Lawyer Debbie Does Dessert Ch. 02

I opened the flap of the note case clutched to my breasts, drew out my copy of the draft of the agreement I'd done for Jim, and said, "Here's the way this is going to work." I thrust down hard, a sudden jolt then -- CURL! -- as his fingers did intimate things to my private parts. "Hey!" I snapped, taking charge. "Don't move your hand." His fingers stilled. On I went, "This is a copy of the final draft agreement I prepared for Jim. I believe he showed it to you today." That at least had been the plan. "So here's what we're going to do." His fingers were still, still. "You sign this, here, now, and get that trouser-buckle-happy Finance man of yours in the kitchen to witness the signature, and I'm yours for fifteen minutes."

Silence ... then,

"Mine for fifteen minutes ... if I sign this?" He was staring at the paper in my hand with a bemused expression on his face.

"Yes." I confirmed.

His expression changed. It became a self-satisfied grin. "Make it half an hour and it's a deal."

"Fifteen minutes." I stuck to my guns.

"Negotiate," he suggested, the grin becoming a smile, as if he knew something I didn't know. But I knew what he figured I didn't know. He knew he was about to have sex with a hot-looking chick half his age. (When I'm aroused I know I look hot). And he probably guessed it would be good. And he'd be right, for putting it bluntly I'm a first rate fuck. (F***ing is high on my list of skills.)

"Twenty minutes, no more," I conceded, glancing again at the clock, wondering how tight this would be.

"Twenty-five, and it's a deal," he said, as if we had all the time in the world.

"Twenty," I insisted, handing him the document and a pen from the flap of my note case. "But starting in one minute, max," I appended, becoming concerned that we were cutting this fine. What if Jim got back before we were finished? What if he got express service, or something. Or the traffic lights were green all the way. I wanted him pleased about the contract, not pissed off at me at what I had done to get it. Dunkerly was scribbling his signature already, half way to the kitchen. "And put your assistant on look out!" I called, good ideas pouring forth as I turned in a circle on the carpet.

"Here it is," said Dunkerly, thirty seconds later, with a smug self-satisfied look on his face, as if he had the better deal, rather than me! It was all about priorities, I guess. But this seemed fair reward for fifteen minutes of my time. Well ... twenty minutes. As I reached behind me to the zip of my dress I realised how much this would mean to Jim and me, which is when I saw that eight minutes had passed since he left. As I stepped out of my dress I noticed the kitchen door open a sliver.

"He doesn't watch!" I said, sounding nervous, slightly shrill, pointing at the kitchen door.

"Go away!" shouted Dunkerly. "Outside. Be a look-out!" Good idea, I thought as the kitchen door closed. I folded my dress and laid it over the back of a chair.

"Over the sofa?" I asked, seeking confirmation, stepping towards it. I slipped my briefs from my hips and starting to push them down my legs.

"And the bra," he suggested in a voice that broke over 'bra'. You can say what you like but the sexual power that can make a grown man lose his voice, is one heck of an aphrodisiac. But I hung tough.

"No bra, not part of the deal," I said, showing who was the lawyer here.

"The deal is, You're mine for twenty minutes. And I said lose the bra," came back at me. No break in his voice this time round as he showed me who was boss.

I reached behind me. Lost the bra.

"Okay," I said, wondering if the stockings and heels would be next, but it seemed we were done with the strip. Besides, he had access to all the important bits.

"A kiss first," he said, holding open his arms.

"Watch the time," I said, glancing at the clock, going into his arms and resignedly offering up my lips. But there was something unexpected in the kiss. Ingredients that weren't in most kisses these days. A stranger, for a start. Different lips, different shape, different taste. In my sitting room no less. Marriage photo on the mantelpiece. Ink drying on a contract. Husband driving through the night. Hormones kick-starting within me. Naked but for stockings, shoes, and earrings. Chemicals stirring up a hotpot of arousal and excitement within. Stir, then twitch, they boil, then bloom -- EXPLODE!

This was different. This was needy. This was hungry. This was NOW!

In less than a minute our tongues were at war with each other. They started light, explored a bit, got fresh, then hard and lively. Now they were at war. No quarter given. Two mouths on heat building to a climax we both knew would come. There was no other way could this end. Fire in our chests, fireworks at the core, eruptions from the spirits: a lot to look forward to. So little time: it added to the mix! A large hand clutched my butt and pulled it right and up and as it did the buttock clenched and filled his hand and climbed. The sound was me, groaning in his mouth. A finger eased into my anus. I cut it off, or felt as if I did, so hard did I react. The bulge within his crotch became apparent, growing large, growing fast and well defined. But still our kiss continued ...

To have a mouth so hungrily attack ones own spurred on by no more than the male-driven take on a female presentation of her charms, does a lot for a girl's self esteem! When a similar desperate grasping of hands, and powering of chest, and thrusting of groin at the charms of the female presented reaches such a frenzy of excitement as this, it does more than stroke self-esteem. It ignites retaliation. A bush fire of rampant arousal and wild unbridled response.

Is this what we females are? Mere biological machines that seek to stoke our self esteem with the sexual devotion of men? Arousal the encouragement; the joys of unrestrained orgasm our just deserts?

A stirring of anticipation, growing excitement, mounting passion. The ultimate total surrender of self to the lust-driven hunger sparked in the male by what he thinks of you the female. The softer, smoother female part. That he thinks so much (of you) that it drives him to such animal slaverings and lust says a lot of what he thinks about You. You the desirable female. You the possessor of requisite charms. You the lusciously desirable sexual animal that stokes the fire in the savage breast of the savage beast, called man.

"Quick," I mouthed in a guttural groan down his throat.

We gotta hurry, I thought to myself, urging my hands to swing him around and ease us towards the sofa. There wouldn't be time if we didn't. (There HAD TO be time.) "You gotta move," I groaned, encouraging, pushing myself away from the man then leaning towards him, planting a kiss on the tip of his nose. "Let me turn," I whispered, reaching behind to prize off his hands. "I need to turn around," I explained, the back of the sofa against my butt, my butt being deprived of his hands, the fingers now all prized loose. "Let me turn." I beseeched with my eyes.

He let me turn. The ham-like hands stayed where they were, at my hips, as I turned within their scope. I felt every inch of his hands and he felt every inch of my buttocks and hips as I turned and leaned over the back of the sofa. Legs straight and apart, ass cocked in the air. I lowered my arms and shoulders and head into the fragrance of Jim and me in the sofa's soft seats. Regency stripe on the cushions. The down of duck they were filled with. It has been our first purchase for the house. We'd got it in a small ...

"Ngaaar!" I groaned as something large and warm and blunt and moist -- and forbidden -- inserted itself into the swamp-like heat and honey-stickiness of the fantasy world that existed -- forbidden too -- between the fat engorged lips of my slavering sex. My pelvis (immorally) rose, to greet it. I arched my ass ever higher in the air. I gasped. My thighs sought to open my innards up wide to the man who had his hands around my hips. I clutched at my breasts and squeezed and tweaked the pea hard nipples. I squeezed again as he ran the tip of his penis up and down the runnel of my labia. The slickness of my juices made it like a spurtle through warm porridge.

But I wanted him inside me. Spurtles were one thing, but the state to which I'd let myself ascend had far more specific demands. Demands that had requirements all their own. Pressing needs, you might say. I started to beg him to press, as I tweaked and squeezed my breasts again. Rolling my shoulders round my ears. Pushing my face in the smell of my husband's rump on the sofa's soft cotton. Regency striped.

"Ngaaaar!" I groaned as the tip of his penis positioned itself for the final assault.

"Aaaaaagh," I gasped as the head eased slowly inside me.

I felt my grip apply. The core awareness flutter, pulse, then suck. Like lips compressed around a candy bar. Seeking flavour, size, and warmth. Caressing the invader with an almost curious hunger.

What is this? What does it want? What have I inside to offer it?

The body has its own inbuilt protocol when it comes to manners pertaining to sex. When a visitor comes calling -- is over the threshold as it were, assertively entering the vestibule with its bulk and its heat and its hunger and wants -- lubricating juices like offerings of myrrh are liberally placed along its way to ease its passage. The body wants it there. It wants it to come in. Greetings are extended in the manner of the pulsing of the walls. Welcome is expressed in the manner of the thrusting of the whole. Achieving the entry and encouraging penetration ever deeper is a matter of joint cooperation, rather than a solitary chore. One wants the guest to feel at home. But also feel it IN the home.

To let it enter, deeply, completely, so thoroughly that it is in and beyond the bulk of this obviously 'desirable residence'. All the way in, in fact, until the tip, the manly head, the bulbous expression of adoration manifest, is snug in the deepest recess of the most intimate part of the mistress's bedroom. That's what we're after here. That is the hospitality the female strives to provide to the male in moments of heightened excitement. To those whom the body decides to favour with its charms. Or the mind decides, for whatever reason suits, should be willingly entertained.

Even if only a one-off.

Once the decision to open the door is made, the body wants it there. Inside. Snug and warm. Hard and maybe throbbing. Deep inside. To have it finally as far as it will go inside the willing suitor, trembling perhaps, slavering possibly, pulsing in all likelihood -- in the male's more vulgar fashion of sexual oscillation -- that is what this is all about.

We hold it there, like that, for a beat, or two ... then three. But then, of course, it must withdraw. It must withdraw not because it wants to get away. It withdraws because the entry itself was something that deserves to be repeated. It was exciting in itself. In moments, explosively so! So exciting, in fact, that the body wants to do it all over again. It wants to repeat it because ... it was fun! So he did. Of course. Repeat it. Right there in my sitting room. Accountant on the lookout. Husband temporarily away.

Then he did it again! I gasped. And again! I gasped again. Again! A groan. Again! A yelp. Again! Another yelp from me. A harder thrust! An even louder yelp. A mighty thrust and then, "Graaaagh!" I let it out into my forearm held across my mouth, head stuck deep in cushions. The entrant was larger than I'm used to. Not huge, I do not think, as I could take him, but more than enough for me to know that he was there ... going in and out of me with an energy bordering on frenzy. Bouncing my buttocks and hips and pubis and front of thighs against the broad soft back of the sofa in a way that the maker of the sofa may not have allowed for in its design.

Might it collapse?

When I came -- and Boy! Did I come! -- I did so like an animal on heat. Steam powered it must have seemed like from the sounds: a series of anguished yelps. Piston driven from the manner of my thrashing up and down. The delirious end result was many times more powerful than the earlier bout had produced, that time with fingers this time with something a lot more robust. I bit down on my forearm. Hard. I was much too loud. I continued being bounced around like a ball on a beach, about to object and ask for peace. I craved some respite from it all -- when suddenly: Zonk! "Aaaaaaaaaargh!" I keened as my back arched tight and my head lifted high off the seat of the couch. I had climaxed again. A riveting, unexpected hallelujah from a far off land of ecstasy I hadn't even known was there. Where everything was magnified a hundredfold. Where mortal beings most rarely tread. Where this one never had before.

Multi orgasmic, always my wish. But never my experience.

I froze like that, inside and out. Nothing moved but the pulsing waves that had taken up rhythm inside me. Causing my innards to thrust and strut and pluck at my core. An array of finely tuned sexual strings, some of them new ones on me. Then he came himself. Spurting, spluttering, fluttering like the strong broad fin of a diving whale. As if waving farewell in a manner that had me holding on for dear life, as I climaxed yet again. Three times in a row. I started to cry.

I was dressed when Jim returned. It took him longer than we thought it would. A lot longer. Almost two hours. The guests had gone an hour before. Tired of waiting, I suppose. Nothing more in it for them, perhaps. I was dressed in my nightie, in bed, with the duvet up to my chin and a bag of ice cubes on my forehead. It was Dunkerly's idea. The bag of ice. To take some of the colour from my face. And it had worked. As too had the hour in bed, to get my breath back.

"They gone?" said Jim as he entered the bedroom.

"Hours ago," I responded, tartly, exaggerating just a tad.

(I think I had decided this was mostly his fault.)

"Puncture," said Jim looking morosely into the carrier bag from Chan's. "Don't know where the jack is, do you?"

"I thought there wasn't one," I replied.

We'd got the car fifth hand.

He pulled a bottle of champagne from the bag. "Don't suppose you'd like a glass," he said, looking at the label.

"What's it in aid of," I asked, still not sure why he had bought it. I mean, what was it for?

"Signing the agreement," he said.

"Sorry ..." (How did he know it was signed!)

"Signed after lunch," he said, looking at the bottle.

"After dinner, you mean," I put in, confused.

"After lunch." He looked up. "At Dunkerly's Club."