Just Another Squeezebyavasogently©
He likes using lotion. Lotion. Locomotion. Jerking forward. Self-propulsion in a plush chair. Instead of chugging, lots of tugging. No diesel in his engine but billowing steam -- his breath hot against the air-conditioned frigidness of his corner office. He is at full throttle. A bit of right-handed velocity, and here comes the viscosity. Vertical. Volcanic. Pure physics embodied in a nearly hairless Homo sapiens with a one-track mind. This description fits my boss, a seasoned accountant named Mr. McPhee, whom I've assisted for the past two years.
In front of the guys who spend hours hunched over their desks, crunching the numbers in claustrophobic cubicles, Mr. McPhee is always hot under the collar and reminding them of the bottom line. But behind closed doors, he hollers for an entirely different reason, and it is my dubious pleasure to witness it. In his office, the bottom he loves watching does not concern dollars. There in his lair, he likes using lotion. This I know, for whenever I walk into his office, my stockinged thighs swishing beneath my pinstriped micromini skirt and causing minute electric sparks from with every stiletto-sharp motion forward -- I hear him roll out his desk drawer and fumble for the lotion. His ritual is unstoppable, so I figure I'd better walk back to the door to secure the lock.
With my back to him, I wait for that zing to pierce the silence of his office. Not the zing of a bandoneón, but the sweep of his zipper. A minimalist whistling sound like a lone catcall in the still of the night. All the while his eyes are pinned on a rearview mirror pruriently positioned on a front wall in his office. I bat my bedroom eyes at him and put on a crooked smile only to feel a bout of seasickness wash over me as I watch his muskmelon head seesaw sideways.
After taking a seat in the chair in front of his massive cherry wood desk, I absentmindedly begin fiddling with its brass knobs. He is excited, which I can discern from his wheezing, not to mention the flushing of his wide forehead. If he had a neck, I could gaze at his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. But he is a shuddering, gasping mess. I hold back a chortle upon seeing his dome reflected in the impeccably polished wood of the desk. Then I hear squishing from his tube of lotion. The scent, pungent with his musk, wafts into my nostrils and stings the back of my throat. It's an earthy yet sickly sweet aroma like ganja, and its effect on me is similar to the contact high I used to get from inhaling the herb's lingering stench while using the stairwell between classes at my high school in Hell's Kitchen. Just as I used to recline in my orange hard-plastic chair in the classroom, at first fighting against and then succumbing to Mary Jane's seduction, now I lean back as far as possible in one of Mr. McPhee's ergonomically correct swivel chairs and splay my legs.
In between wheezing and moaning, he notices that I've shut my eyes like a chanteuse disguising stage fright with rapture. He tells me not to look away from what he's doing. "But, by God, don't close those legs," he adds, giving his thick, short penis a series of rough yanks as if it were an appendage that had become burdensome.
A half-hour into his masturbatory mantras, el jefe distracts me from ganja-musk-lotion-permeated meandering to ask, between lewd groans, "Do you want to help me lighten this -- ungh-h-h-h -- load?"
He doesn't realize that I just want to watch him get off, as I am not permitted to tell him where. I need this job. No more sleeping with the boss, I promised myself in the past. I made that promise seven times, and I must have broken a mirror between the sixth and seventh vows because my luck is running out. It doesn't get any lower than this -- unless he wants me on my knees to worship his now-dribbling prick. My head swimming, preoccupied with failed romances and aborted dreams, I've plunged too far beneath the surface of my private ocean to hear him asking me to fetch him another tube of lotion.
"It's in the sea-green tube," he begs. "Ahhhhh, in the cabinet behind you, to the right. Ohhhhh. OHHHHH!"
"Uh, how much does it mean to you?"
"Oh, shit! For Chrissakes, Roxanne, just bring me the goddamned lotion!"
"Oh no you didn't! Ordering me around like that, you should be knockin' on wood, like that table I polished for you, in the hopes that I don't report you to the CFO."
"Jesus-fuckin'-Christ! OK, Roxanne, dear. Please."
The cabinet is only three feet away, and I walk the short distance in slow motion to the slap-slap-slap rhythm of his sticky palms against his man meat, a rhythm that intensifies as soon as my fatback moves directly into his line of vision. I am acutely aware that the power has shifted to my hands. Carpe diem, I figure. "You know, Mr. McPee-Pee, I mean, McPhee, I wanna raise. A big fat one." (I use my booty as a visual aid.) "Do you hear what I'm sayin'?"
"Roxie, you really got some balls, you know that? You won't even suck me off, according to the manifesto that you presented me when I first tweaked your tubular nips on your second day here. But you've got the balls to vamp around this office, as well as through the maze of cubicles, with your voluptuous physique, then expect me to subsidize your whore's den?"
"What the hell are you talkin' 'bout. I ain't got no Hazden. What kinda car is that anyway?"
"What the fuck are you talkin' about? Look, just get me the fuckin' lotion so I can shoot my wad into that big mouth of yours."
"Yeah, I bet it'll be a real money shot, huh, Mr. McAtrophy. I mean, McPhee."
And with that insult warping his tastebuds, and undoubtedly causing shrinkage, I swing open the cabinet drawer and remove the rancid-smelling lotion in the sea-green tube. At first winding it up like a vengeful pitcher in the penultimate inning being pelted with boos from the home team's fans, I then hurl it at him. The plastic tube lands on the carpet beside his desk; the lotion, in globs on the wall, carpet and his tweed trousers.
"Roxanne, do you have any idea how much that lotion cost me last summer in Provence, you knock-kneed wench? Now, wiggle over here and clean up this mess if you want your big raise."
I'm on the cusp of cursing out boss man, but instead ask, "Six percent?"
"Five point five?"
"Five, and I'll throw in a weekly handjob with, uh, all the fragrant-lotion-from-the French-Rivera-that-you-desire. How's that sound, boss man?"
"Make it a daily handjob with lotion from the dollar store, and you sitting on my desk with your copper legs spread wide so I can see those big white panties, while I beat off to completion -- and it's a deal. How's, er, six percent, Rox?"
"Looks as if I'll be helping you get your rocks off, then, Mr. McPhee." And with that offer on the table -- well, beneath the desk -- I can't resist crawling over to my balding superior. When I reach his trouser legs, I scoop whatever lotion I can from the tweed fabric and the carpet, then sit back on my ankles.
One furtive glance up at his flushed face gives me a fluttering sensation in my belly. The next thing I know, I'm sloshing the mossy-green lotion up and down his throbbing reddish-purple shaft and smearing it on his cool, tight, salt-and-pepper-haired balls. Damn, there's more hair down here than on his head, I wonder while smiling wickedly into his glassy, non-repro-blue eyes.
"Now, who's a good boss?" I coo, my voice quavering from the rhythmic movements of my sensuous strokes. As the saliva dripping from his drooling mouth pools on my scalp, I can feel he's close to orgasm. I whisper, "How do you like my longhand," and he erupts with white lava that's a malodorous mix of garlic-scented perspiration and marijuana.
"Rox, oh-oh, Rox!!! M-m-m-mother of God! Here it comes!" he yells, eyes bulging. And a second later, still grimacing, he cries, "Heeeeerrrrre it is!"
He squirts his semen onto my face, barely missing my right eye. I'm smiling but not from the sticky baptism; I think it's rather funny that Johnny Carson should be reincarnated as Mr. McPhee's spunk. If I hadn't been grinning, of course, I wouldn't have any cum inside my mouth at the moment. But I realize it doesn't taste half-bad. Guess I'll be able to finance that condo after all, I muse, wiping off my boss's man goo with my blouse sleeve and balancing myself on rug-burned knees.