0 comments/ 31807 views/ 1 favorites Call Centre Confessions Ch. 01 By: exiledmaster Before I get to the story you want to hear, let me tell you the story about how I came to be in an Italian restaurant on the Quayside with fifteen women, some of them half my age. I left the RAF aged 38, after twenty years, with an alphabet soup of qualification in telecoms, electronics and communications. Most of my colleagues went into defence related jobs, or took contracts in places like Saudi Arabia. I got myself a job as operations and technology manager in a call centre belonging to a bank. Call centres aren't simple places. If you're routing telephone calls around seven locations in the UK and two in India you're not doing it with a couple of handsets and a list of names and addresses. One of the reasons why I chose the call centre industry was because I wanted the company of normal people. I'd had twenty years of living on camps and bases, socializing in the NAAFI and the mess. More cynical friends reckon I'm biased because my wife left me for a colleague six months before I took the money and left. Maybe I am, but I'm happy. More perceptive friends point out that I've swapped one closed group of friends for another. There are fourteen teams in our call centre, each having between 16 and twenty people in them. Team managers get praised by their bosses for building team spirit and involving team members in fun and social events. In turn team managers figure inviting the ops manager is a sure fire way of keeping themselves in my good books. Why bother? Because I decide what calls go to which team. In theory I could make sure that one team gets all the callers who've been waiting for two minutes or more; selling additional products and services to people who're angry and frustrated at spending time in a call queue isn't easy. I don't do that, but it doesn't do any harm to let managers believe I might. Socializing with the teams is fun. The demographics of call centre work are made for a fun night out. Men are outnumbered by women in all the teams; it's not a choice on the part of management, just a fact of this kind of work. Lads get frustrated, and can't understand why patience is such an important quality. So they move on to other jobs, selling fridges in Curry's or double-glazing, while women persevere and make the best of the job. Team managers have an effect on their team. They decide if the team will socialize out of a sense of fun, or out of a sense of duty. They decide if their team will smile all day, or persevere like sherpas trudging up a mountain. I think some of them realise they have an impact on the mood of their team, and enjoy the experience. The team I'm out with tonight is run by Andrea, an ambitious, clever woman who has remodelled her team in her own image. I like Andrea's image. She's cleverer than she needs to be to do her job, and sexier than anyone has any right to be at work every day. Our centre has a strict dress code, pressing the idea that every member of staff should dress as if they were expecting to meet customers in a high street branch. I don't mind that; I turn up to work in a summer uniform of button down shirts and chinos with co-ordinated ties, and a winter uniform of suits. I can get away with flat fronts on my trousers and tailored single-breasted suits; I may not have a six-pack but I haven't put weight on since I was eighteen. I'm conservative in my dress style at work, but I'm smart, and I take pride in looking good, and looking well groomed. Andrea always looks good, but she doesn't dress conservatively. She manages to mix and match styles, with the best of designer high street wear and smart business dress, but all done with a sexiness that challenges you and almost asks you if you're sure that she's trying to be sexy. She's only five foot one, although she always wears heels to make the most of her height. If she isn't wearing tights or stockings (and I've often wondered which) then her legs are tanned and smooth, toe nails immaculately painted and a ring gleaming on the second toe of one foot or the other. If I start to sound like I've been studying her then let's just say that I appreciate attractive women. Team nights out are different of course. You don't have to wear business dress. You dress for the venues you're going to. In this case it was a meet for a drink in Chase, an Italian meal, then clubbing in Baja, a massive club with a reputation for being the place to meet a willing partner. If I add to these call centre chronicles then you'll probably hear more about Baja. So I'm stood at the bar in Chase with a bottle of Becks, waiting for the team to arrive. I'm not exactly dressed to kill; just a pair of soft charcoal coloured trousers, and a collarless flannel shirt that I bought in Ireland last year. Add in some loafers and a splash of Hugo Boss aftershave and you might be able to get the picture. Andrea's team are dressed for their usual Friday night on the Toon; strappy tops and tight skirts predominate with wonderbras much in evidence as well. Then Andrea arrives. She's wearing a suede mini skirt and a fringed, taupe asymmetric top that rests on the edge of her suntanned shoulders leaving no cover for bra straps if any were present. But that's it; the fringed top, the suede skirt and her shoes. Since I got to know Andy I've wondered if I am turning into a foot fetishist. She has a wide range of shoes; she may be the only woman ever to strut round a call centre in a pair of Manolo Blahnik sandals. I've grown to know every inch of her toes because there has to be snow on the ground before she'll don footwear that conceals her toes. Tonight there's an addition; a thin chain round her left ankle, made out of what looks like white gold. It seems just a touch wrong, almost out of place, since it's resting on the leather ankle band of her shoes, but it's another feature, another contribution to the idea that she thinks there's something special about her extremities. In my mind she's clearly decided to go for the full foot fetish effect tonight; a thin leather sole with spiky, thin heels held to her foot by the anklet and a band across the arch of her foot, the two bands connected by a length of chain. But there's the challenge; is she dressed this way to say something about sex and what she wants, or because it's a style she likes? So we're chatting and laughing, greeting team members as they come in, recycling work anecdotes as if we've never heard them before and asking after each other's families and partners as if we're interested. I'm trying not to lust after Andy too obviously, but it isn't easy. I've been told in the past that I can be transparent in social situations. After another bottle of Becks for me and two or three drinks each for the team we're on our way round the corner to the restaurant. Andy is walking between myself and Denise, a good-humoured woman in her early thirties, a bottle blonde who's all bosom and bravado. Andy links her left arm through Denise's and her right arm through mine, and I try to ignore the urge to slip my arm round her back. I could use the fact that it would be more comfortable as an excuse; she's so much shorter than me I'm leaning to my left to make sure our elbows crook round each other easily. It happened. Andy snaked her arm round my back. Denise had turned away to say hello to a guy she knew, or maybe wanted to know, so Andy slipped her arm free and snuggled in closer to me, as if she'd suddenly felt the cold. I reciprocated, and tried to hide the frisson of surprise as my fingers came to rest on the bare flesh between her top and her skirt. Was the squeeze she gave me approval of my touch? Before we could discuss it, or I could think too much about it, we were at the restaurant. Andy skipped up the steps, and took charge of the seating arrangements. That was how I ended up sitting opposite her at the head of the table, with the rest of the team arranged along either side. It's a bit of a cliché that you can sit and talk to someone in a noisy room as if there's no one else there, but that's how I felt. Andy was managing the conversation, joining in with jokes further down the table or laughing and capping someone else's story before turning her attention back to me. There's something very intimate about being asked questions about yourself by someone you desire. When the person doing the questioning rests their foot on top of yours you start to realise that they have an agenda too. The first time she rested her foot on mine I tried to ignore it. When, between the garlic bread and the starter her foot moved I realised that the position was deliberate. There was a fleeting moment of eye contact, and a smile, and a moment of flushed excitement for me. It doesn't work that way of course; not when there are fourteen of you at the table, and twelve of them mustn't know what's going on. You can't even flirt and joke about there being less room in your trousers than at the start of the evening for fear that someone will overhear. So you smile and tell stories about being in the service, or things that happened when you were younger, and Andy was still in school. But she's picking up the theme, joking about people who know what they're doing and who have plenty of experience. The team are rushing through their food; there are pubs to visit and people to see. She tells them to go ahead to the Akenside; we'll sort the bill out and have a coffee. We're alone in moments, and the eye contact is much more frank. The waiters clearing the table don't matter; we don't have to work with them on Monday. "This isn't an accident is it?" I ask, and she smiles back. "It's not, but it's not a foregone conclusion. He may not want to with me, and I may want to have sex with you, but I still have to go home." I pause for a moment, parse the statement. He is her husband; I am the man she would like to have sex with. The headwaiter brings the bill, and she throws her credit card on top of it. "He doesn't want to sleep with you? Is he mad?" She winces. "I wish. He isn't very good at taking charge, or making demands, or taking hints..." I file away each remark, and think about it as the waiter returns with the credit card slip. When he's finished, and gone, I smile at her. "You say you want me. I've wanted you for months. If it doesn't happen tonight, it will in the future. Let's party and enjoy knowing that we're fancied, eh?" She looks up, accuses me of flattery, then makes a little pout. "Tonight would be better, waiting will be hell... I'm going to the loo..." She makes her way across the loo, and I'm lost in thought, the loo seems like a good idea as well; the gents and ladies are crammed around a corner at the back of the restaurant and I make my way there, conscious of half a hardon and a peaceful feeling. The gents is clean, tidy, and empty. I can stand at the urinal and relieve my bladder, but the tension in my groin doesn't go away. As I come out after washing my hands the door of ladies opposite me opens and there she is, adjusting the waistband of her skirt. I'm not impulsive, but I pluck a leaf off the plastic rubber plant (it's not that posh a restaurant) and hold it over her head. "Pretend it's mistletoe..." The kiss is hard, passionate, deliberate, her tongue in my mouth, the scent of perfume she's reapplied to her throat fresh in my nose. I drop the plastic leaf, and put my hands to her waist, reaching under her top, feeling bare skin but no spare flesh. I push her back against the door, and my hands slip up under her top, and her breasts are here, the nipples erect already. She takes her mouth off mine. "The Ladies is empty...". A moment later it's not. We're in there, and then in the cubicle, and I'm using my mouth on hers lips, then on her breasts, then on her mouth again. Her hand is on my erection, and she's trying to get my flies undone. It's not foreplay, not really. I'm kissing her while she tries to get me into the open air because you have to do something, because you fall into patterns of behaviour, but I'm remembering her remarks. I'm nervous, not sure, but I'm light headed with desire. "Suck me Andy." I say it quietly, as if I'm scared I'll be overheard, but also so she can pretend she didn't hear me if I've judged the situation wrongly. I haven't; she falls to her knees, and takes as much of me in her mouth as she can manage. Her hand around the base of my cock looks tiny, but I know I'm harder than I have been for months. "If you can't suck it all then lick it" I rasp, and she obeys, indicating compliance by a mewl of pleasure. I don't want to come in the air or on her face, not this time, and I take hold of her neck, gentle but firm. "I'm going to fuck you; bend over." She makes to stand, but as she does it she slides her thong down her legs and steps out of with her left foot so it rests round her right ankle. I move her round, bend her over so that the toilet with its lid down is the resting place for her hands, her skirt around her waist. There's no pubic hair that I can see from behind, just the brown outer edge of her lips and a hint of pinkness below the crease of her arse and the rosebud entrance to her bottom. I rub my cockhead over her lips; shoving my trousers down with many free hand, then push into her. Deep, hard, hot, the tightness of her rolling my foreskin back as it coats me with her juices. She's gasping, and so am I. I grab her hair and pull her head back ass I'm shoving into her, once twice, repeatedly, and she's making the mewling noises before silencing herself with her fingers jammed into her mouth. I let go of her hair, shove her top up, grab her breasts in my hands and pull her back onto me. She's gasping and moaning, and I don't know if the voice telling me to pull on her nipples and stretch them is hers or mine or in my head, but I do it and she cries out, a jubilant precursor of an orgasm that clamps her pussy around me. She slumps forward, raising her buttocks, and I have to let go of her breasts while I pound at her. Her lips are coated with juices and sweat now, and there a thin sheen of sweat on her back. I can smell myself and my desire, but all I want is her complete collapse. I pull out, coat my thumb in her wetness then thrust back into her before sliding my thumb into the muscular tightness of her bottom. I'm banging against her impatiently as she wriggles and groans, then I let go inside her, spurting against the neck of her cervix, pressing down on her as another orgasm escapes her.... We have to try and dress ourselves in the cubicle, using face wipes produced from her bag for the worst of the wetness on each of us, suppressing giggles as someone enters the Ladies and busies herself making a phone call about how boring her date is, then we make our escape, laughing aat the waiters as they wonder why we've been so long, and make our way back under the Tyne Bridge towards the Akenside, aware of how close we've been and desperate for another touch, another moment of intimacy. She turns to me as we face up to the bouncers, and whispers in my ear "Better than expected, and I'm soaked..." Call Centre Confessions Ch. 02 Next day I had that experience of having woken from a dream, grasping at a memory but unable to reach it. I was in the shower before I was able to coherently remember the team night out, and make a timeline out of what had happened. Not how or why it had happened. I couldn't make sense of that, but definitely what. I have no illusions about my desirability as a physical specimen. I'm not going to be persuaded that I'm so physically attractive that someone would be overwhelmed with lust at the sight of me. The first alternative answer, that Andy had been turned on by my personality, required a re-appraisal by me of my relationship with her – professionally distant would have been my assessment, and I'm usually quite self aware. The other alternative, that I was presentable enough, and desirable enough, and civilized enough, to fill a need, was the one I wanted to think about least. Loneliness does that to you. It was just after eight a.m., and I sat down at the kitchen table to try and sort out my day, and what to do about Andy. I had no regrets, don't get me wrong; I've had my share of zipless fucks, and I've been in plenty of situations where what you are (erect and available) is more important than who you are, but this was different. I had to go into work on Monday and share the building with her. I could hide in the ops room on the first floor and pretend nothing had happened, but that would be sure to be a disaster. Moments like that are made for fate to intervene, for every computer on her team to crash, or the phone system to pack up, or even for her just to need some advice about how to make Microsoft Office work But on the other hand I couldn't contact her at home. Not without knowing in advance what might happen if her husband answered the phone, or saw a message on her mobile... Decisions, decisions. I didn't quite prevaricate. I made breakfast; wholewheat toast, apple juice, a couple of slices of cheese on the toast. I took my work mobile out of its charger and switched the ringtone back on, acknowledging that I was on call for the day. I thought about checking my emails, or wasting time online, but decided instead to spend some time in the workshop before making my ritual Saturday morning phonecalls. My workshop is in the garage. When I was a kid I used to call a small space under the stairs in my parents house a tool shed. It's evidence of a compulsion to be useful and productive, but at least I recognise it for what it is. My ex-wife used to complain that I was never content to have nothing to do. She's right, but what she saw as a fault I see as an asset. In my spare time I make and restore furniture. Nothing too exotic, and not too much soft furnishing. Just the sort of stuff someone with a reasonable workshop and some bench joining skills might make. And I manage to sell most of the stuff I produce. Some of it, the run of the mill stuff, a friend sells from a stall on Tynemouth Station on a Sunday, and at any craft fair that will have him. He's a sculptor who doesn't have a lot of success but makes a living by carving mock Gothic wood mouldings. Add some of his mouldings and trim to carcasses put together by me and you can have a good approximation of old library and church furnishings. Nothing exceptional, but pretty enough for the average household. I had a reading desk to finish for him, the sort of thing you might find in a church in front of a clergyman's chair. Not a complicated piece of furniture, and likely to end up in someone's hallway as a repository for gloves and keys rather than holy books, but thirty pounds worth of timber and six hours of time would see me £100 better off. Not all my furniture could be sold on Tynemouth Market though. Not with an accurate description, anyway. I got the idea from one of the Lovejoy books, where the old rogue was talking about a Berkeley Horse. (The antiques conman has a few of these odd kinky moments in his books; funny how much you read and what you remember on long night shifts in an RAF comms centre). It may look like an eccentric towel rail, but it's actually a flogging horse, intended to secure the victim so that they can't squirm about too much. For the part time devotee of spanking having a punishment frame that looks like a towel rail or a clothes horse is bound to be an advantage when showing thes or more inhibited friends round the house. So that was how I got started, making dual-purpose towel rails and clothes horses and advertising them in contact mags. Not because I was particularly obsessed with spanking, (although my ex-wife didn't wholly object) but because it was a way of experimenting with things that other people didn't make and getting some money back. That's partly a fib of course; it was a chance to be part of a community of people who were talking about or having sex; more sex or different sex to the mundane stuff that the Sun promises to make better in a four part series from Monday to Thursday... Seven years down the line and the range had expanded to include chairs, modified dining tables, a chaise longue, coffee tables, and my particular favourite, a set of library steps. You know the type of thing; it looks like a backless and armless seat, with just one pole to steady the user, but folds open to make three steps to enable avid readers to reach the top shelf. The latest version of the library steps was in the garage workshop waiting to be collected. To a casual eye the holes for attaching ropes or cuffs were just ornate decoration; the leather trimmed seat on top just a comfort feature, the padded treads of the steps an attempt to reduce noise in a quiet environment. To my eye the additional pole for users to hold onto as they climbed added symmetry and safety; the wooden rod that slotted through and into the other upright was obviously a safety device to stop a distracted reader from stepping off the edge of the platform. Of course, it also meant that the steps had a perfect H frame to hold a kneeling supplicant in place, the rod pressing down on their back, while they were being dealt with, but you'd need a kinky imagination to come up with such an unusual use for such a simple device. Wouldn't you? The reading desk though was just that; four legs, square tapered, a rectangular box and a sloping lid with a bead along the bottom to stop a book from sliding off. All that I had left to do was to fit the lid hinges and cut the rebate into which the carved decoration would fit; careful work that required attention to detail and the absence of thought about other things. By ten thirty I'd finished and had applied the first coat of stain. I sat down, phoned my daughter in Germany before she went to soccer practice with her new dad (or Thing, as she loyally called him) then decided to shower before my mind wandered too far into the past. One of the penalties of loneliness is you that experience everything in the context of being lonely. My ex lives with an American clerical officer on a USAF base because he was more exciting than me; if my mind wanders I forget that she's allowed to have different tastes, to feel that I'm not perfection itself. There are people walking round free who prefer IKEA furniture to the hand made stuff I make; that's their problem... I could have been kidding myself about why I needed the shower; my hands smelt of pine resin and woodstain, but I was sure I could smell someone else on them as well. I lowered my head under the showerhead hoping to clear my mind as well as my skin. It didn't work. I could see Andy bending in front of me, her hips raised, her back a concave arch as she reached forward for support with one hand while opening herself up to me with the other. I wasn't even sure if I was remembering her or imagining her as I might want her again, but the thoughts wouldn't go away. I can't claim I was in the best of moods when I went into the bedroom to dress; jeans, a polo shirt, deck shoes. Routine is supposed to be an antidote to distraction; an armful of laundry and a plan to tidy my CD collection, again, were interrupted by the chirruping of the work mobile. A text message from the helpdesk; one of the ACD's was showing unusual results; could I get to a terminal and check up on it? I could; there was one I could use in my dining room, but I kidded myself that once I was at work I would feel more professional, less like a man who's surprised by a need he didn't know he had. So I locked up the house, made a quick phone call to my Dad's answerphone, then set off in the Volvo At work the problem took no more than ten minutes to fix. I was able to do it from my office cum server room, without even talking to colleagues. Back in the dim and distant past the banking centre had been a processing centre; Securicor would turn up with bags of cheques and credit card slips from shops and businesses, and rows of clerks would sit at desks and encoding machines to sort and process them. That was why the centre had, behind an airlock arrangement of doors, a secure room with a walk in cupboard that was built by a company who specialized in safes. The cheque processing moved, but that only made room for a secure complex for the IT kit and phone system. I could sit at my desk and check a CCTV system that covered all three floors of the centre, or pivot the external camera to watch the traffic queueing to get into the metro centre. Or I could sit and stare in surprise as Andy stood outside the airlock, buzzing to be let in. I felt nervous, scared and turned on. And worried. All those fears about what might arise from an affair with a colleague were lurking just under the surface. All the same I let her in, and tried to look relaxed and cool. Except she looked ravishing again. Utterly ravishing. She was wearing the longest skirt I'd ever seen her wearing, a mid calf skirt in a peasant style, plain white, with lace trim. Over it she was wearing a loose blouse, autumnal colours in thin vertical stripes. It was the first time I'd seen her without heels as well; the white leather flip flops were stylish and cool, but was she sending me a signal? Could she know that I preferred her in heels, but would choose the flip flops over any kind of shoe that covered her foot? One of the weaknesses of looking for signals is that you can end up with too many signals, and not knowing which are significant. She sat on the edge of my desk, perched there, looking comfortable and self assured. So why wasn't she saying anything? I decided to make the running. "I enjoyed last night" The ice being broken she seemed relax a little. "I did too. I like a good night out." Was she being flirtatious? Telling me she was used to spontaneity? "Me too; mind you last night was special..." I tried hard to keep my tone light as I said that. The lightness of tone didn't seem to have worked. "I got home and was hoping you'd forget it." I can't say I was surprised, but only because I didn't know what to expect, so nothing could surprise me. "I'm sorry to hear that Andy. I can promise never to mention it, but I can't promise to forget it." Stamping her foot in heels would have been sexy, angry or determined. Stamping her foot in leather flip flops looked silly. "Don't flatter me..." "I'm not. I'm a realist. I've always liked you, I've always thought you sexy and if you'd asked me before yesterday if I'd have settled for just one night with you I'd have said yes. But I'd prefer more..." "And why do you want more?" Now, I'm not a psychologist, but her response was more defensive than angry or defiant. "Well now, I've worked with this sexy woman who I've watched walk round the building and I've thought about what she might be like in bed, and now I've seen her coming I'd like to test a few more of my ideas about her." She nudged me with her knee; a signal full of contradictory indicators, playful but angry, amused but defensive. For the first time, there was a hint of a smile. It took me until then to notice that her lipstick was more subdued than normal. "I don't believe you. You're embarrassed at what you've done and you're scared I'll be a bunny boiler. That's what you call angry women isn't it?" In return for the kneeing I shoved her thigh with my elbow. "If you're angry I'll take the blame Andy. I was hoping I'd been good enough to leave you wanting more..." "Don't mess me about. You don't know what I want, and you don't know what I'm really like." I sat back, and shrugged my shoulders as best you can sitting in a chair. "So you tell me what you want Andy. You liked me last night because I could listen to you. Try me out today. But make your mind up if you're angry at me, or angry and I'm available..." Sometimes Andy's expressions can take you by surprise. She's a hard headed manager, and ultra professional, but there's a girlishness to some of her expressions that can leave me wondering if she is as worldly or as tough as she'd like to appear. "Don't do this to me..." I was going to go for the shrug again, but stopped short. The distress sounded genuine. "Andy, I'm being as honest as I can. I don't want to hurt you or cause you hurt..." "And I'm trying to tell you I enjoyed last night, but I can't cope with the questions it asks me." They call it active listening on the floor of the call centre, asking quick questions that make the other person disclose a bit more about themselves. "Questions like..?" "Like what does it say about my marriage, or me?" "You can have the crude answer to what I've learned about you, or you can use me as the sounding board for things I think you know yourself already." And that seemed to be the key. So she talked. No flirtation, no attempts to catch my eye or to divert me with body language, just plain unadorned language. She talked about a loving marriage with not enough sex, and the worry that life was passing her by. She talked about feeling guilty, and feeling angry that her husband hadn't commented on her being late, or dishevelled. She hinted at suspecting that he knew and didn't care. As she talked she shuffled backwards on the desk so that her feet were off the floor; it was instinctive to turn my chair towards her, and to lift her feet into my lap. Her response was tactile, and leisurely. Her feet moved across my groin, then settled on my thighs. I looked at the way my hands could encircle her ankles, my thumbs overlapping my fingers to the second joints, then stroked my fingers over the bones in the arch of the foot. She talked again about marriage and guilt, but more reflectively. I waited for her to talk herself out. "You keep talking about emotions like guilt Andy. I think it's time you thought about things like honesty and responsibility." I'm not sure that she was that impressed by my choice of words, but I ploughed on regardless. "Your husband has to take some responsibility for your being unhappy about your sex life, and you have to ask yourself how important honesty is, or what impact it will have on him if you tell him." She wriggled her toes, but left her feet in my lap. I don't think she was too uncomfortable with the situation, or with my grip on her ankles. "Are you telling me to lie to my husband, or to rub his face in it." I moved her feet so that the ball of her left foot rested on my cock. "I'm saying it's not black and white; it's a choice you have to make depending on what you think the outcomes will be. If you want that to be about guilt that's your choice. You've no need to rub his face in it unless you decide that's what he most wants." I'm not sure if she noticed where her foot was for the first time, or decided to let me know she'd noticed. "So to cut this short, you're telling me I don't need to feel guilty, and that you'll shag me if I want you to..." "Today yes, but tomorrow I might be more demanding." Her eyes were brown but sparkling, as if a switch had been flicked. The previous night came back to mind again. Her foot would have had to be insensitive not to notice the change in my cock, thickening and beginning the process of becoming erect. "Ah, but where can we do it?" I'm not suggesting she was being coy, but I don't think she'd considered the possibility that I might seize the moment. With one hand on each of her ankles as I stood up from my chair she had no choice but to lean back on the desk and allow her skirt to rise above her knees. She managed to say the words here, and now, as if they were questions, but by then her legs were either side of my hips, her skirt up to her waist and my hand on her thong. She wriggled down, her hips snaking along the desk, so that her shoulder blades were flat on the desk, then put her hands by her side. I wasn't going to let her get away with a totally passive acceptance of my wanting her. "Go on Andy, you know you want to show me your tits; open your blouse..." She hesitated, but I held my hands still at her crotch until she co-operated. Once her fingers began to undo buttons I pulled the thong aside, and used my thumbs to part her labia. She didn't make any noise, just moved her hips to open herself to me. Her hands had opened her blouse; her bra was thin white material, unshaped, that she easily pulled down to reveal her nipples. Time compacted. It took less time to get my trousers down and to free my erection that it's taken to type these words. It's hard to make sense of the fact that I could be rubbing my cock against her pusssy and clit at the same time as I was leaning forward and asking her to make her nipples hard for me. Harder still to explain that at the same time I was trying to calculate the right degree of urgency in my voice, so she would understand that it was just a request, but one that I wanted obeyed. In my mind even as I slid inside her I was measuring the way she gripped her nipples, the force she used, the look on her face as I ground my crotch against her pubic bone. But she did as I asked, and after the first thrust she pushed up to meet me; when I moved her legs to open hew wider to me she collaborated; when I started to thrust at her urgently, turned on by the situation and the opportunity she started to tell me she was coming, and that she was turned on, and that she wanted me to keep going. Actually 'keep fucking going' were the words. Keep fucking going. So I did, right past the moment where she arched her back and pulled at her nipples, past the squirming half twist of her hips, past the shaking loss of control in her pelvis, past the flexing, squeezing pulses of her inner muscles, right to the point where I came inside her, leaning backwards as if simultaneously trying to get my erection further into her and to keep my balance at the same time..... And I felt deeply, enormously, grateful.... Call Centre Confessions Ch. 03 On Sunday morning I left the house early. I had an appointment in Whitby; a small timber yard that had formerly thrived on supplying the boat trade had a stock of mahogany that it was selling off. I had a plan for it. One of my regular customers wanted a coffee table that could double as a flogging support, and I'd offered them a design that I thought they would like. Mahogany was needed for the surface and the legs, and the timber yard in Whitby had just the right quantity at an affordable price. I was thinking about Andy, and trying still to work out what to do next, but I was also concentrating on not falling foul of the Sunday morning traffic, and their counterpart, Sunday morning traffic police... Having sex with Andy the previous day hadn't solved anything. We'd talked for a little while, and held each other, but she didn't seem any happier afterwards. How selfish does sex have to be? I was thoroughly enjoying myself, and wanted more of her, and while we were having sex she seemed pretty keen on the idea as well. It was just afterwards that she seemed a little awkward.... She'd left, with a kiss on the cheek that mixed longing, sadness and lust remembered in equal parts. I went home, and, in a show of weakness that was almost adolescent, moved my mobile from room to room with me throughout the day in case she called or texted me. Enough. Sutton Bank is a scary road in normal circumstances without getting misty eyed about someone else's life that I couldn't change for them. I went back to thinking about the coffee table, and the couple who were commissioning it. If I had a few more customers like them I'd be able to give up my job in the callcentre and become a full time cabinetmaker. In the last few years I'd made for them a flogging stool, small, compact and easily put away, a bedroom washstand with demountable ring bolts for bindings, including pull out ankle bars to hold the legs apart, and a padded carver chair that was designed for the lucky sub to be bound over the back of. Actually, sub was probably the wrong name for the role Pam, the wife, played in that relationship. True, they got their kicks by her husband beating her and then fucking her anyway he wanted to, but their relationship was much more about ritual and role play than about power exchange. Pam planned every aspect of their scenes; the time, the place, the implements, the clothes she would wear... There again, as a deputy headmistress she was used to organizing things. Her husband, Steve, was a much more easy going man, a lecturer in literature who seemed more cerebrally involved in his wife's sexuality. After I made the stool for them it was Steve who broached the idea that I should beat and fuck Pam, so that I would understand their needs more fully the next time I designed a piece for them. The experience of reading Pam's meticulous notes of how she expected the scene with me to go was what prompted the Victorian Gothic complications of the washstand, with carved decoration and an elaborate catch system that concealed the ringbolts and spreader bars. Pam was meticulous in her note making, and her explanation of what she wanted from an encounter, but uncomplicated in her participation. She wanted to be secured, preferably to a piece of furniture, beaten a specified number of times with an implement of her choice, with no safe word or way of stopping the scene if it went beyond her limits, then fucked or buggered at the choice of her flagellant until he was satisfied. Of course her husband was always present in another room; he described his role in her scenes as curator, which made me wonder how much they came from Pam and how much from him, but a large part of her pleasure came, I'm sure, from the preparation she undertook before putting herself at someone else's disposal. Whichever it was, the table was an innovation for them; they'd decided on something more abstract, and which could be in their lounge. I did ask if maybe that was connected too the last off their kids going away from home to university, and a sense that their sexuality could move more into the centre of their lives. I got a chilly response that suggested getting too close to the rhyme and reason off their private world was an intrusion in a way that having the use of Pamela could never be. Not that I was invited to use her often; maybe once every three months. The specification of the table had another interesting feature; all their other items had been designed for the flogging of Pamela when she was standing but bent forward; the table's purpose was to allow her to be spanked when kneeling. I'd shown them some drawings before agreeing the design; a three legged table shaped like a slender pear, as if mimicking Pamela's body, broader at hips than shoulders, with a notch at the end where her groin would be. Underneath the top the legs had plain white rope running between them; purely decorative to the innocent eye but capable of being used to secure the table's user in place; one length of rope around her waist, one around each of her thighs. I was proud of it as a design, and with the way the rope, the asymmetrical design and the use of jointed lengths of timber suggested flotsam put to a new use. I don't always get so involved with the people who buy my productions. I think Pam and Steve took pleasure in knowing that I didn't act like a dog with its tongue hanging out each time I met them. I didn't find it complicated; if I was invited to use Pam sexually I did; if not, then they were just friends. That kind of split reached its peak when they invited me to New Years day dinner with them last year; their eldest daughter was there with her girlfriend, and a teaching colleague of Pam's had been invited to even the numbers up. The objective, I'm sure, was some kind of cool, we're all grown ups now kind of event; Pam and Steve's son was away skiing with his university OTC, and there was a certain loucheness about the whole event. Pam's daughter and her girlfriend were uneasy at first; just like you never want to know your parents are having sex so it can be hard to admit to your parents that you're having sex, and that, just because it's different to the choices they made, it's not a criticism of their choices. I came out with that gem of instant wisdom over lunch; I thought for a while I'd said the wrong thing, but by dinner time Charlotte, the daughter, and her friend (I've forgotten her name) were completely at ease and abandoning any pretence that they'd use two bedrooms during their stay. Pam and Steve were as relaxed as I've seen them, with Pam oozing cleavage and kissing Steve at every chance, and I was rapidly discovering that Alyssa, the teacher, was more attentive than I'd expected. It was odd, but I stayed the night with Alyssa in the bedroom vacated by Charlotte's girlfriend, and, in the morning, over breakfast, the noises that had emanated from each bedroom during the night hung like a shared wickedness between us all... So why has that come to mind now? Why am I driving to Whitby remembering that one occasion out of half a dozen that Pam and Steve could bring to mind? I'm not convinced I know, but maybe my brain was trying to tell me something about honesty. We'd had breakfast the next morning, each couple not wanting to be the one to broach the subject of the night before first. Alyssa had been happy, and content, if not overwhelmed by a desire for more, and Charlotte and her friend had been relaxed, and more easily affectionate, while Pam and Steve had been just Pam and Steve. I suppose the truth was, we all knew, and knowing was enough. The transaction in Whitby didn't take long. Hand over the cash after checking the timber, cut it down where necessary to six and a half foot lengths on the yards chop saw, then lash it to the roof bars, hang a warning triangle on the back and set off back up the road. It was as I was heading out of Whitby onto the moors that my mobile rang. Andy; nervous, a little febrile of manner. Mind you, she had a story to tell. "I'm glad I got hold of you" The crack in her tone of voice was enough to hold me back from innuendo. "I wanted to talk to you, because after yesterday I came home and I couldn't face telling lies any more." You know the old cliche about your heart sinking? Something more solid and more visceral seemed to have collapsed into the bottom of my stomach, leaving that bitter flavour in the back of my throat that says fear is a reasonable way to feel. I managed to croak out the word 'and...'; I didn't trust myself to say any more. "We both want to meet you today to talk this through" Now, I'm not much of one for the Jerry Springer idea that every life event must reach closure; sometimes things don't turn out the way you want them to, and unfinished or messy is just another part of the chaotic state that life can be. We spend all out lives trying to impose order on the chaos, but part of being a grown up is acknowledging that sometimes it's not possible. Or that sometimes the only place we can impose order is in very specific private relations. Like sex. I was scared. Despite the fact that I was, nominally, senior to Andy at work, a messy extra marital adventure might see me pursuing a career of BDSM cabinet making faster than I expected. That's my excuse, and that's how I ended up sat on their sofa forty five minutes later, in a semi in Washington that looked like it had been decorated and made over to within an inch of its life. Given the car load of timber I'd parked on the drive the neighbours probably thought I'd come round to quote them about a kitchen. Andy looked more self assured than I expected. I'd rehearsed all the possible opening gambits, and hadn;t managed to pick one. None of them allowed for her being cheerful and upbeat. Her husband didn't look that troubled either. In fact there was a certain smugness about his expression that had me throwing away some of the more apocalyptic scenarios I'd imagined. Andy took charge; forgive me being flippant but I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd produced a flipchart and accompanying powerpoint presentation. She was wearing a plain blue button through dress, and matching mules with kitten heels over bare feet. She stood in the centre of the room between her husband and myself, her back towards the door. "I've explained to Peter what we've done the last couple of days, and how I've enjoyed it." I was watching Peter's expression; he didn't seem at all perturbed. Actually, he looked happy. "I've explained to him that if he and I can't have a satisfactory sex life then I should be free to find one elsewhere. He agrees." It came across with all the emotion of a mission statement, but something in her slightly hoarse tone suggested she'd had to raise her voice before she and Peter had reached agreement. In the silence that followed I waited for Peter to speak. He said nothing. So it was my turn. "I think w're all at a bit of a disadvantge here. I don't know what drives you Peter. You don't know what drives me Andy. You know I'm a bloke who works with you who desires you. If I had a choice I'd fuck you every day." Peter flinched at the fuck word; not an unpleasant flinch though, more a tremor of acknowledgement and pleasure. Andy had a hint of a smile on her face "But you don't know what I want Andy. I desire you, yes, and if my only choice is quick fucks grasped at when you're available I'll take that, but it's not everything I want." She looked at Peter as if she was gauging his reactions before she responded. "So what do you want?" I could see glimpses of her teeth behind her lips, and a cock of her hips towards me that hinted at preparedness. What for, I didn't know. "I want two things. To fuck you here, in this house, so that I'm not just an accessory who takes you away from your marriage when it's convenient. And I want you to accept that you will dress to please me and do as you're asked." Peter was leaning forward in his seat now, his eyes wider than before. He didn't speak but the question was written behind his eyes, and emphasized by the flickering passage of his tongue across his lips. "No Peter, you can't watch. You can't join in. If Andy wants to let you know what we do, or if you happen to see our foreplay, that's your good luck." Andy was still waiting, still standing, hip cocked to one side, her knee and thigh showing through the gap in her skirt. "Well Andy?" She pulled her hair back behind her ears, looked down at Peter, and turned to me. "You want to treat me like a sex object? It's what I wanted from him, but he couldn't. You'd better make yourself up a bed in the spare room for when he comes calling Peter." And Peter, frankly, looked like the cat that had got the cream. I gestured to Peter to stay where he was. "I've time to play this afternoon Andy but I won't be staying. But it would be nice to go upstairs now." Her eyes were sparkling now, and she kept looking at Peter to judge his reactions. He wasn't drooling, but not by much. I was enjoying myself. Really enjoying myself Hard edged, stiffly erect enjoying myself. But that wasn't the only reason I pushed on. I wanted to make sure I was right about the dynamics of the situation. I didn't want to be upstairs and discover when I was otherwise engaged that Peter had changed his mind and brought the contents of the knife drawer with him to emphasize the point. "Undress Andy. Here. Now." It's hard to give brief orders without barking them out like a drill sergeant, but I kept my voice low and soft. Andy hesitated for a moment, then unbuttoned her dress, and let it fall about her on the floor. She started to bend to pick it up, but I stopped her. "Leave it. Peter will tidy. He'll want to examine your underwear anyway." The smile she rewarded me with was wicked and beautiful, like a stormy sea observed through a window; you know those waves could break someone, but you're safe so it's someone else who has to try and survive the storm. Under the dress Andy had been wearing a matching set of purple bra and thong; both were dusted with sparkles of gold thread. The bra went first to join the dress, then, less elegantly, her thong. She looked less sure of what to do once she was naked; her hands moved from in front of her to her hips, the back to her thighs. She seemed to know that I wouldn't approve of her covering herself. Peter's slack jawed expression was eloquence itself. "I was going to get you to check if Peter's hard Andy, but we don't need to do we?" She shook her head, her hair falling freely around her shoulders. "We'll leave him to it and go upstairs." She walked in front of me, relaxed and calm. Once we were in the hall she hesitated, but made her way upstairs as soon as I gave her bottom a push with my hand. In the bedroom the hesitancy returned. Small wonder really. It's all very well having a fantasy but reality can be more challenging. Especially when it's being acted out in a bedroom that is ultra modern, with glass and chrome as well as more feminine touches. Especially when a man who isn't your husband is standing in your marital bedroom staring at your nakedness with undisguised lust. I knew all this. And I had my own challenges too. I wanted to make her mine. So I had to get the tone right, the manner right. She wasn't going to leave Peter, and I didn't want her to, but I wanted her body for my own use. "Want to pose for me Andy? Want to lie on the bed and raise your legs so I can look at you?" No hesitation now. She was on the bed, legs raised, hands on ankles, as if the words had been a spell commanding her to move. I started to strip at the same time as I kept talking to her. "See how good you look in the mirrors Andy? Want to check my cock and see how hard you've made me? Want to use one of your hands to stroke yourself?" One of her shoes dropped off as she adjusted her position, sliding two fingers inside herself - I took the chance to rub my cock against her thigh as I put the shoe back on her foot. "You'll get used to being dressed and positioned for me Andy.... But today it's just about me, you and making you make as much noise as you can manage and Peter can bear." Her fingers were making thin, slippery noises, like shoes catching on a drying floor, as they pistoned in and out of her pussy. I put her ankles on my shoulders, rubbed my cock over her clit once, twice, three times, then started to fuck her. There are so many names for sex; sympathy fucks, anger shags, love making. This was a control thing. Assertion, control and yes, a little bit of domination. And we both enjoyed it. Hard fast strokes made Andy come; the pause as she caught her breath gave me chance to get my own reactions under control. Slow deep hard strokes with my fingers pinching her clit made her come, crying out. Hard driving strokes, my pelvis pounding against her clit as my fingers stretched and pulled at her nipples, made her cry out in a keening, pleading voice. Her chest was flushed pink, her nipples erect and still hard as I knelt astride her and rubbed my cock over her face, coming on her as her tongue licked at the underside of me. Yes, I said her name. And she said thank you, and kissed at my thighs even as I stood up from her. I left her tucked under the duvet, semen drying on her face, dressed quickly, and went downstairs. Peter was sitting uncomfortably in the living room. Andy's clothes before him. Her thong was absent. "Wearing it Peter? Beware where that leads." He flushed bright red and bowed his head as I let myself out.