I
In the days before the prevalence of American pornography, the most common word for female genitalia in Britain was ‘fanny’. The story unfolds in the 1980s, a time when the internet was still in its infancy.
I had a new job. I was a secretary in a medium-sized company in the centre of the town, and that was okay, but I ended up covering in the typing pool half the time. Not very stimulating. One of the senior managers came to have a word with me.
“Let’s go and sit outside,” he said, taking my elbow and escorting me over the road to the city park. His hand was behind me as we walked, his palm flat across my bum. To be fair, the situation was pretty normal and to be expected; it was the 1980s after all, and the boss being ‘handsy’ was all part and parcel of office life.
I was wearing a royal blue suit, a gusseted skirt, and a button-up top that covered my blouse. My stockings were a 15 denier, almost invisible, but not quite. My heels were only four inches high, high enough to give me a good stance, especially in silhouette, but not so high as to be uncomfortable.
He guided us to one of the park benches, and we sat. I crossed my legs and then brushed my skirt down, making sure that I showed nothing untoward.
“Mica,” he said, turning to look at me, his eyes inevitably gliding down to my décolletage. He coughed, and then his eyes came back up and fixed on mine.
“Mica. I am writing a paper at home; it is my work and has nothing to do with the company.”
“Oh, okay, Mr Foster,” I said, uncrossing my legs and parting my knees.
“And, well, obviously I am not a typist.”
His hand rested on my leg, just above my knee, and he looked away before fixing his eyes on me again. His fingers squeezed gently, and then he spoke again.
“You know, Mica, that I have great influence on who does what in the office, who, for example, spends time in the typing pool and who else spends time as a personal secretary.”
“Sir, no, I did not know that.” The truth is that I was only too aware of that fact. Rachel, who had just left for our competitors in Leeds, told me what he expected and what favours girls had to provide.
“I wonder if you would care for some overtime to earn a little extra money?” His hand relaxed a little and then moved a little higher up my leg, his fingers now under the hem of my skirt.
“What would I have to do, sir?” I asked with as innocent a tone in my voice as I could manage.
“Would you come to my house a few evenings after work, and possibly the occasional Saturday, and type up my manuscripts?”
So, there we have it. I knew exactly what he would expect of me. “And how much overtime pay are we talking, Sir?” I asked. If I were going to be selling myself, I wanted to know just how much for it.
“I would pay you time and a half of your standard company rate. We would be looking at possibly ten hours per week on average.”
“I see, Sir; that sounds okay to me. Yes, I think I would be interested.”
“Good, Mica. A few hours after work tonight then, just so that you can see the lie of the land, so to speak.”
“Sir, how would I get to your house, Sir? Only I don’t know where it is or what bus to get on to go back home.”
“Well, you will come home with me, of course, and if the evening goes as successfully as I hope, then I shall get a taxi on the company account for you so that you can go home safely. My wife will be out; she goes to her mother’s on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturday mornings.”
Today was, of course, Tuesday. So, he wanted me to basically go to his house on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. His hand moved higher up my leg, a fingernail brushing my knickers, and as I gasped, his finger pressed, sliding my knickers into my crease. A man walking a dog approached from his left. Mr Foster moved his hand from under my skirt.
“I think that you can call me Mark when we are in my home. We can leave Mr Foster in the office.” He said, raising his fingers to his nose and inhaling.
As the afternoon wore on, I was unexpectedly asked to go and do some secretarial work for one of the partners; at least I was out of the typing pool. That was a relief. Perhaps that was as a result of me agreeing to do some overtime. At the end of the day, I gathered my things, wondering how Mr Foster wanted to arrange things.
“Give the other girls a chance to go home, Mica,” his voice came into my ear softly, “and then meet me in the car park.” He had walked up to me unseen; he obviously sought discretion.
“Sir,” I said, turning and heading for the ladies.
Inside a cubicle, I slipped my knickers down, putting them in my handbag, and took a pad of toilet paper. Back in the main bathroom, I wetted the tissue and washed my crotch as best as I could. I was under few illusions as to what he expected, and I just didn’t want to smell sweaty. After disposing of the tissue in the loo, I took a tampon from the dispenser and stored it in my handbag. Tampons can be quite useful. I tidied my hair, applied some fresh lipstick and headed out of the office into the carpark.
It was about a ten-minute car ride to his house, a large detached house with fake Tudor beams showing through the pebble dash at the eaves of his house. Typical 1950s-style house. He parked his Jaguar at the front of the house before a large garage, and as he turned the engine off, I got out of the car.
“Right, Mica, with me,” he said, heading to the front door, his keys in his hands. Unlocking the house, he opened the door, and I followed him in. There was a telephone on the hall stand on the right-hand side. He hung his coat up on a hook next to it and then slipped his shoes off. He opened a door next to the hall stand and beckoned me in.
“This is my office,” he said.
The room was reasonably sized. There was a desk with a computer on it, some books on a bookcase and a small sofa. The temperature in the room was very high, almost stifling.
“You can put your things on the sofa,” he said as he fired up the computer. “I’ll just load the word processor programme.”
I slipped my coat and suit jacket off and put them, with my handbag, on the sofa. I realised that my blouse was perhaps a little sheer, but I didn’t expect that would matter much. It also made the temperature in the room more tolerable. He put a floppy disc into the disc drive, and then his document appeared on the screen. He moved away and beckoned me to sit.
“Are you familiar with this programme? It is called Word.”
“Yes, Mark,” I said, “quite familiar. “Do you write on notepaper, and I copy it in, or do you dictate to me, and I enter it directly?”
He was standing behind me, his hands rested on my shoulders, a finger from each hand just catching my bra strap through my blouse.
“I write on paper, Mica, but sometimes I will want to dictate to you directly. Is that okay?”
“Yes, Mark, either will be fine.”
“Shall we try a little dictation first? If you press the key marked CTRL and the N key, it will start a new blank document.” I knew that, of course, but managers like to think that we office girls don’t know anything. I did as instructed, and a new blank document appeared on screen.
“Right then, Mica, let us try a few words so that I can gauge what speed to speak at.”
“Yes, Mark, I am ready.”
“Okay, here we go.”
“The girl sat down at the computer, her manager standing close by. She could smell his aftershave; it was heady and filled her nostrils. Her breath sped up as her senses were aroused.”
I had kept up with that quite easily, but his subject I found, well, interesting, shall we say?
I wondered if this would be his way of starting what he obviously wanted but was too afraid to actually say directly.
“How was that, Mica, was my speed okay?”
“Yes, Mark, it was fine. Did you want to go on dictating that subject? If that was just a test that doesn’t need saving, I can just delete everything.”
“Let’s carry on with that for a bit,” he said.
“He looked down; the swell of her breasts filled her blouse, her bra visible through the almost transparent material. Further down, her skirt seemed to be trapped between her legs, her shape almost visible. He felt uncomfortable, his hardness pressing at his trousers, the zip slightly painful. He wondered how to ease the pain.”
“Okay, Mark, yes, I have no problem with keeping up with you. How would the details progress? Would he want her to ease his discomfort somehow?”
I was trying to ease him along. I knew what the evening’s intentions were, and what I didn’t want was an embarrassed last-minute rush and then to be sent off in a taxi as his wife returned home.”
“Yes, Mica,” he said, his face flushing as I turned to look at him. His crotch was at my eye level, and I could clearly see the bulge of his discomfort.
“Perhaps,” I said, “she could somehow release the pressure?”
“Yes.” His voice was quiet.
I reached across and, taking the metal tag on his zip, I pulled it down; his underpants immediately thrust through the gap.
“Oh, fuck,” he gasped. I rarely heard swear words; I don’t tend to frequent places where they would be used. If ever I went to the pub, I usually sat in the snug, not in the general bar area. At work, I never went down to the storerooms or warehousing, both places where the workers had a little less couth and would almost certainly use words like that.
I undid the button in his trousers’ waistband and widened the opening in his trousers. I slipped my hand past the elastic of his underwear and wrapped my fingers around his dick, pulling it free and into the open.
“Oh, Jesus, Mica,” he gasped, “I need you; don’t stop.”
“What do you need, Mark?”
“I need you, too, you know…”
I was in control; I knew it, and I was going to give him the relief that he needed, but how exactly? The how was as yet undetermined.
“No, Mark, I need you to tell me exactly what you want me to do. Do you want me to put my fingers back on the keyboard and listen to your words as you dictate?”
“Yes,” he almost whispered; it seemed he had difficulty saying exactly what he wanted. I let go of his dick; it stayed poking out of his underpants, his foreskin tight across the end of his dick. I turned back to the computer.
“He looked down at her, her red lipstick so attractive; would she, he wondered, would she do that so secretive thing that a wife would not?”
I dutifully typed in his words, my mind now clear on what he actually wanted. He wanted me to use my mouth. Okay, well, that was all right; I had no difficulty with that act at all. I turned in the chair again and bent forwards, my mouth barely an inch from his dick. I heard him take in a sharp breath, his dick wobbled, and I kissed its end.
“Oh my God,” he gasped, pushing his pelvis so that his dick pushed against my lips. I took the waist of his trousers and underpants and pulled them down to his knees. His balls looked smaller than those I was used to seeing, and his dick was pretty much the same size as all the others that I had encountered.
I kissed his dick and then opened my mouth, engulfing him inside, my tongue wrapping around his shaft as much as I could, and his dick passed my tonsils as he thrust forward. He began to move back and forth, effectively shagging my mouth as if it were a fanny.
“Oh God, Mica, this is fantastic,” Mark said, his breath just gasping between the words.
I did not respond; I had my mouth full, and Mother had taught me not to speak with my mouth full, although I doubted that Mother would have visualised what her daughter had her mouth full of.
He began thrusting harder and faster, and I struggled to catch breaths; his dick seemed permanently in my throat. He had his hands on my shoulders and was pushing my body back and forth in synchronisation with the thrusts of his pelvis.
He thrust hard, pushing deep, and he stopped moving, his dick pressing deep into my oesophagus, and I felt his spurts deep in my chest as he ejaculated. Two, three spurts and he was done. He eased back, his dick dragging over my tongue, leaving a small salty trail of his spunk.
As his dick finally left me, I coughed, not in discomfort but in a reaction to being able to finally breathe, air rushing into and filling my lungs. He stood back, his dick softened and hanging down, a drip of white falling from the end.
“Would you like a drink?” Mark asked.
“Yes, please, just milk would be fine,” I answered.
Mark walked away and left the office, presumably to go to the kitchen and get me a glass of milk. I wondered if that were all that would be expected of me. He was at least twice my age; I didn’t know what his levels of recovery would be. Could he go again?
He came back in with a glass of milk in one hand, holding his trousers and underpants up with his other hand. His dick, I noticed, was already firming up. I doubted that a throat job would be all he would demand of me.
“Take your clothes off, Mica,” he said as he passed me my glass of milk. It seemed my suspicions were right. I took a drink of milk and then put the glass down on the desk by the computer keyboard. I stood up and faced him. I slowly undid the buttons of my blouse, letting it gape open in front of him. Then, pressing the button at the side of my skirt before lowering the zip, my skirt fell to the floor.
I eased my blouse off over my shoulders. I was standing in my bra, Playtex girdle and stockings. Mark let his trousers fall and used his feet to push them fully down his legs. He was standing in front of me with a hard dick, half obscured by the tails of his shirt. He pulled his tie off, undid some buttons on his shirt and pulled it off. He was naked.
I put my hands behind my back and undid my bra, leaning forward as I pulled it from me. I stood up straight, my nipples now pointing forwards, hardening as they were exposed. I undid the suspender clips on my girdle and rolled the girdle down my legs, my stockings now the only clothing I was wearing.
“Oh, fuck,” Mark said.
“I presume that is your desire,” I said, acknowledging his crudity. My term of ‘making love’ seemed very wrong; we were absolutely not going to be doing that.
“Face the sofa,” he said. “Lean forward and support yourself.”
I turned and half knelt on the edge of the sofa cushions, my hands on the back, my legs apart. He would be getting a very good view of my fanny. I knew that he hadn’t aroused me; I knew that I would not be as wet as I would have liked, but, well, I knew it wouldn’t take long.
I felt him behind me, felt his dick as it brushed against my bottom and then pushed between my buttocks. I presumed he used his hands to guide his dick as he was soon pressing between the folds of my fanny. He pushed, my fanny momentarily resisted, and then it gave way. My petals parted and my fanny opened, Mark’s dick pushing in, widening me, filling me, pressing at my depth. His stomach was forcing my buttocks apart, and I could feel the coolness of his office room in my back door crease.
He pulled back, and my fanny began to relax slightly, but I knew what was coming next; I wasn’t relaxed. He pulled back until he was almost out. I could feel his foreskin rolling back along his shaft, creating a softening sensation inside as it moved over his glans. He stopped, the tip of his dick holding my entrance open.
He pushed in, hard and fast, with no thought for preparing me, no care for my body; he simply pushed in hard. He didn’t pause this time; no sooner had the end of his dick pressed against my depth than he was pulling back. He began a steady rhythm, his belly slapping against my buttocks, my gasp as he filled me following the crack of the slap as it echoed around his office.
“Oh, fuck, oh, fuck,” he was gasping as he thrust into me, his foreskin a blur of movement inside me, my fanny now lubricating as my biology took over. The faster he went, the slicker my fanny became, and slight slurp sounds added to the slaps and gasps. They were sounds I only heard when my body was being used as a female body was designed to be used.
He reached around and grabbed my right breast, painfully twisting my nipple between his finger and thumb, pulling at it, stretching it out. All the time he was thrusting in and out, profaning as he took my body. His dick moved rapidly inside me, his foreskin sliding back and forth, his rim scraping my fanny walls as he thrust.
“Oh my fucking God,” he gasped and thrust inside very hard, deeper than before, and I felt his spurts. He had ejaculated again, filling my fanny with his man fluids, flooding my protected womb. He stopped and then pulled back, his dick falling from my fanny; a dollop of his white stuff followed and dropped onto the sofa. I took a breath.
He pulled me up. “Clean me; I need to be clean before she comes home.”
I knew, without him saying anything, that he was referring to his wife. I wondered if he treated her as badly as he treated me. I picked myself up from bending over the sofa, and I knelt on the office floor in front of him and wrapped my lips around his dick. I licked, I sucked, and I did everything I could to remove my essence from his dick. It kind of turned me on when I realised that what I was actually tasting was me—my flavour. His semen was mostly inside me, dripping out and forming a puddle on the office floor.
I had just finished getting dressed when I heard his front door open. It seems we only had time to go twice. I wondered if his wife would get the dick I sucked hard later or whether it would be his right hand. I stood by the kerb, waiting for the taxi that he had called, a tampon in my fanny to stop the drips. Oh well, I guess I knew what Thursday would bring. I could only hope that tomorrow in the office would see me out of the typing pool.
