Office PartyDecember 6, 2009
The office holiday party is always a really strange experience for me. For one thing, I get to wear clothes – that’s a real novelty, and completely unheard of except for that one time I swapped with Jenny. Tonight i’d chosen slinky black backless dress and a pair of Betsey Johnson party shoes in black and gold.
And then there are the clients, some of who receive our “special services,” but many who do not. And lastly, there are the wives. Who most certainly do not know about the unique perks that keep their husbands happily working overtime.
But it’s a good time nonetheless, and with copious food and wine flowing, if someone grabs the administrative assistant’s ass, well… it’s just a holiday office party and isn’t that practically de rigueur?
This year’s party was in full swing when I decided I needed a break from the action. The cool air of the hallway was a welcome relief from the steamy room filled with alcoholic breath and sweaty hands slipping where they shouldn’t. And once I got down to the executive wing, even the sounds of the party had slipped away.
Which is why I was able to hear her. Some quiet sniffles, a blowing nose, the soft sound of tears held inside but threatening to slip out.
I poked my head into the little conference room, and there was Peterson’s wife, sitting in the high back roller chair at the head of the table, try unsuccessfully not to cry.
I’m really not so good with the gal pal thing, so I quickly turned to leave, only to be betrayed by that damn jingle bell bracelet one of our clients had been passing out as party favors.
“Lyn, is that you?”
I went back into the conference room. “Yes, Mrs. Peterson,” I answered. And then, because it seemed the thing to do, “Is everything okay?”
Well, of course everything was not okay. Turns out she’d caught Mr. Peterson in a clutch with that “hussy” Jenny (i had to stifle a snicker at that), and she was pissed about it.
“I don’t know what he sees in that little tramp,” she said tipsily. “Especially when he’s got *these* waiting for him at home.” And with that, she pulled down the front of her (already low cut) dress to reveal those delightfully perky tits that I’d fantasized about many a time while blowing her husband.
“Very impressive indeed,” I agreed. “But why don’t you put them away and I’ll help you get back to the party?”
She was having none of it. “They’re all natural, you know. Still look as good as they did when I was 20. And they feel fantastic – c’mere Lyn, come see what I mean.”
I looked down the empty hallway, then back at Mrs. Peterson. And then I did just what you’d expect the office slut to do – I went over to other side of the conference table and put my hands on her glorious breasts.
She was right – they did feel fantastic. A generous handful, but not too much. The perfect balance of soft and firm. At first my touch was tentative (I was *trying* to be good!), but when she reached up and put her hand over mine, squeezing them around her breasts, I gave up and just went with it.
Her generous nipples grew hard in my palms, and as her hands released mine, I slid my fingers down to stroke them. Tentatively at first, in case she was going to freak out, but no, she tilted her head back and moaned, clearly enjoying the attention. I couldn’t help but wonder if they tasted as good as the looked, so – throwing caution to the wind – I took one in my mouth.
Her hand on the back of my head, pushing me into her chest, told me that she had no objections to this next step. “Harder,” she moaned. “Suck them hard, Lyn.”
After that, I didn’t worry about any more caution, and didn’t need any more prompting either. After I’d paid her breasts their due attention (and believe me, they really did deserve some attention), I slipped one hand up under her short skirt. Her legs spread eagerly apart for me, and I wasn’t surprised to discover that she wasn’t wearing any panties with her garter belt and stockings. Her cunt was already wet as I slipped one, then two, and finally three fingers inside of her.
Unsatisfied with my position, I slid my fingers out. She groaned in frustration, but as I motioned her up on the conference table she got the picture. On top of the table (where I had been too many times to count) I was able to get my fingers really working inside of her, and to get my mouth down on her clit at the same time.
Sweet, salty, and tangy, her copious juices filled my mouth as I licked her cunt and fingered her. Her moans and panting breath filled my ears, growing faster and more guttural as she reached the edge and then fell over it, her orgasm wetting my hand even more. I paused for only a moment to let her catch her breath, then kept going until she had a second climax, and then a third.
“Enough, enough!” she panted, pushing herself back away my hand, leaving a puddle of cunt juices on the table where she had been.
I gave her a minute to collect herself, and she slowly climbed off the table. I was sad to see her spectacular breasts confined to her bodice once again as she straightened herself out.
She pushed me up against the wall, and leaned in very close to my face. “Thank you, Lyn,” she said, and kissed me tenderly on the lips. Then she darted off, blond hair swinging as she flipped her head back at me from the door. “That’ll show him,” she said, smugly, “that two can play at that game.”
I let her go down the hall, waiting a full two or three minutes before I headed back to the party myself. When I got there, she had just finished downing a glass of champagne and was heading over for a refill. Peterson was on the other side of the room, in the middle of a vigorous debate with the other partners about football or something equally as trivial.
“Peterson,” I said, swinging my hand over his shoulder and resting it on his cheek, “I think your wife’s had a few too many – you might want to take her home.”
He looked at me, with a curious look in his eyes. The look of a man who’s trying to decide if that’s really the smell of his wife’s cunt on the hand resting on his face.
“Thank you, Lyn,” he replied. “I think I will do just that.”