Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“What we both need,” she said, in a tone that sounded rueful and almost tender, “is a good hard cock inside us. That’s really what this calls for, isn’t it? A man who knows what to do with a girl who’s this wet and this desperate.” Her hand rested on my burning bottom, and I flinched and moaned simultaneously. “But we don’t have that luxury right now. So we’ll have to do the best we can.”
I heard her move away from me. I should have used that moment—those few seconds of separation—to pull up my panties, stand up, and walk out of her office and out of this building and never come back. I should have. I knew I should have. Instead I stayed exactly where I was, bent over the desk with my skirt bunched at my waist, my polka-dot underwear stretched between my thighs, and my paddled bottom blazing in the open air, because the need inside me had become a physical force, a kind of gravity.
I heard a wooden sound: the click and the creak of something opening. A cabinet, maybe. I turned my head, craning my neck to look over my shoulder, and what I saw nearly made me faint.
Penelope had started to undress, as she looked inside a wardrobe in the corner of her office.
She’d already removed her suit jacket and was working the buttons of her ivory blouse with quick, practiced fingers. Beneath it she wore a bra I hadn’t expected—not the sensible nude or white I would have guessed, but a deep, arterial red, lacy and underwired. It cupped her breasts with the frank provocation of a woman who dressed for herself beneath the armor she wore for others.
The blouse dropped to the floor. Her trousers followed—unzipped, briskly stepped out of—and beneath them, a matching red garter belt, its straps taut against her thighs, holding up sheer black stockings that ended in a dark band just above her knees. Red lace panties that she peeled off and set aside on the credenza without ceremony, as if this were simply another task to be completed.
She was beautiful. The thought arrived uninvited and undeniable. At forty-something, Penelope Gallagher had the body of a woman who took exquisite care of herself—lean and firm, with the slight softness at the hips and belly that spoke of maturity rather than neglect. In her red lingerie and stockings, with her chestnut hair still immaculate and her pearls still resting against her collarbone, she looked like something from an obscene parody of an old painting: classical, composed, and incredibly sexual.
Then she reached into the cabinet and withdrew an item that made the blood drain from my face and rush, simultaneously, to the place between my legs.
She pulled out a harness. Black leather, with buckles and adjustable straps, and attached to its front was a phallus—not grotesquely large but substantial, made of some material that looked almost lifelike in the warm light of her office, with a slight upward curve that my body seemed to understand before my mind did. But it was the other piece—the internal attachment, a shorter, curved protrusion that faced inward, clearly designed to fit inside the wearer—that made me understand what was about to happen with a clarity that robbed me of breath.
She was going to put that inside herself. And then she was going to put the other part inside me.
Penelope stepped into the harness. She adjusted the straps at her hips, tightening them with small, expert tugs, and then…
I watched, mesmerized, horrified, burning, as she reached between her own legs and guided the internal piece into herself. Her lips parted slightly as it slid home, and I saw her eyes flutter, just for an instant, before the composure reasserted itself. She settled the harness into place, buckled the final strap, and stood before me in her red garter belt and bra and stockings and pearls, with the phallus jutting from between her thighs like something out of a fever dream I’d never had but had apparently always been waiting to have.
“Turn around,” she said. Her voice had dropped half a register. “Face the wall. Naughty girls don’t get to watch themselves getting fucked.”
I turned around with a whimper of shame. My vision swam. Black spots danced at the edges, and for a moment I genuinely thought I might pass out—not from pain but from the sheer, overwhelming collision of humiliation and terror and need that was happening inside my body. My knees shook. My hands gripped the edge of the desk so hard my fingers ached. I could feel my own arousal running down the inside of my thigh, a slow, damning trickle that proved everything the biometric report had said about me.
I felt her behind me. The warmth of her body, close now, closer than before. The smooth, firm pressure of the phallus against the back of my thigh, then higher, sliding through the wetness that coated me, finding the entrance to my body with a precision that seemed almost mechanical but felt anything but.