jutting upward and her unbound breasts flattened against the hardwood.
“Yes, darling, yes yes Yes!” she panted. Her hair fell over her face. “Oh fuck I knew I couldn’t resist you. N-nothing I c-could do. All the papers. . . palm of your hand. . . own them. . . fucking own them. . . own ME!”
Her babbling transmuted into a groan of release as the orgasm swept over her. She jerked and spasmed across the desk. Her pussy creamed. The feel of her pulsing and contracting around his cock was all that Martin needed. With a guttural “Unh!” he came himself. He blasted hot jism into her like a cannon.
Finally, spent and exhausted, Martin collapsed over Calpurnia’s back. They lay there for a few moments, catching their breath. Martin looked down at Callie’s newspaper article scattered across the desk. “There’s a typo there,” he whispered.
“Mmmmm, that’s nice,” Calpurnia replied. Her eyes were closed.
When they had both cleaned up and straightened their clothes, Calpurnia stuffed the crumpled pages of her article back into her satchel. Martin walked her to the door. She laid a hand on his arm.
“Thank you Martin,” she sighed. “For letting me keep my job.”
Martin opened the door to the outer office and Calpurnia wobbled away. Her leather miniskirt barely covered her asscheeks. The outer office was silent. All four women on staff were looking flushed. Summer was sitting at her desk with her legs pressed together. Joan was toying with a button on the front of her bursting suit jacket. Martin realized then that he had forgotten to turn off the intercom on his desk. He retreated into his office.
A few hours later, Martin was talking on the telephone. “Of course, I’d be happy to go,” he said. “Not a problem. Certainly. Oh, yes, that’s coming along too. We’ll have a report for you very soon.” He rang off. “Prissy, put a notation in my calendar please. I have to attend a gala at the Museum tomorrow.”
Priscilla was perched on the side of the desk. She had her knees crossed to better display her legs. She picked up Martin’s calendar and made a note.
Priscilla had given up pretending to be anything but a decoration. Today she wore a white lace top that was little more than a half-bra with sleeves and lots of ruffles. Her lace miniskirt was so transparent the outline of her white, French-cut panties was clearly visible beneath it. She was wearing loose white boots instead of her usual slides, but the heels were as tall and thin as ever. She had repainted her nails white to match the day’s outfit.
“That would be for the collection that rich bloke donated in his will, wouldn’t it?” Priscilla asked.
“How did you know that?” He looked up from his consideration of her legs. Instead of nylons she was wearing some sort of lace stockings that ended in another burst of ruffles just above the knee. The whole ensemble was wispy, sexy and ultra-feminine.
The office door was open. Martin could hear conversations and telephones ringing in the busy outer office. From time to time a member of his miniskirted staff wiggled by.
Priscilla giggled. Her earrings were strings of white bells that reached her shoulders. “Do you like, read your mail? I brought you the program yesterday.”
She reached into the stack of papers and letters accumulating on Martin’s desk. She pulled out a small brown pamphlet. “The Carlside Collection: Rare Stone Icons” was written across it in gold letters.
“Ah, right, I had been meaning to read that,” Martin said lamely.
He opened the pamphlet. The city museum had received a small but important private collection of little stone ornaments. Some were carved into elaborate figures or religious symbols. Most were naturally shaped. They were all beautiful.
The telephone rang. Priscilla answered it. She toyed with the white necklace below her cascading blonde hair.
Martin paged through the pamphlet. There was a picture of the donor on one page. He was a wealthy man who had passed away recently. Martin recognized him. Carlton Carlside was the well-dressed old man who had been holding hands with a centrefold on the Night of the Babe.
Martin turned a page in the booklet. Some pieces from the collection was displayed. “Finger Stones and Charms” was printed at the top of the page. The fingerstones had small holes in the centre. One was once in the possession of Henry V. The other pieces were variously shaped, but always round and smooth.
Martin reached into his pocket and pulled out his worry stone. It was maybe three inches long, flat and smooth. A shallow depression at one end fit the thumb. It was relaxing to rub his fingers back and forth across it. The stone was black as obsidian.
Martin had always assumed the stone was simply a bit of polished rock. Maybe it was more valuable than he had realized.
Priscilla was still on the telephone, sweet-talking a voter. She idly adjusted a strap on her diaphanous top. If her outfit were any thinner it would be illegal. It was not a warm day.
Martin considered the worry stone. At the end of the election debate, where he had first unveiled his spontaneous plan to protect McGrath Park, Martin had been momentarily surrounded by people. He was still sweating from the stage lights. Most of the audience had only wanted to berate him for the mess Higgins left. He bore it as gracefully as he could. A few actually congratulated him for taking a stand.
The Babe was there. She was breathtakingly sexy in her clingy, short-short dress and levitating platform heels. The white clothing set off her evenly tanned skin. She managed to look, not out of place among the ordinary people around her, but somehow above them all, as if she walked on some higher astral plane where fabulous beauty was the norm.
The crowd thinned. Martin found himself facing the Babe’s elderly companion. “Congratulations, my boy,” the man said, extending a hand. “You did a fine job up there. A fine job. I may not be around to vote for you, but I give you my best. Keep fighting for what you believe.”
Martin took his hand. The man’s grip was firm, but Martin could feel a tremor. The Babe was standing beside him. She smiled and the room temperature went up. She had perhaps the most beautiful breasts Martin had ever seen.
“Th-thank you,” Martin said, suddenly tongue-tied. “I’ll do my best.”
The old man let go of his hand. “Good-bye Mr. Miller,” he said formally. “and good luck.” He walked away, the Babe close beside him. Even receding, she was fabulous. Martin stared.
After a moment, he looked down. The small black worry stone was in his open hand.
“Martin. Marrr-tin. Helllllooo”
Martin looked up. Priscilla was smiling down on him.
“Oh, sorry Prissy, I was daydreaming.” He slipped the worry stone back into his pocket.
“You’re worried about the council meeting next week, aren’t you?”
“Well, a little.”
“Thought so.” She climbed gracefully to her feet. Martin watched as she strutted to the door. She had taken to walking with her hands at her side, bent outward at the wrist. He thought for a moment she was leaving. Instead she closed the door and locked it.
She walked back to his desk. “I know just what you need, honey. I can’t have you, like, you know, getting all tense and worried.” She stopped beside his chair and sank to a crouch.
“Prissy, wait,” Martin protested, as she stalked toward his chair on her hands and knees. “You don’t have to . . . I mean you already . . . this morning . . .”
“I know, I know,” the office manager replied, reaching for his zipper. She giggled prettily. “But like, sometimes, I still want—I mean, you still want, more than that, right? It’s my job to, like, keep you relaxed.” She gently drew Martin’s stiffening shaft out of the fly of his trousers. She stroked it fondly, like it was a pet cat.
Martin hadn’t made any real move to stop her. “Well, if you insist,” he said good-naturedly. He sighed as she took him deep into her throat.
Martin relaxed in his chair while Priscilla went to work. He wondered casually if three blow jobs in one day was indulgent. Angela’s didn’t really count, since she had stopped when he was hard so he could screw her on the carpet. That left two from Prissy. He groaned out loud. She was so good. What the heck, he decided, panting, it was Friday.
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