Momentarily, I am disconcerted. My habit of letting my mind drift away to sex is not usually a problem; usually I can absorb what’s being said at the same time. It’s a useful trick because I think about sex a lot. If it becomes too intense, i make an excuse, slip away to the ladies room, lock myself in a cubicle and deal with it. If I’m that aroused, it doesn’t take long. This time, though, I have to ask Ty to repeat the question.
Paul, my husband, says the infamous statistic about how often men think about sex is true. If anything he thinks it’s an understatement, but that may just be Paul assuming that everyone is as sexcentric as he is. What i find curious is that there is no comparable statistic for women. Anyone who assumes that women spend most of their time thinking about what’s to be done in the office or the kitchen is just plain wrong. In my case, very wrong.
There are three of us sitting round a boardroom table covered in files, papers, calculators and cups of half-drunk coffee. Facing me is Ty, our Finance Controller. Ty’s Caribbean good looks, ready smile and easy charm can disguise the acuity of his mind: he was a top five finisher in his year at Harvard Business School. Since my promotion to Head of Personnel I find myself regularly joining him at meetings, and Ty (nobody calls him Tyrone) now figures a lot in my sex fantasies .
Beside Ty is Monique, the lawyer from Paris. She has been flying in once a week for the past couple of months to represent the interests of the French outfit we have acquired. The three of us are the key figures in the committee delegated to sort out the logistics – redundancies, transfer of pension rights, relocation of several of our management people to France, dozens of tedious details. Is it any wonder that I’m often visualising myself lying with my head between Monique’s thighs while Ty enters me from behind?
Monique, I guess, is about forty, which would make her some five years older than me. Lawyer or not, she carries an aura of confident Parisian chic, always fashionably dressed, never overstated. I deduce expensive lingerie from the fact that what appear to be relatively small breasts are invariably well supported. With good legs, she makes the most of her assets. But what lies beneath the image is hard to tell. Although occasionally our eyes meet I can’t decide whether there is a message there or not. I try to imagine her at the point of orgasm but I cannot. All I see is an aloofness that defies penetration. There are rings on her wedding finger but that has been equally true of some of the people Paul and I have met on our occasional adventures. Monique is an enigma.
Then a contrary thought comes into my mind. If I can’t help speculating about the size of Ty’s penis and picturing Monique wrapping her lips around it, how do I know that privately they aren’t having similar thoughts? Could Ty be mentally undressing her – or me? Might Monique’s austere exterior hide a dormant volcano? How crazy if we are all on the same wavelength and nobody does anything about it.
It has been a long day of trying to make sense of the numbers; we are all tired and, if the truth be told, bored. I am tempted to test the water. I could say, “Can I make a suggestion? We’ve got as far as we’re going to get this time. We need a break. Why don’t we take turns to undress each other and see what develops?” The temptation is strong but I resist. If we are all having similar lascivious thoughts they remain unspoken.
[My consolation is to return home and find Paul waiting. Ever since Monique arrived on the scene I have been telling him how I fantasise about breaking through that forbidding exterior, involving Ty, the three of us together. Now we have developed a little ritual for the end of a day when Monique has been in town. We sit in facing armchairs. A CD is playing in the background; our current favourite for this scenario is Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet Overture (coincidentally, he called it a Fantasy Overture). I lift my skirt up to my waist, open my legs and slip my hand inside my knickers. Paul opens his trousers and extracts his penis.
Slowly, and with teasing pauses, I recount my imaginings. Over time the tale has grown longer, new details have been added, but the general outline remains the same.]
The story always starts at the point where I say to Ty and Monique, “Can I make a suggestion?” When I go on to explain what i have in mind there is a long pause. Have I gone too far, misjudged my colleagues? If so, how will I ever recover? The silence is broken by Monique. Nothing in her expression reveals her reaction. She simply crosses to me and says coolly, “Better, I think, if we remove one garment at a time.” She looks at Ty. I realise he has literally been holding his breath for he almost gasps as he nods agreement.
Monique unfastens my blouse, removes it, nods in apparent approval of my rose-patterned bra. She passes a palm across my left breast. Finger and thumb test the nipple, which hardens. Monique stands back. My turn. I approach Ty who drops his hands to the buckle of his belt. He seems disappointed when I merely take off his shirt. Softly, softly.
So it continues until I am left in only knickers and bra. Ty, a man after Paul’s heart, insists that Monique retains the black stockings that match her expensive silk lingerie. He himself is in boxer shorts; a bulge at the front suggests that my wild fantasies about his penis size may not be too far fetched.
After a moment’s hesitation, Ty takes the initiative, leading Monique to the boardroom table. He pushes papers to one side before easing the French woman on to her back. She raises herself slightly, allowing him to slide her knickers down her thighs. When they are removed, he presses them to his face and then hands them to me.
[At this point in one of the early sessions with Paul my husband loses his usual control and ejaculates into his hand. Now we follow a different practice: as I describe the scene on the boardroom table, I take off my own knickers and pass them to Paul. After holding them to his face for a while, he wraps them round the shaft of his penis and resumes stroking slowly from the base to the tip. I dip two fingers into my wetness and spread the lubrication across the lips and on to my clitoris. I take deep breaths, maintain my self-stimulation at a careful, unhurried tempo, savouring the erotic temperature. Watching the movement of Paul’s hand, I remain silent. Eventually, he begs me to continue the story.]
“Ladies first,” says Ty. His smile contrasts strongly with the lawyer’s unrevealing expression. However, Monique offers no resistance when he parts her legs and raises her knees. He gestures to me. I kneel at the end of the table and observe at close quarters a neatly trimmed dark triangle above puffy labia. Monique reaches down with both hands and parts the lips. It is clear she is very wet. As I press my face to her opening I am aware of a delicate perfume as well as the natural muskiness of her sex. Does this woman who gives nothing away really apply the fragrance every morning just in case? My tongue probes. Monique squirms. Her thighs close against the sides of my head.
For some while I devote all my concentration to melting Monique’s reserve. My tongue glides in and out of her warm vagina. I lap at the outer edges of the labia. I part them with my fingers to expose the clitoris which I nibble gently. With the firm point of my tongue I probe the inner folds once more.
Forced at last to come up for air, I look up and see that Monique is at least no merely passive participant.
Ty has shed his shorts to reveal a hard penis of impressive dimensions, the thickness in proportion to its length. Meeting other couples with Paul, I have encountered one or two large organs myself and I’ve learned that they are not necessarily a guarantee of additional satisfaction, but there is no denying the visual impact. Technique is everything and here it seems it is the aloof French lawyer who has the technique.
Monique has turned her head to one side, has her hand on the shaft and is feeding it into her mouth. I guess that there is some tongue expertise, too, for Ty has his eyes closed and his head thrown back. He moans quietly and pushes forward with his groin as though seeking deeper penetration. Instead, Monique withdraws him, holds him at arms length while she regards the erect monster against Ty’s flawless brown skin. Resuming, her tongue flicks out to make contact with the underside of the head.
Thinking that I need to experience Ty’s manhood, too, I resort to distracting Monique’s attention. I bury my head between her thighs once more, but this time my intention is not to tease. I locate the clitoris, suck on the nub, draw it between my pursed lips, lick with my tongue, increase the tempo, apply pressure. Muscles along the inside of her thighs begin to twitch, a sign that we are reaching breaking point. There is no sound, no cry, just a long exhalation accompanied by an upward pressure against my mouth. I discover that Ty, his penis temporarily abandoned, has sensed the oncoming orgasm and has aided it by kneading Monique’s breasts until my ministrations have their effect.
Ty hands me a tissue. The French woman’s intimate secretions are on my face, the only evidence so far of what now seems to me to be an intensely needful but rigidly suppressed sexuality. Prompted by Ty, we change positions. I kneel at a right angle to Monique with my breasts close to her face. Her mouth and fingers close on my nipples.
Behind me, Ty’s fingers explore my vagina, testing the seeping moistness. Satisfied, he progresses. I am aware of the head entering me. Although I am ready for anything Ty cares to do, he is very considerate, penetrating only a few centimetres before pausing to ask if I am all right. I tell him yes, just go on. Soon he is inside, not to his full length but still deep. He rests there for a moment and again asks for reassurance. If this is meant to torment me, it is succeeding. I can’t wait any longer and I tell him so. He begins to withdraw until, I suppose with the tip of his penis at the very opening, he plunges swiftly and firmly into me. The rhythm begins to build. Monique’s attention to my breasts is subtle and clever, complementing the rising excitement between my legs. I want it to last for ever but I have no experience of Ty, no idea how long he can maintain his fierce pounding. With each thrust I hear a sound like a grunt but as though it is emerging through clenched lips. Unwilling to risk an anticlimax, I reach down to my clitoris and bring myself to a shattering orgasm.
[Sometimes Paul likes me to come at this point in the story, so that he sees me fingering myself to a conclusion at the same time that I am explaining how I imagine it would be with Ty. He then handles himself until he, too, comes. But tonight I shake my head. I have a new idea and I want us both to wait. He is still fondling his penis wrapped in my knickers as I pick up where I left off.]
I realise I have underestimated Ty’s stamina. His penis still juts proudly, ready now for Monique. At least for the present, I am sated. I take a chair to watch. Wordlessly, Monique lowers herself to the floor, opens her legs and waits. Ty kneels, goes through the testing process with his fingers he used on me, then eases himself into her. Steadying his balance with the knuckles of his hands on the floor, Ty rocks back and forth. Penetration is soon total. Monique wraps her legs round his back, opening herself to accommodate his full length. Each time he withdraws I can see her juices glistening on his shaft.
At last, Monique can no longer retreat behind a facade of impassivity. She is talking to him, quietly, urgently. I strain to understand until I realise that this woman, whose professional persona is fluent in English, has reverted to her native language. “Baise moi. Baise! Vite. Plus fort! Oui, comme ça. Oh, oh, oui.” Incredibly, Ty responds, thrusting ever faster and more forcefully. My hand steals between my legs, presses the clitoris into prominence.
I cannot believe that Ty can maintain this level of lust, must explode at any minute. It seems that Monique has the same thought. She has taken charge and she isn’t finished with him yet. She wriggles away from him, commands him, “Attends chéri. Ta bite – continue.” Understanding, Ty cups his penis in his hand, although there is no sign of its hardness yielding.
Monique, meanwhile, is turning on to her knees, offering Ty a view of her trim buttocks. She looks over her shoulder. “Encules-moi,” she implores. “Enculer. Tu comprends?” She starts to reach behind her but Ty has understood. He, too, kneels, lowers his head and applies his tongue to the pink rose of the lawyer’s anus. “Oui,” she says. “C’est bon, ça.”
While preparing her for the next stage, Ty, I notice, has fully comprehended Monique’s injunction and is diligently sustaining his erection. On Monique’s face now is an expression of excited expectation. From time to time she moistens her lips. Her eyes are closed as though she is visualising Ty’s attentions. He stops licking, lubricates his index finger in her vagina and inserts it gently into her anus. A second finger follows with no obvious difficulty. I realise that this woman is accustomed to anal sex.
Ty is the beneficiary. His penis, for all its size, slides smoothly into the aperture he has prepared. He grasps her hips and sets up a steady, relaxed rhythm. Monique murmurs approval and encouragement. Time becomes irrelevant as they move in rapturous harmony. I wonder if I should attempt to join them, help Monique to orgasm perhaps. But such is their almost trance-like equilibrium I fear I might somehow spoil this ecstatic coupling.
When the moment arrives, signalled by Ty’s laboured breathing, Monique instinctively reacts. She throws herself on to her stomach which has the effect of removing Ty’s penis from its warm nest. Turning agilely on to her back, she opens her mouth wide. The invitation is obvious. Ty kneels beside her head and takes his penis in his hand. One stroke, two, three. On the third a jet of white semen, restrained for so long, spurts into the back of Monique’s throat. The next few seconds are a blur I have an impression of Monique draining the last drops from that huge manhood at the same time that dizzying feeling engulfs me as my fingers induce my own completion.
[Needless to say, this narrative has taken Paul to the very edge. He removes my knickers from his erection and comes to stand at my side. I open my mouth and mirror in reality the climax of my fantasy.]
A week has passed. Monique is paying her weekly visit. The day has been taken up with a series of sub-committees. I have seen nothing of the lawyer and so have been unable to focus my fantasies on her person. But now it is the end of the day and Ty, Monique and I convene in the boardroom to compare notes. An hour passes in juggling figures, preparing summaries.
Finally, I clear my throat nervously. They both look up from their papers. I say, “Can I make a suggestion? We’ve got as far as we’re going to get this time. We need a break. Why don’t we …”
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