Office Visit

Mistress stopped by my office yesterday between meetings in our not quite bustling downtown. I work near the top of a 90’s era office tower. My years of grinding away have earned me a corner office, with nice views overlooking our City and the River that runs past it.

On each side of me are less senior female employees in smaller offices. My assistant is just a few feet out the door, probably surfing the internet or chatting with friends on the phone, until I have the temerity to give her some real work to do.

I usually keep the door open, so my colleagues can feel free to share updates on the work we share, or talk about the latest coaching move for the local college football team. This is a career that has its challenges and fun, but on some days it can seem that the years have passed in a blur with the same clutter in the corner of my spacious confines that was there 10 years ago.

 Mistress’s visits in these last few months have upset that tedium in a profoundly pleasing way.

On this day she walked in unannounced, between her business meetings. She is well known here, and need not wait in the reception area to be announced – what sort of Mistress would held up by a gate-keeper?

She was looking particularly powerful: form fitting black dress ending a few inches above her knees. Long dark hair up for a little more business cred. Black tights to fight off the chilling December air, and black boots almost touching her knees.

She shared some details of her day as I rose to hug her. I closed the door and we kissed tentatively, me concerned about messing up her red lipstick. But she insisted on a “real” kiss, lipstick be damned, so we did as my hands explored her breasts through that black dress. (I guess I should have asked permission?)

I knew she was on a tight schedule, so as we broke the clench, and  I pulled the side chair against the door. My door has no lock, but a chair probably would slow the colleague or assistant who might be inclined to barge in with important news or today’s mail. She sat. I knelt before her, rubbing my face and mouth against the tops of her boots, then  the insides of her thighs, enjoying the friction of my skin against the fabric of her opaque black hose, before pressing my mouth and nose against her divine cunt, already betraying her arousal.

Sometimes Mistress will tie my hands behind me with a brown leather strap we keep in a drawer at the office for such occasions. But not today.

Maybe its time to mention that yesterday, like most work days, I was wearing my cock cage. And, as always, the key was back at home in a secure location. As I kneel there between Mistress’s spread legs, I know there is no point in even considering that Mistress might return the favor until later that evening. So there is an added, frustrating  edge to the service I will be performing, knowing that it is all about Mistress’s pleasure, as it should be.

After gorging myself on the delights of sucking Mistress’s juices through her tights and black panties, she sat up a bit and pulled them down to her boot tops, allowing her just enough  room to spread her firm, toned thighs to accommodate my mouth and tongue.

AS my face buried itself there, my senses took in her full taste and aroma, something that has become increasingly addictive as my submission to her has grown deeper. And my cock strained against the confines of its cage. Ouch.

There are two techniques the slave employees under these circumstances. Tongues and fingers work well in a roundabout path to building Mistress to a slow, powerful orgasm. Sucking on Mistress’s red, swollen and glistening clit is the more direct route, and its what I usually choose in my office, when we can hear my colleagues talking and passing by my door, only feet away. As we build to that moment, Mistress begins to squirm in the chair, her hips thrusting out to meet my mouth, her face reddening, eyes closing. Its always a mystery to me what goes through Mistress’s mind as she comes that way, head gently pushing against the door behind her. And I wonder if my office neighbors can hear her muffled groan or strained breathing, or the beat her head must make against that door,  as she reaches her crescendo.

Afterwards, I settle back onto my butt and rest as she recovers, before she stands to rearrange her disheveled cloths.

She kisses me again. Re-applies smeared lipstick. Shakes off the languor that might otherwise cloud her mind after a compelling sexual experience, and is ready for action again. She has another important business meeting and its time to move on.