'My little pony,' she whispered, taking hold of his cock and using its tip to circle her slightly sore quim. The red rush of pain she experienced on pushing herself on to it soon abated and she sat down, all the way down, and sighed with satisfaction, crushing her knees into his side as if he really were a horse, bobbing up and down in the saddle until she found her seat. She sat proud, spine straight, chin up, experimenting with all the different ways she could make Phil's cock point and stretch her before beginning the ride at a slow trot. By the time she hit cantering pace, now arched down over Phil, hands on his shoulders, while he fondled her bum cheeks, she had forgotten that Damian even existed. She was near that spot, that angle she needed; she only needed to go a little further, a little faster and then she would be there. She spurred herself on, working hard, using her abdominal muscles to their fullest extent. Now they were headed to the final furlong; she was sweating and so was he; her pussy was beginning to sting and feel raw but the fierce heat that had built up alongside made it more than bearable. She was going to have him, going to take him, going to milk him for all he was worth, oh yes, she put her head down and charged for the finish line and Phil got there with her, exultant in victory, galloping into the breach with yells and screams and a strange clicking sound and a flash of light. Maddie, flattened and exhausted, gathered her breath and peered foggily behind her, where Damian stood proudly beside her camera and tripod.
'I think I've worked it out!' he said in triumph. 'It's good kit, this, isn't it?'
The last two days of the conference are all one merged memory for Maddie now. A memory of heat and steam and dark hair and blond and four arms around her and two cocks inside her. It would seem too insubstantial to be real, if only she didn't have the photographs to prove it.
The Manager #1
In four years, he has looked at me - really looked at me, I mean - about half a dozen times. His attention is as rarely captured as a butterfly in winter, and accordingly highly prized, and it is impossible to predict just what will lure his eye in your direction. Short skirts don't do the trick, and neither do high heels or anything conventionally regarded as sexy. I have pouted my lipglossed smackers a million times, batted my spider lashes, leant forward so the cleavage hits him at optimum angle - all to a reception of bland indifference.
In my first year of working here, I tried to use my body to reel him in. I was looking as streamlined as I ever will, thanks to free membership of the basement gym and health club, and it pleased me to flaunt my newly discovered curves and planes at every opportunity.
My crush on Christopher Chase aka Mr Chase aka Sir had gripped me around the throat very quickly and was still squeezing the breath out of my body three months later. I could not spend longer than a minute in his office without thinking how very large his desk was - the perfect size to lie on top of - and yet also the perfect height to bend over. How clever. Surely he must have chosen it intentionally? Or was it even designed to his specifications? Then his voice would break into the musings:
'Did you even process that, Sophie? The Emir of Oriental Araby? And the Oscar-nominated actress? Expected this afternoon?'
'Oh . . . yes, Sir. It's all in hand.' Just like I wish I was. In your pale and elegant hand. And so my reverie would continue until he dismissed me with a tight lip and creased brow.
Soon enough my infatuation started to interfere with my extracurricular amusements in the bar. There I would be, whispering wanton words into some suit's ear, when Chase would cross the floor and I would forget what I'd been saying and stare after him, stunned, chest burning as if I'd just run a cross-country race.
'Go on. You were saying? You're going to lick my balls until the skin is tight enough to burst . . . then what?'
'Oh . . .' I'd say, abruptly disconnected. 'I dunno. Can't remember. Listen, can you get me another drink?'
Then I would either make an excuse and go home to think about Chase, with the aid of various battery-operated mental aids, or, if Suit of the Day was fanciable enough, I would take him upstairs and use him as a stand-in. Poor chaps – they never realised that it was Chase's mouth on my neck, Chase's hand slipping inside my knickers, Chase's cock pounding me into the headboard. They were usually amused by my orgasmic gasps of 'Oh, Sir, yes, Sir, please, Sir' though. It gave them some food for future fantasy, at least, so I don't feel too guilty about it.
At work, my outfits became progressively less professional. As my body tautened, the clothes tightened, the skirts shortened, the heels heightened, until one day, as I bent over the Reception desk in a black scrap that was little more than a bandeau, Chase passed behind me and snapped, 'Do you think that suitable workwear, Sophie? Cover up.'
Oh, the mortification. Then again, perhaps it was grounds for hope. After all, he noticed me, did he not? Even if the attention was negative, it was attention. Perhaps if I wore the skirt again, he would call me in for an oral warning. Mmm, I could give him an oral warning . . . But on balance, it did not seem worth the risk. Nobody had deliberately flouted one of Chase's orders and got away with it so far; in fact, there had been a veritable bloodbath in the kitchens, with most of the staff replaced in his second week of office.
So I sobered up, threw out my hookerwear and tried to slay him with my understated style, but he remained impervious, in a sexy kind of way, until I formulated my desperate Christmas plan.
I had signed up to work Christmas Day – triple time and I've never liked turkey anyway – knowing that Chase was going to host an evening drinks party for those of us who made it through the festivities intact. This was exciting on a number of levels: it provided further evidence that Chase was a single man, to go with the lack of wedding ring and desk photographs; it furnished my first opportunity to socialise with him; and there was even an outside chance that I might be able to herd him under some mistletoe and share a seasonal snog.
So when eleven o'clock came, after a long day of watching people in paper hats make merry while I brooded behind the desk, I gathered up my bag of tricks and prepared for an appointment with the full-length mirror in the staff toilets.
My hair was still looking good after a session with Suze, the hotel hairdresser, but the rest of me needed rejuvenation. The unforgiving glare of the bathroom lighting showed every blemish and enlarged pore; my eyes were tired and my skirt suit crumpled. I required nothing less than transformation, caterpillar to butterfly style.
Skin primed, brows plucked, hair sprayed, eyebags concealed, lashes lengthened, lips lushened, cheekbones highlighted, I was ready to prepare for my secret weapon; the biggest gun in the night's seduction arsenal. Off came the low-heeled courts, the flesh-tone stockings, the sensible beige skirt and the cream angora sweater until I stood, made-up to kill, in just my bra and knickers.
I glanced at the door. I did not think it likely that anybody else would use this particular loo; it was too out of the way for the kitchen staff and the maids in the basement. I was probably safe.
I unhooked my nude lace bra, admiring the way my breasts now bounced above my ribcage after four months of gym membership. I held my arms out, smiling wolfishly at myself, imagining myself to be a hungry man confronted with this bounty for the first time. It was no wonder they pounced in the way that they did. How could they help themselves?
I chuckled and slipped out of my matching knickers. Yes. No underwear for me tonight. Nothing to ruin the line of my new dress.
I took out a bottle of scented body lotion and applied it generously, over my shoulders, collarbone and breasts, down to my stomach and thighs, bending to reach my lower legs then reaching around behind to slather it over my bottom. I could have done with somebody to sort out my back; where was a predatory male when you needed one?
Once the reachable parts of my body were soft and delicately fragranced, the lotion having thoroughly sunk in, I took out a pot of powder and a puff and began to dab it gently from my knees to my throat, front and back as far as possible. It was important that the dress should glide on with minimal effort; I needed to be faultlessly prepared.
I took one last lingering look at my powdered and painted nakedness, striking a few poses for confidence-building purposes, then I returned to the bag and uncoiled my shiny serpentine secret. How it transformed the light as I held it up, its extraordinary ultra-violetish hue sucking out the harshness and consuming it, making it stronger than ever. If Chase could resist this, then I faced a more serious challenge than I had anticipated.
First of all, I had to relax the lacing that crossed the plunging back of the garment. Somebody would have to tie that back up for me. I had an idea who I might ask. Then I had to step into it and pull, pull, pull for all I was worth while the sheeny cold rubber inched up my slippery thighs. The moment my arms slipped through the holes was one of triumph; a mountain climbed, flag planted in the snow. I was wearing a dress and yet I was wearing nothing. Feeling the sexiest commingling of bare flesh and constricting rubber, I was both held in check and liberated by its tight cling.
I pushed back my shoulders and drank myself in; I was all rises and falls, swelling and nipping, a fascinating glossy terrain that invited exploration and conquest. The shape of my breasts was unmistakable, and should anything . . . exciting . . . happen, it was pretty clear that the outline of my nipples would be clearly visible. From the back, the globes of my rear were pertly delineated; any tighter and the dress would mould itself to my crevices. It would be obvious that I was naked underneath; short of lacquering myself, there was not much more I could do to mimic full nudity.
Two steps to achievement of my goal remained. One – the slipping on of a pair of four-inch black patent heels – was easily done. The second was less so.
The purple laces hung down my back and swished across my bottom as I made an arduous way out of the toilets to Chase's office, which was mercifully close.