6 comments/ 166165 views/ 11 favorites Sharon and George at the Office By: janus6988 George tried to keep his mind on the business at hand, and his eyes on the thick file in front of him on the desk, but every few seconds an irresistible urge would wash over him. He would, in spite of himself, glance to his right at the firm, freckled mound of titflesh that swam into and out of his peripheral vision from the gaping seam of the Director's flawless white blouse as she stood at the edge of the boardroom table and raised and lowered her arms throughout the presentation. Three buttons. Three goddamn buttons. One would have been demure. Two would have been assertive. Three was just thoughtless and cruel – and far more interesting than working capital in a way that made his mouth water. Normally, this late in the day, his eyes would be on the clock. For the last couple of months his eyes had been glued to his Director's breasts. Even when he turned his head towards the numbers on the screen at the foot of the room, he could see, in the corner of his eye, the subtle difference between the cream-colored flesh of Sharon's breast and the bright white of the cotton that covered it. He slowly rotated his chair to the left to avoid the subtle but devastating assault, but the only thing worse than suffering from the image of her small but beautiful right breast was not suffering from it. Just as slowly, he turned his chair to the right once again, in the pretense of watching her gesticulate to emphasize a particularly relevant point. He was rewarded with a mind-numbing display as she finished her portion of the presentation and lowered herself to her chair, reaching behind her five-foot-nothing frame to pull her chair forward. As she reached backward for the arms of the heavy piece of oak and leather, the seam of her blouse parted yet farther, pulling at the fourth button of her blouse, and as she pulled herself forward George noted that the brown, puckered edge of her aureole was visible from under the edge of her lace-edged, beige brassiere. He held his breath to prevent the soft gasp of surprised contentment that had been forming in his throat, and stared openly for a moment, temporarily abandoning propriety. As the focus of the meeting turned to another participant, she turned to George, smiled broadly, and winked conspiratorially. He had lifted his eyes quickly, but blushed furiously and spent the next few minutes wondering whether she had caught his wide-eyed leer at her exposed mammary. The meeting ended just minutes later, and George remained at his seat, pretending to take notes as his coworkers streamed out of the room in their single-file queue, as the soft bulge in his pants slowly began to recede. He didn't know exactly what it was about her, but it had been months since he had thought of any other woman. She was fifteen years his senior, childless and divorced, almost fifty, and didn't attract much attention from the younger of her male peers who spent their time fantasizing about the newest bottle-blonde, silicon enhanced intern in Accounting. She wasn't "prima facie pretty", when she smiled she did so infrequently, and she had shown a willingness to be a profoundly nasty bitch when provoked. Nonetheless, he liked her style. She was direct and sincere. She worked hard and expected those around her to do the same. Sharon was short but physically fit, feisty and energetic, had excellent posture, and her breasts, however small and freckled, made George's mind alternately sweat and shiver in entirely unprofessional appreciation. He spent a moment wondering whether Sharon's south pole was covered in the same rusty brown hair as her north pole, and whether her thighs smelled of fresh soap, before shaking his head and trying to purge himself of all thoughts libidinous. He opened the file on the desk in front of him and began to read random reports to ground his thoughts in reality and away from his manager's boss' hidden assets. Well after the last of his peers – and Sharon, with an inquisitive backwards glance – had left the room, he tamed his latent erection, pushed his chair back, and made his way back to his cubicle. George's immediate manager had left a thick stack of supplier evaluations on his desk during the meeting – tagged with a deadline that would require, if met, the invention of a time machine – and he sank to his chair in quiet resignation. There was no point in complaining. It may have been true, elsewhere, that the "squeaky wheel gets the grease", but at McDougall & Jamieson, the squeaky wheel got replaced with a new, naïve, and usually buxom model who would serve triple duty as purchasing clerk, eye candy, and in some cases boardroom table duster for one of the senior managers. This late on a Friday, most of his coworkers had already fled to begin their weekends. With no special plans, he decided it was in his best interests to get some work done before heading home to his cat. He picked up the first vendor evaluation, propped it up on his sheet holder, and tapped the space bar on his computer to summon the infernal machine from its temporary slumber. A meeting request was waiting for him, blinking centre screen – from Sharon. The meeting title was ambiguous – "Review COE". The meeting description was more ominous. "My office, please, at your earliest convenience. Bring your signed copy of M&J Code of Ethics." George blushed furiously. Evidently his boardroom leer had been noticed. He wondered what the appropriate performance management response was to catching one of your employees drooling as he openly stared at your right breast. Evidently, he was about to find out. He clicked his mouse to accept the meeting and leaned back in his chair, inhaling deeply and quickly before exhaling slowly to brace himself for the inevitable. He pushed his chair back, opened the large filing cabinet in the corner of his office, snagged the file labeled "HR BS", and quick-stepped the thirty paces between his own office and hers. The door was open, but she was in conversation with a member of the human resources team. Sharon held up a finger in his direction to hold him outside the threshold of the door while she finished her conversation. George waited patiently, transferring his weight from one foot to the other every few seconds and tapping his thumb on the ridge of the red folder in his right hand, until she motioned him into her office. The human resources clerk left quickly, with barely a nod of recognition for George before he hurried out of the office to begin his own weekend. George felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he took a seat at the round table in Sharon's office and put the file on the table in front of him. Sharon smiled professionally at George for a moment before excusing herself for a moment, turning to her computer, and tapping out a quick note. George, always curious, glanced at the monitor but the new polarized privacy screens the management team had installed on their computers did their job very, very well, and George was forced to wait, curiosity and fear slowly growing, while she typed her missive and sent it into the digital world outside her door. George hoped sincerely it wasn't a note to Security to clean out his desk. While he waited, in spite of his situation, he admired the curve of her neck and the freckles that sprinkled themselves liberally down the line of her jaw before they disappeared under the collar of her blouse. For an idle moment he wondered how far down they ran. Did she have freckles on her breasts? Perhaps on her stomach? And if they extended that far down her lithe, tiny frame, would he find a random sprinkle of tiny brown dots on her luscious, heart shaped... he shook his head in disbelief. He was about to get fired, and he was still fantasizing about her. She finished her note and turned towards the door, standing and closing it before flicking a switch on the doorjamb. The glass in the door frosted instantly as an electric current flickered through it. She turned back to her chair, reclaimed her leather throne, and pulled herself forward to the table. She flicked her eyes in the direction of the glass and grinned. "I had to ask for better glass after they put Barry across the hall." George mustered a grin, and understood her instantly. Barry was deaf, a masterful lip reader, and hadn't yet left the office. Glass would offer no protection or guarantee of confidentiality as long as he was within line of sight. In light of the knowledge that the conversation was going to one that required confidentiality, George was even more concerned. Sharon looked at the file on the desk between them, lifted an eyebrow, and reached forward with a lifted eyebrow. She paused before taking the file, making eye contact with George until he nodded. She slid the file across the table and over the rounded edge before flipping it up and looking at the file label. George blushed yet again. She smiled, lifted another eyebrow, and looked up at George. "HR I understand. What does the 'BS' stand for?" She didn't wait for an answer. She opened the file, quickly found the document she needed, turned to the signature page, and placed the document on the table between them. "This is the company Code of Ethics. Have you read the entire document?" He nodded without speaking. "And is that your signature?" He nodded again, without looking, irritated by the very nature of the question. "Then I think we may have a problem that you and I need to discuss. Have you reviewed the Sexual Harassment section?" Believing that honesty was better than deception at this point, George shook his head in the negative. "Then you haven't read the entire document, have you? I have my own copy. Let's take a look at it together. It's on page six." She summoned her copy from her own portfolio, and opened it to a dog-eared page, waiting while he found the section in his own signed copy. "Can you please read the company's definition of sexual harassment?" He looked up at her, wondering whether she was being condescending or serious. The look she gave him made it clear she was serious. He turned back to the document and read the section she had indicated. "Sexual harassment is any form of undesired interaction, actual or implied, that causes a member of the McDougall & Jamieson team, or its suppliers or customers, to become uncomfortable about his or her gender or sexual orientation while in the workplace." When he had finished, he looked up at her and waited. She looked up from her own copy, met his gaze until he looked away, then spoke. "George, sexual harassment isn't about rank. I'd like to discuss this as equals and peers. If there is something that is making either of us uncomfortable, we should really get it out in the open, shouldn't we? And we can't discuss this as equals if you won't look at me." Surprised and curious, George lifted his eyes from their random strafing pattern in the wood grain of the table, and honored her request. He looked at her, making every effort not to look at her cleavage, and he was rewarded with an honest and friendly smile. He mustered a weak grin in response, and sat up a bit straighter in his chair. "Good." She waited for a moment or two before continuing. "George, I've often found that it's easier to deal with uncomfortable issues if people speak in hypothetical terms. Would you be willing to try that?" Again, George searched for condescension and found none. He mustered a stronger grin, and did his best to lighten the mood. "Hypothetically speaking, yes." It was weak, but it was an obvious effort. He was rewarded with a slightly warmer smile. "Good. So why do you think, hypothetically speaking, we're in my office today?" She steepled her fingers under her chin and waited for George to provide a hypothetical answer. He thought for a long moment, blushing, and responded. "It's possible that one of us has done something to make the other person feel uncomfortable about sex or sexual orientation." She frowned, and he knew it wasn't the answer she had been searching for. "Okay. That may be true. But I find it interesting that you would replace the word 'gender' in the policy with the word 'sex'." She looked at him without judgement and waited for a response. He had none to provide, so she went on. "That's actually very perceptive. The company worded it that way because they wanted to avoid the word 'sex' in and of itself without a prefix or suffix. This really isn't about gender, you know. This policy is really about sex and sexual orientation." She waited once again for a response, and found none. "George, I don't mean to offend you with this question, but are you gay?" His jaw quite literally dropped. The question didn't make him uncomfortable, but the fact that it came from a manager two tiers above his pay grade, and was asked in such a casual fashion, was almost beyond belief. After a few seconds he retrieved his lower lip, closed his open mouth, and regained his composure. "No, I like women." He blushed and looked once more for answers in the swirling grain of the birds-eye maple of the desk. "Because if you were gay, and I caught you staring at my breasts in the middle of an important presentation, I could safely assume you were looking at my blouse and not my tits. Are you sure you're not gay? Whether you're gay or not may be related to whether I feel uncomfortable or not." George saw the brightly painted escape route she was leading him to, but his pride wouldn't let him use it. He spoke again, albeit it softly. "Given the consequences, I wish I was gay, but I'm not. I like women." "It might be more accurate, under the circumstances, to say you like breasts." She was clearly mocking him, however gently, and it burned. He lifted his eyes, met her confident gaze with one of his own, and corrected her firmly without regard for her position. "No, that would not be more accurate. I like women." The sudden steel in his voice had little impact on her. She smiled, obviously comfortable in conflict, and went on. "I would challenge you to draw the distinction, sir." The honorific was accompanied by a slight slur of contempt that drew him out of his shell even further. She was pitching fastballs, and he intended to respond in kind. Without raising his voice, he stepped up to the plate and swung. "The difference is obvious to anyone who cares to see it, Sharon. A man who likes breasts looks at women without pause and only craves their breasts, where a man who likes a woman may look at her breasts without pause but he only craves the woman." The statement itself was the epitome of clarity. Only after it was made did George question the wisdom of unintentionally making his situation so clear to a woman who was obviously no fool. In as little time as it had taken to make the statement, he saw that she had parsed it. He saw the beginnings of a smile, and the sudden appearance of subtle laugh lines in the corners of her bright brown eyes as she appreciated both the structural complexity of the sentence, and the philosophical clarity of the meme. She had obviously underestimated him, and the knowledge pleased her. Sharon paused while she stifled a grin, regained her composure, and looked over at him with unreserved sincerity. "Well spoken. Point taken. You like women. Please accept my apologies for a statement that was as unprofessional as it was inaccurate." George nodded his acceptance of her apology and waited for her to guide the conversation to its next logical step – a step that he was certain would involve censure, given his tacit admission he had been staring at her breasts, his awkward confession of his emotional attraction, and his open insubordination. She went on. "The hypothetical question remains. Is someone uncomfortable, and what caused their discomfort?" She looked at him across the desk and waited for him to respond. He looked at her and realized that she still had three buttons undone on her blouse. Frustrated now more than afraid, he felt something begin to wake, and he began to assert himself. "Have I done something specific to make you uncomfortable about your sex or sexual orientation, Sharon?" She looked at him closely before answering, searching for any sign that could be interpreted as patronizing, and finding none. She answered honestly. "I thought that you had. Now I'm uncertain." "Clarify." She pursed her lips slightly, aware that the brevity of his request redefined their conversation and realigned the dynamic of their communication. It implied that she was accountable to him. And, in truth, she was. Honesty once again. "For some weeks I've been aware of your performance in the office. You're productive and efficient, and there is opportunity in the organization for those who excel. When I noticed your attention to my breasts in the boardroom I was disappointed in your lack of self-control. In the moment I saw you as unfit for promotion." "And now?" "As you have stated, you enjoy women, not breasts. Your distraction in the boardroom became less... disappointing." "Inaccurate once again." His brevity began to frustrate her. "Clarify." "You have quite outstanding breasts." She flushed, and resented him for it. "Then you, sir, are a liar." "Not so. Your breasts are indeed outstanding. You, however, are more so." She flushed on hearing it, inhaled sharply in surprise, and began to love him for it. She felt the flush travel down her neck to her chest, and felt her nipples tighten. Oh, how she had underestimated him! And oh, how pleasant a surprise that error was! And oh, how unfortunate the only position she could recommend him for was a more senior one with the firm. She was, quite suddenly and inappropriately, seeing him in a much different position – using his penetrating mind, or an accessory attached to it, to guide her organization to new and unexpected profits, while firmly ensconced in a plush, warm office that had been empty for much longer than she would have preferred. She banished the brief and inappropriate fantasy and pushed her chair back from the table. "My apologies once again, George. You are as charming as you are proficient. Thank you for coming." She stood up and took two steps towards the door before George spoke. "Very welcome, Sharon, but the Sexual Harassment policy is designed to protect men as well as women." She stopped, both curious and incredulous, and turned to the desk before reaching the door. What could he possibly mean by that statement? She felt, in her momentary confusion, that he might better answer the question than she. "What could you possibly mean by that statement?" She stared at him with open and sincere confusion. "There is a possibility that I've been a victim and that I may seek redress." He smiled briefly, and his smile was momentarily infuriating. Her voice rose slightly as she spoke. "How could I have made you feel uncomfortable, George? It was you looking at my tits, not the other way around!" He lifted his eyebrows at the obvious error. "Dammit, you know what I mean! How the hell can you be a victim in any of this?" She stood by the edge of the table now, leaning forward over his seated form, and realized with more than a small degree of surprise, that he had utterly failed to meet her eyes, and that he was staring directly into her cleavage. She took two outraged steps backward and blushed once again, covering the exposed triangle of cleavage and neck with both hands. "How dare you!" She stood, panting in enraged disbelief. He sat calmly in his chair, looking at her with mild contempt and finally raising his voice in return. "I dare because you do! I dare to look because you dare to undo three goddamn buttons on a blouse that should be buttoned to the goddamn neck! I dare because I have enough goddamn trouble working in the same office as you without the sight of your tits playing havoc with my head! What the fuck are you thinking, woman?" His contempt enraged her even more than his indiscretion and, desperate for a way to discredit him, she picked the first thought that came to mind and threw it at him. Sharon and George at the Office "What the fuck am I thinking? What the fuck are YOU thinking, George? You're thirty-fucking-four years old and I'm forty-nine. What the fuck are you doing looking at my tits when you should be looking at women your own age?" He refused to pursue the argument, knowing it was futile. Lifting his right hand from the desk, he pointed a finger at her. "Button that goddamn blouse up, Sharon, or I swear I'll do it for you." She felt suddenly threatened, quite rightfully so by his tone and posture, and took a step back before recovering her composure. "You take one step and you're fired, you arrogant ass!" She knew that what had escalated to yelling might attract attention, and she was so angry she no longer cared. He continued to point at her in warning, and in sudden defiance she lifted her fingers and unbuttoned the fourth button, pulling the fabric of her blouse to each side until the underwire of her bra was clearly exposed. He shook his finger at her in an unbelievably patronizing motion that infuriated her even further, and spoke with gentle but uncompromising urgency. "Sharon, I'm not going to warn you again. I love you but you dress like a whore in the office, and I won't have it anymore. You button that goddamn blouse up right now or so help me I'll rip it off you and make you parade around her topless!" She gasped in astonishment – at his admission and his unbelievably arrogance. She felt a small part of herself go limp and soft with utter contentment, but her spine was still made of cast-iron and, even as her lovely jaw dropped open in astonishment, the pattern of her defiance carried her over the edge. In a slow-motion moment of detached analysis within a storm of rage and contentment, she lifted her fingers, grasped the tiny plastic circle of the fifth button of her blouse, and slipped it through the circle of fabric in her blouse that had contained it. She felt a moment of release as the button slipped free before she grasped the seams of her blouse and flared them open to reveal the clean, freckled expanse of soft flesh above her stomach. The upper seams of her blouse opened even farther, and she noted, with aloof approval, that her brassiere-braced breasts were now clearly visible. She had only begun to raise her eyes from her buttons and brassiere to assess the impact of her defiance on George, when she noticed, with continued detachment, that he was no longer seated at the table but had launched himself from his chair and was halfway around the curve of the table as he stepped towards her. Panic overcame detachment, and she began to gather her breath to scream as he reached for her with a look of furious purpose. Well before her lungs had filled, George's fingers closed on the fabric of her blouse, and with a strength that astonished her he pulled the fabric apart. The two remaining buttons flew from their stitched moorings, and Sharon realized that her chest and stomach were completely exposed. Forgetting her intended scream for a moment, she reached forward to cover herself. Following the motion of her body and choosing a maneuver perfected during a series of memorable hockey fights, George stepped forward so his arms were outside and behind her, lifted the fabric of the blouse from its tucked position in her skirt, pulled the fabric up and over her head, and yanked it forward while stepping backward. So concerned was Sharon with covering her chest and stomach that she didn't know what was happening until the blouse had completely cleared her head – until George yanked the blouse down past her astonished eyes and pulled it towards him fiercely, slipping it down her arms, past her elbows, and in a moment too quick for her to react, over and past her grasping, desperate fingers. The blouse fluttered to the floor, and she stood, topless save her brassiere, shocked and speechless, in front of him. He realized, with satisfaction, that her generous sprinkling of freckles did, indeed, flow past her breasts and stomach to vanish under the hem of her skirt. She realized, with a rage so complete it was cold, that she wanted to kill him. The lungful of air she had been reserving for a scream was quickly sublimated into a different outlet. An extraordinary kiai burst from her throat as she launched her open right hand at his left cheek. Her sudden burst of motion proscribed any defense, and the blow rocked his head sideways. Right ear ringing, cheek stinging, he turned his head back to face her. Reaching forward slowly with his right hand, but in a direction so forbidden as to be completely unpredictable and indefensible, he inserted three fingers between the brassieres' underwire and her skin, pulled upward until he could hook the strong wire in his fingers, curled his fingers to lock them in place, and tugged mightily. Sharon felt, more than heard, a "pop" from the clasp between her shoulder blades, and began to blush even as pulled the expensive, now useless material away from her body. Her first instinct was to turn away and hide her breasts. Her second, more powerful instinct was to make him pay in spades for his offense. The shoulder straps had only begun to slide down her arms when she stepped back, pulled her arms out of the straps in a motion that shamelessly exposed her breasts, and pulled her right hand back once more to strike him. She balled her fingers into a tight fist, turned at her hip and tucked her thumb beside her fingers instead of inside her fist like her brothers had taught her years before, and launched her closed fist at his nose. His left hand flew up from the scrap of fabric with a speed that amazed her, sweeping aside and brushing her fist up and to the left, where it punched thin air beside his ear. He turned his hand at the last moment and caught her wrist, holding it above his shoulder. Her hips had turned to a perfect punching position from the left, and she let fly at him again, too angry to realize that what he had done once he could do twice. Again he deflected her fist and she quickly realized that she was momentarily trapped as he held her arms above his powerful shoulders. She tried to pull away and he held her in place, not once looking down to admire her completely exposed breasts and nipples, but staring straight into her eyes with a gentle contempt she found infuriating. She lifted her left knee to crush his testicles, but he lifted his right leg and she succeeded only in bruising her knee on his broad, thick shinbone. She used all of the strength in her arms in a futile attempt to escape his grasp, and only then – as her breasts jostled and shook in a motion that would have brought an erection to a dead man – did George momentarily glance down as they swayed and jiggled beneath him. Sharon gasped as she noticed his eyes descend to her tits, and hunched her shoulders forward in an effort to hide her bouncing, freckled breasts. She felt her nipples tighten, and suddenly felt very, very vulnerable. He looked up at her, and his eyes were, quite suddenly, filled with almost frightening purpose. She did the only thing she could think of. She spat directly in his face. And then she froze, frightened at her own stupidity. He paused for a moment, clear warm saliva dribbling down his cheeks and nose. He opened his eyes, a drop of spit clinging to his left eyelid, and looked down at her in detached reproof as he decided to either be angry or amused. Sharon stood motionless in his grip, and he spent more seconds than she cared to count simply looking at her before he moved. And when he did finally move, it was in a way so unexpected as to be almost incomprehensible. He opened his lips, pressed his tongue between his white, sharp teeth, and licked her spit from his upper lip into his own mouth, all the while pinning her wrists into the air above his shoulders, and staring into her big, bright, brown eyes. For reasons she couldn't attempt to quantify that had nothing to do with her office thermostat, she began to shiver uncontrollably. And for reasons she had no interest in qualifying and that had everything to do with her internal thermostat, she began to feel very, very warm. Quite quickly, between the shivering and the warm glow just under her bellybutton, she quickly realized that she didn't want to kill him. Farthest thing from it. She just wanted, very very badly, and in a very immediate sense, to fuck him. And the knowledge brought a cathartic clarity that both relieved and thrilled her. In spite of their position as employer and employee, in spite of their rather public location in her tiny corner office, and in spite of the fact that he had torn her clothing bodily from her in clear contravention of the corporate code of ethics which lay strewn on the desk – which, while failing to mention unsolicited garment-ripping specifically, certainly went to great lengths to speak to the subject generally – she intended to fuck him until he could no longer walk. And although her intentions, if acted upon, also clearly violated the McDougall & Jamieson Code of Ethics, she fully intended to offer such valuable advance recompense for her corporate crime that the potential complainant could only hope that the offender was an incorrigible recidivist. After he had seen to her urgent and immediate needs, she would offer him a well lubricated transfer into whichever one of her personal departments he felt would best sustain his enthusiasm and personal growth – or all of her departments, in appropriate sequence, if he so desired – until he found a position that maximized his potential, in which he could drive the organization relentlessly forward into new territory, convert his (hopefully) sizeable stock options into fluid assets, and pump them purposefully, when the market was in a frenzy (which seemed, unfortunately, to happen only every decade or so in her experience), into a nice, warm, soft, wet retirement package. A bit of career pathing never hurt anyone. She pressed herself forward, certain that in moments her lips would be on his and her painfully erect nipples would be pressed against his shirt, at which point he would do the honorable thing and quickly remove his pants – but her effort produced no results. George still had her wrists securely gripped with his fingers, and had, evidently, forgotten to release her wrists. She stood upright, lifted her head and made purposeful eye contact with him, pressing her shoulders back until the unmistakable promise of her small but gorgeous breasts was presented to him, and began to pull George gently toward her. She began to close her eyes in the knowledge that in just seconds his arms would be around her and his lips would be on her throat. But they weren't. George took one small step forward before bracing himself and preventing the motion from fulfilling her fantasy. Sharon's eyes flew open, frustrated and confused. Was the man too stupid to recognize the invitation? And the tight grip on her wrists was beginning to stop the circulation to her fingers. She could feel the thumb of her right hand, held firmly beside his left ear, begin to tingle from the lack of fresh blood. She shook her arms gently, inviting him to surrender his grip and release her. And he declined the invitation. He stood in front of her, and almost over her, completely impassive. He looked at her as if he was reviewing more working capital numbers. His look was measured, purposeful, and determined. She felt, in the moment, more transparent and insignificant than she had felt in years. And it made her very, very angry. She shook her arms again, grunting with the effort, and – as spittle rolled down his cheeks – he looked down at her breasts again, this time openly and without pretense or hesitation, fascinated and aroused as he watched them bounce and sway as she fought to free herself. She watched him as he looked at her. She felt ashamed by his rejection, violated by the arousal in has face, and enraged by the ease with which he had her imprisoned in her own office. So she used what tools remained to her, and spit in his face again. This time, he didn't move to lick it from his face. He lifted his head, and his eyes held something colder and more alien than reproof. And she was, quite suddenly and quite instinctively, very, very still. Her breath caught in her chest and she stopped fighting. After a moment her breasts stopped their hypnotic dance on her chest, and the only motion from her was the slight, involuntary twitch of her heartbeat in her throat as he looked down at her. A memory sprang to mind, unbidden but still vibrant from the heart of her childhood. Visiting the mountains. Playing in the backyard of an uncle. An almost inaudible sound behind her. A quick turn, and a moment of utter fascination and instinctive, paralyzed fear as two hundred pounds of cougar slid from the forest edge not eight feet from her tiny, chubby feet. A million unforgettable moments later, the cougar had licked its lips, yawned, and turned back to the woods in search of more suitable game. Even as a seven year old who had never seen a cougar she knew it is a lethal predator. Even as a seven year old who had known little but concrete and smog, she knew that it could have taken her in its teeth, pulled her effortlessly into the woods in silence, and consumed her entirely. Not since that time had she felt so measured. So powerless, so fascinated, and so paralyzed. Not since that time had she had a truly unforgettable moment. The memory retreated as quickly as it had asserted itself, and George's impassive, measuring gaze was waiting for her. She found herself wondering, with curious detachment, whether she would survive this encounter. She hadn't been so close to the cougar that she could feel the bodily heat of it, and she hadn't been so stupid as to spit, twice, in its face – and now something equally predatory stared at her now from where George's gray eyes had been just a moment before. For a moment she considered screaming, but she knew before even beginning – with a euphoric burst of understanding that left her knees quivering and her heart pounding – that, given the options, today she would prefer to be dragged into the woods by her throat and eaten. There were worse things. There was the alternative – the possibility, becoming more real with every year – that she would never have the satisfaction of feeling a predator's teeth sink into her throat, and never suffer the gloriously painful contentment of being consumed by something powerful, and primal, and greater than herself – like the something that stared down at her now. And so she stood, passive and content under his gaze, as he considered his options. As he saw her relax in his grip and accept her fate, whatever it might be, he relaxed his grip on her wrists. The rush of warm blood to her fingers was like needles, but still she didn't move or flinch. She breathed shallowly and waited for him – chin up, taut nipples perched on crinkled brown aureoles, and met his stare without challenge or resistance. He felt her acceptance, and released her hands completely. Instead of lowering her hands to her sides or covering her breasts, she lowered them mere inches and rested them on his broad shoulders, resting the tips of her thumbs just above his shirt collar on the bare skin of neck. And, slowly but visibly, the cold thing in his eyes went back to sleep. When it had completely retreated, leaving them alone, she lifted herself slowly on her tiptoes, bringing her head almost level to his, and leaned forward to kiss him. She felt herself panting shallowly in anticipation, and realized she hadn't been so excited since her first date in high school. She felt him shiver as her lips brushed his, and heard a soft gasp from him that made her thighs quiver. No tongues were exchanged – just a brush of dry, chapped lips that was purer than fresh snow. Sharon drew back one mere inch from his face, still on tiptoe, and relished the heat of his face on hers. She felt his breath on her mouth – could feel the heat that his lungs had imparted to the air as she drew it into her throat. And for a moment the only sound in the office was the ragged gestalt of their breath as they waited, face to face and only inches from one another, for something to happen – anything to happen – that would give them the momentum to kiss a second time. The computer chirped once – an incoming email alert – and they both smiled at the digital intrusion. Their brief, sincere smiles were the only catalyst they needed. Bodily separated by mere inches, Sharon lifted her chin, parted her lips, and closed her eyes with a soft gasp of permission as George licked his lips, tilted his head, and bent his neck towards her. She pressed herself upward with her toes when she felt the heat of his lips on her mouth, and they bumped awkwardly in their enthusiasm before finding a middle ground and consummating their kiss with gently parted lips, tongues making soft acquaintance between eager alto sighs and an almost inaudible tenor moan that made Sharon's nipples so taut they hurt. Her hands remained at his collar, but her thumbs began to softly stroke the skin of his neck. George lifted his hands from his sides and they paused as he freed a sliver of his mind from her soft, sweet lips and considered their destination. Hips? Breasts? A destination came to mind, accompanied by a sense of rightness, and he once again concentrated fully on Sharon's soft, wet lips and the tiny, eager sighs that slipped from her smooth, freckled throat. Sharon felt his body move, and knew he was raising his arms. A portion of her wondered if he would go for her tits first. Most men did. The greater part of her didn't care. She liked him, and she was going to fuck him. But she truly hoped that he wasn't like most men. And when his fingertips landed softly on the soft skin of her back, just under her shoulder blades, and when he gently pulled her forward until her painfully erect nipples were crushed quite delightfully to his soft shirt by the warm swell of her own breasts, she felt a warm wave sweep through her abdomen. She whimpered softly in gratitude and encouragement as he kissed her, and for a moment lost track of both time and self as she dissolved. She was brought back to full awareness by motion in their hips and wondered if he had pressed his thighs up against her, before realizing that it was she who was slowly but involuntarily rubbing her stomach against the rapidly expanding mass in his slacks. He had remained motionless, save the evidence of his growing erection and the subtle caress of his fingers on her back where they had begun gently scribing patterns in the sensitive skin over her spine. On every stroke, his fingers would climb to the nape of her neck. And not one long caress had descended, even tentatively, past the hem of her skirt where the soft crease of her asscheeks would be so tempting a target for a fingertip. She felt a quiver of honest respect and affection in her chest, and a warm rush in her thighs that she knew would quickly betray her eager condition as the gentle contractions in her abdomen pressed the aromatic sap from her body to stain her slip and fill the room with the unmistakable scent of a woman in need. She hoped that George would need no overt encouragement, when the scent of her eager thighs reached into his mind, to make the change from being a gentleman to a man. George needed no such counsel. All professional evidence to the contrary, he was not passive by nature. His passivity was maintained only by great personal effort and the need for stable employment. His nature was, in fact, aggressive. And the only thing that stayed him from tearing the remainder of her clothing from her, inverting her on her office table, and quickly filling her with semen was the knowledge that his own pleasure would be greatly enhanced if it was preceded by hers – not only would his personal pleasure be enhanced psychologically, but the gorgeous, intelligent, soulful creature who he had admired and even loved for months would, if he served her well and was an attentive lover, offer him her body and soul to please him. He was, at heart, a man of simple pleasures. And no pleasure was simpler or greater than feeling his testicles empty themselves in the warm, wet, hungry vagina of a woman who so desperately craved his sperm that she begged him for it. His function, then, was to make her crave it – not by conquering her or by using her ill, but by serving her well and truly. And serve her he would. She would tell him when she wanted, and he would deliver it to her. Sharon and George at the Office And she was certainly telling him. The air had become thick with the smell of her, and he knew that her thighs would already by slick with her own lubricant. Her breath had become insistent and demanding, and he felt her begin to change the soft rotation of her stomach on his thighs into a subtle, gentle thrust of her stomach and hips into his hips and upper thighs. His cock began to complain about the size and shape of its kennel, and began to stretch painfully to the left, leaving a round horizontal ridge in his slacks as it grew. She felt the tube of flesh in his pants and pressed her lower stomach against it, standing on tiptoe and trying to move her thighs up against it. Her hands had moved to the back of his head, and she lowered them to his neck before pulling herself upward a fraction of an inch, trying to move her gently thrusting thighs closer to the covered pipe of cock she sensed just maddening inches away from her own clenching abdomen. He knew that she was encouraging him – hell, almost directing him – to get on with the act. And he knew that she would enjoy it immensely. But satisfying her urges so quickly would only come at the cost of her contentment later. She would lie awake in her bed, wondering what she had done, and wondering what she should do. George resolved that, once he was done with her, Sharon would sleep well, knowing exactly what she had done, and exactly what she should do. And so he moved his strong hands from where they were gently caressing her back, sliding them down her spine until his fingertips ticked the hem of her skirt. She trembled violently, hoping in the moment he would grasp the zipper clasp and lower it, but his hands parted and moved to her hips, where they applied gentle but irresistible pressure that forced her down from her toes to the flat of her feet, and stilled her gently bucking hips. Sharon whimpered in frustration. Goddamnit what was he doing? Why wasn't she already naked? And why wasn't he? For that matter, who needed naked? Why hadn't he reached up under her skirt and slip, yanked off her panties, unzipped his fly, let loose the sizeable pipe of cock in his pants, and laid her out on the table before slipping his penis into her and pumping her for all that he was worth? She liked him, but right now all she wanted was cock. Where was the cock? The word reverberated in her mind like it had been spoken down an oral wall of mirrors, deafening her to anything else. She took her hands from his neck and moved them to his waist, tugging at his belt. He brushed her hands away and maintained their gentle kiss. Frustrated, and becoming more desperate by the minute, she broke their kiss, moved her body back from his, and lowered her head to look at his groin. The sight of the horizontal bat of flesh in his slacks made her mouth water, and she felt her vagina clench in both appreciation and anticipation. Everything outside the image of George's thighs vanished. Goddamnit, she needed some cock. She reached for his belt with both hands, and had just popped the buckle free when the sky fell, the world went fuzzy, and she heard someone screaming. And it was she. To stop her from unbuckling his belt, George had lifted his hands from her waist, rotated them so his fingers pointed up towards her chin, and purposefully pinched her delicate nipples – hard – with two fingers of each hand while caressing her naked breasts with his remaining fingers and thumbs. It was like being electrocuted by lust, and as she momentarily lost her mind and found her voice, she dropped his belt and covered his hands with her own. He pressed his palms into her breasts and twisted gently, bringing another but softer scream from Sharon as she lifted her head and tried to catch her breath. She felt every muscle in her stomach clench, and felt a burst of fluid in her thighs as her cunt clenched like a vice and spent its lubricant in her panties. As the last of the pinch-induced surge washed through her, she felt a trickle run down her bare right thigh and settle in her shoe. And although she still very much wanted George's, she was, for the moment, once again in the driver's seat of her own mind. She gripped his hands firmly, and lifted them from her nipples. Seeing her newfound control, he relented. She looked up at him. "That was... interesting." "My apologies." "Why didn't you just fuck me?" "It might be accurate, under the circumstances, to say you like cock." Sharon thought about the statement for a moment, recalled their earlier conversation, and understood. "You want to know if I like the cock or the man." George nodded in encouragement. "Yes. That, and I don't take advantage of women when they're impaired." "You want this to be a conscious choice, not a hormone inspired one." "Yes." Sharon thought for a long moment, then – topless but without shame – sat and slouched in her leather office chair. George stood, erection slowly receding, and leaned backward on the office table, also without attempting to cover the mass of flesh in his slacks. "George, I don't know you well. But every time I watch you choose a course of action, or hear your reason for a decision, or follow the pattern of your argument, I feel affection and respect for you." He nodded, almost grimly, and waited for her to continue. "And you have to know that I have never fucked, or made love to, or had intercourse with, a man that I didn't respect." George nodded again, and waited for her to continue. When she didn't, he shrugged and spoke. "So do you like the cock or the man?" "Ten minutes ago, just after you ripped my blouse off, it was more the cock than the man. Now it's more the man than the cock. I wouldn't be nearly as content continuing this conversation as I would be fucking you, but I would rather continue the conversation and not fuck, than not be around you at all." She looked at him for a few moments, trying to assess his state of mind, before asking him directly. "But George, are you going to make me choose?" He grinned broadly in response. "Hell no. One comes along with the other. I just needed to know that you knew that too." He chuckled, and she laughed openly – a gentle, bell like sound George had never heard before. After their laugh, however, the room was silent. Sharon looked at him and shrugged. "So what now? Two minutes ago we were ready and willing to fuck – or at least I was. How do we get that back?" He looked at her and smiled gently. "Now you make a conscious choice." She thought about it, and grinned sincerely and broadly. She stood up from her office chair and stood, bare breasted and boldly in the middle of the room, lifting her hands to her head to accentuate her breasts, catching his eyes, and posing coquettishly before speaking coyly, but softly and purposefully. "I like you, George. I like you very much." "I like you more than you like me." She shrugged her shoulders openly, making her breasts jiggle both unintentionally and attractively, and turned to face him fully. "I'm willing to work on that." George nodded his agreement and smiled broadly. Sharon stepped to one side and pulled her leather office chair forward, past the table, and motioned for George to take a seat. He did, leaning backward in the umber-comfortable chair, and grinning before putting his feet up on the table. "Lap of luxury, huh?" Sharon grinned again, shook her head gently in the negative, slapped his feet off the maple desk, and pointed towards her own thighs while walking to the centre of the small office and swaying her hips sensually. "No sir. That's just a nice chair. Here is a real lap of luxury." And with that brief innuendo, she began to strip. It was a matter-of-fact removal of clothing, not much different than if she was alone in her own bedroom. Reaching her arms behind her back, she found the clasp of her skirt and unhooked it, letting it drop almost to the floor, where she caught it with her right calf and lifted it to her right hand before stepping out of it, folding it, and placing it neatly on her desk. The slip followed suit, essentially another thin and translucent skirt, and it quickly joined its mate on the bureau. The casual and completely conscious nature of the event was having a marked impact on George, who was watching with both appreciation and anticipation as more and more of her body was exposed in such a fashion as to bring the quiescent mass of flesh in his pants back to semi-turgid life. He leaned backward as he enjoyed the non-event and gave his penis the room it needed to expand without discomfort. Sharon watched him as she turned back from the desk, clad now only in basic white cotton panties that were wet with her own nectar and plastered to her skin, but her eyes didn't flicker once to the former object of her obsession. She paused for a moment, and turned slowly in front of George to let him see every inch of her, save what was hidden under the thin strip of cloth that covered the last few square inches of her thighs and ass. The smell of her, washing from her damp panties in wave after wave of heady mush as she slowly pirouetted in front of him, was almost maddening. Even before she reached for the hem of her panties, he was fully and painfully erect. She paused in her pirouette when facing him, and very casually reached down with both hands, slipping fingers under the hem of her panties on both sides of her waist, and pulled them down, without a glance at George, to just below her knees. A quick and unintentionally lascivious wiggle completed the act, and the sodden white panties were lifted, with the toes of her left foot, to join her torn blouse and broken bra on the floor under the desk. She stood in front of him naked, holding her arms wide out to her sides in a motion of honesty and openness, and turned for him again, letting see him every part of her as he chose. He began to breathe heavily, more excited now than she, as she turned from him and – now that she was entirely naked – began to pose for him. She leaned forward on her desk, bending her thighs upward to expose her hirsute but well trimmed pussy between her legs, and reached back with her left hand to pull her wonderfully freckled left asscheek to one side, improving his view. He felt his cock kick in his pants, and felt his testicles begin to ache. He wanted her very, very badly and she knew it. At this point, he actually wanted her more than she wanted him. And yet he waited, unmoving, in her chair – breathing heavily and wanting her desperately, but not moving to claim her. She got up from the desk and walked slowly, without any attempt to arouse him, until she was standing directly in front of the chair. Leaning forward, she put her hands on the oak armrests. She spread her legs until they were outside George's, took two steps forward until she was straddling his lower thighs, and leaned forward even farther, positioning her right breast until it was in front of George's face. She could feel the heat of his breath on her nipple, and she began to pant slightly, knowing what she was about to ask him to do. "Take it in your mouth, George." He opened his mouth and she moved her breast toward it until it pressed down into his lips. She felt his tongue press against her nipple and swirl around it, caressing and kissing it. A slick wave of wet fire swept down her stomach and into her thighs, and had she not been supporting herself on the arms of the heavy chair, she would have fallen. She panted quickly and deeply as he moved his mouth from her right breast to her left, nipping it gently with his teeth before taking it into his mouth and treating it as lovingly as he had its mate. She felt the rhythmic contractions begin again in her belly, and suspected she was dripping cuntjuice on his pants, and she didn't care. Neither did he. He raised his right and caressed her soft, firm belly while he mouthed her tits, and she shivered and moaned as he gently and lovingly masticated her mammaries. He lifted his head towards hers, and she lowered her lips to his, taking his tongue slowly but deeply into the back of her mouth as his hand traced subtle patterns between her breasts and her navel. His right hand moved up to her left breasts, squeezing and kneading gently, infrequently taking her nipple between the knuckles of two fingers and squeezing until she trembled before letting go. His left hand lifted and settled on the outside of her right thigh. She quivered at the touch as they kissed, but asking nothing of him. His fingers waved tiny patterns on her skin, and the patterns became broader until the tips of his fingers moved across the invisible line between her outer and inner thigh. Each time he crossed the boundary she trembled violently and had to lean on the armrests, her legs quivering too uncontrollably to support her weight. The broad circles of George's hand began to move even farther into her inner thigh, slowly bringing soft sighs, then soft moans from the woman straddling his fully clad thighs as he approached and retreated from the soft skin of her pussy, until his fingertips were brushing her outer labia and bringing loud moans from Sharon, whose thrusting tongue and closed eyes gave him both the encouragement and permission he needed to be more and more assertive. After a moment more his fingers were crossing the threshold of her pussy lips, stroking back and forth without separating them. The bud of her clit swelled and peeked through the tiny crease of skin that protected it, and he moved his fingers underneath her to harvest a few slick drops of the fragrant liquor that was dripping from her vagina before moving his now wet fingers over the tip of it. She broke their kiss and threw her head back as he touched it, keening gently into the air of the office as he slipped a finger gently into the crease of her pussy and began sliding it gently up and down the broader length of her clit, spending a mere moment on the head of her clit before slowly sliding the tip of his finger ever so gently and ever so carefully into the shallow slit of her pussy, never daring to approach the deeper gate to her cunt. Her arms, supporting her weight on the armrests, began to give out and George moved his upper body forward, sitting upright in the chair and encouraging her to wrap her arms around his neck. She did, and he leaned backward, pulling her feet off the floor and her naked body onto his. She spread her thighs to straddle his, and his fingertip quickly recommenced its gentle masturbation of her clit. He felt her hands on the covered pipe of cock, gently kneading, and knew that as much as she was enjoying his finger, she was once again craving his cock. He sat up in the chair, lifting her with him as if she was weightless, before turning and depositing her in the chair. She looked at him with raised eyebrows, wondering what his intentions were. He took one step towards the chair, and waited there, with his swollen cock obvious in his pants and directly in front of her face. She reached up, tentatively, and touched it, pressing her fingers into it. George didn't move. She grinned, and looked up at him. He grinned back, and did nothing. Her fingers leapt to his already undone belt buckle, and quickly moved it aside. She tugged, inexpertly but enthusiastically at the button of his pants until it slid through the hole and exposed the tang of the zipper. She tried pulling it down with one hand, breathing heavily while reserving her other hand for kneading his flesh, but had to hold the upper hem of his pants with her left hand while tugging down on the zipper with her right. In fifteen seconds his pants were around his ankles, and only his briefs separated them. Panting quickly and heavily in anticipation, she grabbed the fabric tightly on both sides of his boxers and yanked mightily, stripping them down to his knees and revealing the almost nine inches of cock that had been hiding in his pants. Before George could do so much as blink, she had grasped the shaft of his cock, guided it to her lips, opened her mouth, and was sucking on it with bestial glee. His raw tenor bellow surprised both her and himself. Far from protest, it was a hedonistic yawp of pure delight. She sucked his cock joyfully, squeezing his testicles gently with her right hand as she grasped the hilt of his cock, holding it steadily in line with her wet, warm mouth, as she mouthfucked him without hesitation or shame. Not once did she look up at him. Not once did she pause. In fewer seconds than George imagined possible, he felt his testicles rise and tried to pull his spit-soaked penis from her mouth. When she felt him pull back, she followed him with her head, reaching around behind him with her hands, grasping his asscheeks and pulling him back into her mouth. With physical force his only alternative, and an unacceptable one, he threw his head back and roared in fulfillment as he came in her mouth. The first buck of his cock in her mouth produced barely a dribble of semen, which Sharon quickly swallowed. The second burst, however, filled her mouth. She swallowed frantically, choking as the third and even more voluminous spurt burst from the head of his cock and splashed into the back of her throat. She closed her throat then, allowing his semen to burst forward in her mouth, and out of her partially open lips. She moved her hand from the hilt of his cock to her lips, soaked it in semen and spit, and began pumping the hilt of his cock in time with the thrusts of her mouth. She paid close attention to the quantity of semen in each warm burst, and after seven glorious spurts of bitter cum, his penis was almost dry. His cock continued to buck in her mouth, but she could feel the steel begin to recede. Quickly, before flaccidity could claim him, she stood up and reversed their positions, forcing him to sit down in the leather chair. His sodden cock slid into his lap, where it glowed and pulsed like a living thing. Turning herself to face away from George's spit soaked cock – still twitching as it receded, and sending glistening, opaque drops of semen onto his thigh – she opened her legs around George's, and took tiny steps backward until the outside edges of the chair touched the backs of her calves. Yet again, before George was fully aware of what was happening, she reached behind and below her thighs with her right hand, lifting his flagging cock to a vertical position, and began to lower herself towards him. Sharon panted in anticipation as she let her thighs slowly fall towards his cock, pausing only when she felt the thumb of her right hand that capped the head of his swollen penis brush the tender skin of her pussy. She held her sodden hand still and pressed herself down a bit farther while moving her thumb deftly to one side, forcing the head of his cock through the tube of her slick palm until she felt his cool, slick cockskin press softly against the tender flesh of her pussy. Suddenly realizing what has happening, George watched as she lowered herself, grasped his cock, guided it upward to point at her crotch, and guided her thighs down until her own cock-cradling fist rested just beneath her pussy. He felt the sensitive head of his cock slide through her fingers, and moaned loudly at the first touch of her labia on the head of his cock, like an extraordinarily warm, soft kiss. He heard her breath, ragged and hoarse, and then, with pleasure so intense as to be unprecedented in his sexual experience, she lowered herself onto him and claimed him. He heard her gasp as the broad, spit-soaked head of his cock kissed open the gate her cunt, pressing the round ring of muscle open and sliding an inch inside the mouth of her vagina until the ridge of his cockhead slipped inside her and lodged itself within her. She paused for a moment to lift her right hand from the shaft of his cock. He felt her legs tremble as they momentarily supported her weight, before her hands found support on the oak armrests. She lowered herself in small increments, no more than a half inch at a time, three or four small bounces in a row, before lifting herself an inch to liberate the small fold of pussy skin that the girth of his cock inevitably carried upward into her pussy and pinched. Each small downward bounce was accompanied by a small, feminine gasp as the slick, muscular walls of Sharon's famished vagina were kissed open by the soft but unyielding head of George's cock as she impaled herself on him. His cock responded quickly, reassuming its former dimensions in seconds in spite of its recent and massive eruption, and she felt it spasm rhythmically within her as it added length and girth. The head of his cock swelled briefly with each gentle buck inside the channel of her cunt – she could feel it pressing against the walls of her vagina every few seconds, sending shivers up her spine each time it took in a sip of fresh new blood to add to its stiff, eager mass.