Ms. Tease Act 05

Act V: Swelling

The knock comes softly at the office door.

"Everything alright?" she asks me.

It's hard to say. When I glance down, it looks as if I've a steel bar jammed down the front of my pants.

"Ummm..." I say.

"Can I come in?"

"Okay," I tell her, unable to think up an excuse plausible enough to keep her out of the office any longer.

I face the other way as the door cracks open and her head and shoulders emerge into the room.

"I thought for a minute you'd died in here."

"Rigor mortis would explain it," I mumble under my breath.

She looks confused as she comes all the way in. "Explain what?"

"I'm having some...issues."

"What kind of issues? What are you hiding there anyhow?" she asks, seeing my hands down by my waist and coming closer.

"I seem to be experiencing a little swelling," I caution her.

"What kind of swelling?"

"You know...SWELLING," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Oh," she laughs. "So what? That happens to all boys."

"I know, but I can't leave until it goes down. You know how teenage girls are. They can spot an erection from fifty paces."

She laughs again. "How noticeable can it be?"

"Pretty noticeable," I shrug.

"Well, turn around. I'll tell you if it's obvious."

"No way!" I protest.

"Come on, don't be a baby. What's the big deal? I have seen swelling once or twice before you know."

"Not my swelling you haven't."

"Okay, forget it then," she says, turning to go. "Stay here all night for all I care."

I tell her to hold on, realizing that I'm acting immaturely. After all, she's only trying to be helpful.

"You promise you won't laugh?" I say.

"I won't laugh. Now show me it."

There's something about the way that she tells me to show it to her that I'm unable to refuse. I can feel myself going red, but even so I obey her, turning slowly, aware that my erection shows obscenely in profile before I square up facing her. Her eyes are locked on my crotch, and my cock grows even harder beneath the scrutiny, almost paining me now. I can feel the thumping pulse inside of it.

"Well?" I ask, unable to stand the silence.

"Wow," she says, making me cover myself with both hands.

"You said you wouldn't laugh at me," I remind her.

"I'm not laughing," she says.

"So is it noticeable?"

"Ohhhh yeah."

"You think they'll spot it?" I ask.

"I don't see how they couldn't," she says. "Even if they don't, if one of them tries to hug you, you're done for."

"I know. That's what worries me most."

"Well I'm sure it'll go down," she laughs. "Swelling always does."

"That's the problem, it's been like that for over an hour."

When I say it, it's her turn to go crimson. "You lie."

"I swear."

"Is that normal for you?"

"I wish."

She takes a minute to ponder the matter over. "I guess you'll just have to take care of things then."

"What do you mean take care of things?" I ask.

"You know," she says, eyeing the lump in my pants again. "Take care of things..."

I'm having a hard time believing she's suggesting what I think she's suggesting. "But I can't even get to the bathroom like this."

"Use the office then."

"You don't mind?" I ask, flooded with relief by how understanding she's being.

"Why would I mind?" she shrugs. "It's always good to have some dirt on your boss anyway."

Her comment makes me laugh, as both of us know she has enough dirt on me already to have me fired ten times over. "Fine, but you better not mention this to anyone else. I can't be having everyone having dirt on me. Give me fifteen minutes. That should be enough time."

"Oh no, I'm not leaving. I have a ton of work to do and I need the computer."

"But it's only fifteen minutes," I protest.

"Blame yourself for giving me so much to do."

I'm stumped. Like all women, she can be exasperating when she has a mind to be. "Then how am I supposed to...?"

"Don't mind me. Just close the door and get it over with." she says, brushing past me, so close that I can smell her perfume before she settles down in front of the computer. "I won't watch."

"You mean do it in front of you?"

"It doesn't bother me," she says, logging in.

I find myself dumbfounded by her nonchalance.

"Are we talking about the same thing?" I ask.

When she turns to me in her seat, I notice somewhat frantically that her eyes are at the precise level with my crotch. "If we're talking about you whipping out your dick and jerking off until you spray cum all over the place we are."

I can feel my jaw somewhere down by the floor, making speech an impossibility.

"Sorry," she laughs, seeing the pained expression on my face. "Figured that might help you out."

"I don't know how appropriate that would be," I manage to say when I'm able to speak again.

"It has nothing to do with appropriate or inappropriate. You need to get that big thing down if you're going to leave, and I need you out of my hair so I can get my own work done. Apparently that's the only thing that's going to do it."

She's got a point. Besides, if truth be told, the idea of masturbating with her in the same room is not without its prurient appeal.

"What's got you in such a state anyway?" she asks.

The question catches me by surprise, and I'm at a loss as to what to say. It's like I shed IQ points in her vicinity. Eventually I admit that I'd caught quite the glimpse down her blouse earlier in the evening as she was down on her hands and knees, searching for some change she'd dropped on the floor. Thinking again of those tanned orbs swaying down inside her shirt serves to stiffen me even further.

"Oh my, I had no idea you were such a voyeur," she says with a little laugh. "I'll have to be more careful around you from now on. Now hurry up and get it over with."

I feel better after making my confession, determined to at least give it a go, even if the circumstances are somewhat unusual. "Can I turn off the light at least?"

"The overheads," she tells me. "But leave the other one on. We wouldn't want the children to think we were up to any funny business."

Indeed, I think, hitting the switch. It's still brighter than I'd prefer though, and I stand rooted in place for a moment, unsure as to how to position myself. Her mention of the kids makes me worry they'll be able to see past the flimsy curtains hanging in the office window. Otherwise I could have at least given her the courtesy of turning my back to her. As it is she's off to one side of me as I lower my zipper.

I'm aware of the silence, broken only by the occasional mouse click as I work to extricate my erection from my pants.

My penis bobs a time or two when it makes contact with the open air, as if scenting something out; in four years it's never been allowed the light of day inside these walls. Even in the diminished light, I can see that it's terribly inflamed -- pale white with a ruby red crown and a purple-green vein snaking along its length. For a moment I just stare at it as if I'd never seen it before.

"Well?" she says, her eyes never leaving the computer screen. She seems transfixed by whatever it is she's working on.

"Right," I say, turning a little more to the side, but not so much that I'm at risk of being seen through the outside window by any passersby peeking through the gaps in the blinds.

Without any preliminaries, I begin to stroke myself, using my right hand in long productive strokes. I'm aware of the sounds I make: my arm brushing up against the fabric of my shirt, the dry thump of my pud in my hand. It's funny that with two decades worth of jerking off under my belt, I've never paid any attention to them. But now these intimate sounds almost seem more inappropriate than the act itself, and I angle my elbow awkwardly away from my body as I continue to work.

The angle is all wrong though, and the elbow comes back in, the sounds intensifying as I speed up my stroking, going strictly for efficiency rather than any style points.

At times I glance to my left, but she's still staring at the screen, ignoring the commotion entirely. Even so, her presence has me befuddled and I'm not getting any closer. After some brief deliberation, I use my left hand to dig my balls out of my pants too, letting them hang down low and full. My breath comes faster now, and the sounds I'm making increase as my balls sway in time with all my tugging -- slapping dully against the fabric of my pants and adding to the cacophony.

We're getting somewhere now, and the proximity of my orgasm begins to make me brazen. I steal a glance at her body -- legs crossed high up, thigh muscles taut, chest thrown forward. I feel guilty for using her in such a way, but I can't help it. I'd like to chew my way through all that clothing until I reach the moist center of her. It's starting to feel really good now, and it's an effort to try not to groan.

I wonder if unconsciously she's counting the strokes in her head. If as I work, they continue adding up, her mind employing mysterious algorithms to translate them in her head into so many wasted inches, unaware as her mind runs through formulas for potential thrusts, friction that never was, 2.6 orgasms for every 1,000 plunges.

My own climax is there, but still it refuses to come to the foreground. As I rub my balls with my left hand, my right hand goes up to my mouth. I lick it wetly, thinking she won't notice.

"There's some baby oil in the hygiene cabinet," she tells me without turning her head.

I frown and waddle over to the cabinet to get it, my dick stretched to its full potential and bouncing heavily. When I look over my shoulder, she's paying me no mind. I go back to my spot with the baby oil, flicking the cap open and dousing my cock liberally with the contents.

It annoys me how cool she is throughout the whole ordeal. For months now she's had me in a sexual frenzy, but I could be putting lotion on my hands or feet for all the interest she's showing. When I set the bottle down, I do so with a little bang that receives a slightly raised eyebrow. Good, I think. The oil is cold at first, but it warms up quickly as I work it into the length of me, feeling it run down over my testicles. When I begin stroking again, the sounds go delightfully obscene -- little squishy slurps and clicks that I know she can hear.

It feels too good, and I'm certain I'm finally close to getting some much-needed relief. I steal another look at her, wanting her to share in the feeling, acknowledge this freight train of biological imperative. I realize that I've turned incrementally towards her without having any awareness of having done so. In fact I'm practically facing her now, as if daring her not to look at this miracle of abandoned decorum and crackling nerve endings.

There's a knock at the door -- one of the kids needing something that can wait until morning. It throws off my rhythm, staving off my orgasm. I can almost feel the semen backing up in the tubing of me as I stretch my shirt down over all the activity going on at my midsection.

"We're changing shifts. Be out in a minute," she calls out through the door.

"Damn it," I say.

"What's wrong?" she asks, refusing to look even now.

"I was so close."

She says nothing, and I know that I'm on my own. I need some inspiration to get back on track as I start up my tugging again. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, her face awash in the blue glow coming off the computer monitor. Her mouth is open slightly, and her breaths seem to come quicker, making her tits rise and fall. Looking closer, I can see that her nipples are hard, little nubs of arousal trying to drill their way out of her shirt. I know they're responding to the state of my cock -- erectile tissue saluting in mutual admiration, sending out greetings and salutations. Like foreign dignitaries at court.

The knowledge of her excitement makes me stroke all the faster. Drops of oil smack down on the floor as she uncrosses and then re-crosses her legs. The squishy noises are louder now. It sounds like fucking. I reach down and squeeze my balls gently, feeling the shaved skin of my scrotum as she crosses her legs again. I can't take my eyes off them, and in no time I'm back on the precipice, making little sounds: 'Haah', and 'Unh'. My leg muscles begin to tighten in anticipation, my ass clenching as I start to feel the telltale signs deep down in the core of me -- the tingle and whir of my prostate, a little centrifuge roiling my semen around in my nuts in preparation for release.

"Unh," I say, so fucking close.

"You better not make a mess on the floor," she tells me, anticipating me without turning.

The comment pushes my orgasm back once more, but the crescendo has already begun to build again. Frantically, I look around for something in which to catch my load -- a tissue, a stray cleaning rag left in the office. There's nothing, and I'm about to despair when I see her reaching down beneath her skirt. I watch as she lifts one ass cheek and then the other, working the tiny garment down and away from her body, over her shoes and off. She balls the panties up and hands them to me before finally turning to look at my dick.

I barely have time to register the wetness of the little black thong against my hand before I bring it up to my face, breathing her musky smell deep inside of me, jabbing my tongue into the fabric as I stroke faster, my arm movements a blur as she watches openly now.

"Do it," she says in a whisper, the kind usually reserved for lovers. "Lick my panties and come for me."

Her words push me over the edge. The tingle moves outward now, utterly beyond my control. The little centrifuge in me loses its center, flinging my load up into my shaft.

"Unh," I say. "Unnnh..."

My arm aches and still she's watching me, silently goading me on. When she licks her lips, I barely have time to get her panties off my face and down in front of my cock as shot after shot of thick hot seed spills forth from the head of me, the damn bursting upstream, making me cry out and all the little crack orphans in the world be damned.

The semen comes and comes. It's as if it's replaced all of my bodily fluid, flying out from the little slit at an incredible velocity, gob after gob until her underwear is covered in the stuff. It drips down off my hand to the floor in long white strands until finally there is no more. It's all I can do to keep my feet and avoid blacking out.

When it's over and I can open my eyes, I look down at the balled up panties in my hand. It's hard to believe they were once black; they look as if they've been dunked in a bowl of Elmer's Glue. I'm about to offer them back to her, but then hesitate, the panties in the air between us, worried if it won't be considered indelicate to return them in their current condition.

"Keep 'em," she says, turning back to the computer.