No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 04

Rufus watched the progress of her hand toward him and his heart raced. This beautiful, desirable woman, the object of his desire, the subject of his every waking thought for the past months, was slipping her extended fingers into the fly of his pants. Her touch was light and cool as she reached inside his shorts and delved through his pubic hair, searching, groping for him. She muttered something and twisted in the chair; it was awkward trying to reach him from her seated position. She persisted, and he felt her touch on his heated flesh. He wriggled to help her complete the contact and grunted in momentary satisfaction when her fingers encircled him.

He placed his hands on his hips and watched her struggle with the angles and his desire for her complete touch. She massaged him gently, but the tight stricture of his fly restricted her movements. He grew frustrated and loosened his belt. He unfastened the clasp of the waistband and his pants fell away to his knees. She clung to him through the opening in his shorts; less constricted, freer.

"Well?" he said, and she led him out through the opening, and the fresh, youthful, pink of her nails contrasted starkly with the angry mahogany of his pubescence.

She held him lightly, fingers circling and marveled once more, just as she had done a thousand times before at times like this, at the perfection of God's plan for procreation and the propagation of the species. He was long and thick, heavy with desire for her, and throbbed within her fingers like a stallion pawing dirt. He was perfect, exquisite in each detail, and he was pointing directly into her soul like Uncle Sam in one of those "I Want You" recruiting posters. Oh God, how smooth and delicate, she thought dreamily, holding him still for her examination. How beautiful he was with lines and veins tracing his length, bulging with the force of his need, and his head, dark with hunger, weeping for her. She stroked him wantonly as she had done countless times for others before him, and the hunger for the taste of him, for the sensation of that smooth, thick flesh on her lips and tongue overcame her.

She leaned to take him into her mouth. She gripped him, directing him toward her oval lips and sucked him into the wet cavern of her mouth. Boys, squealing, squeaking, covering her willing lips with hot dew cavorted in her brain as his hardness plunged into her throat. She tasted him and felt his heat. She thrilled to the touch of him as he filled her mouth with his throbbing need. The texture of him was indescribably smooth, soft, yet hard and unyielding to the pressure of her tongue. She accepted him eagerly and swept his length wetly and felt him shudder. His hands clasped her head, fingers entwining in her loose hair to hold her fast, and he thrust into her open mouth. She held him lightly with her fingertips and sucked, hollowing her cheeks and she felt the tense ball of his hunger for her fill her mouth.

She glanced up and their eyes met. His face was contorted with lust, and he stared at the stretched oval of her mouth where he entered her. She moved her mouth upon him and sensed the quaking in his knees. At that moment, as she felt the beginning tremors of his discharge, she knew she had been born to this servitude. She was molded in the womb to be the perfect, willing receptacle for the torrent that was about to come. He throbbed on the thick, wet slab of her tongue, and the voice of an inner self, deep and throaty, cried out in her mind, “yes, yes, take me, use me, fuck my mouth with your cock, Mr. Justice, let me feel you, taste you, cum for me.”

He gripped her head heatedly and jerked her toward him, and she felt the full power of the man in her throat. Yes, she gurgled silently around his filling flesh, when he began to pulse, and the taste of his seed flooded her senses. He tilted her head back roughly to see her better and withdrew till just the head remained lodged within her lips. She held him there feeling him throb against her tongue and the liquid proof of his passion poured into her. She raised her eyes to his in complete submission to his desire, and hungrily coaxed his flow with wanton strokes of her tongue. He filled her, and she gulped to swallow the gift of his passion, and he filled her again.

She watched the play of emotions across his face, tension, anxiety, joy and relief, all moved like clouds across a mottled landscape, and the certain knowledge that she owned him at that moment in time filled her with satisfaction. He danced for her in the throes of his completion, his feet shuffling reflexively, as the intensity of the feelings sweeping his body rendered immobility impossible. Loose change jingled in his pants pockets as she sucked the remnants from the reservoir of his lust, and she held him tightly in place. “Yes, yes,” the inner voice screamed at her, “take him all, give yourself to him, give him what he wants, suck his cock dry for him,” and she opened her throat to him and pulled him in. She allowed him to go deeply, feeling him fill her mouth and throat till her stretched lips were pressed into the hair of his belly, and the force of his manhood poured into her stomach like a storm-swollen stream.

He shook in her embrace and they rocked together, joined at the face and loin as his passion ran its course and began to subside. He was aghast, trembling with astonished excitement, throbbing with ecstasy as her lips and tongue worked their final, eager magic on him. Never, in his wildest fantasies had he imagined her to be like this. She clung to him with her lips as though loathe to release him, and nursed him with her tongue through his diminishment.

She felt his grip on her head relax, and his hands dropped weakly to his sides. He slipped from her lips and fell back into his chair, exhausted and depleted. His wet member dangled limply from the fly of his shorts, but he was too stunned to cover himself. He stared at her blankly, his eyes dazed, and gulped for air. She could not return his look and cast her eyes down, toward the floor. She placed her hands in her lap, disregarding the disarray of her skirt that was pushed up revealing her panties.

A heavy silence enveloped the room, and only the sound of Mr. Justice's labored breathing and the faint hiss of the TV screen competed with the voices in her head. “Oh you bad girl,” her good voice admonished. “He fucked you pretty good, didn't he; and you, naughty, naughty, you actually enjoyed it, too. Liked the feel of his dick in your mouth, sliding in and out, his fingers in your ears holding you there. He used you didn't he, baby? Used your mouth like a urinal in some public toilet, only it was cum instead of piss he was squirting and you couldn't stop him, could you? You just let him cum and, when he started, you helped him, you slut, you helped him cum and let him go right down your… God, what a slut, you are, letting him and enjoying it like that. Aren't you...”

"Take your clothes off." Rufus’ voice shattered the silence, and the deprecating ranting of her inner voice. Startled, she looked up and saw him watching her intently. His face was red, but he was breathing more easily, and he had loosened his tie at the collar. He still had made no move to cover himself and was blatantly looking at her crotch. She shifted uncomfortably and pressed her thighs together. Silly, she thought, to be suddenly modest in a situation like this, after what she had done, but she felt strangely exposed and vulnerable.

"I said, take your clothes off. Now!" He snapped at her harshly. Had he no gratitude, she wondered miserably, or was he like most of the rest and only nice when they're sticking themselves into you. A soft sob racked her shoulders. She had known it would be like this; it always was. Give them what they want, let them use you, abuse you any way they want and they don't go away, oh no, they just want more and more and more and keep coming back at you again and again and again. She wanted to beg, to plead with him; she even thought to offer to give him her mouth again and her hand made a feeble jerk toward that end, before she realized he was still small and unready and abandoned that hope. That would be too easy, she thought, disheartened. Too neat and clean, too uninvolved and uncommitted just to kneel at their feet and allow them to spend themselves into your mouth. A few licks and a suck, and they are hopping from foot to foot and shaking while their love and devotion trickles down your throat. So easy and so meaningless just to open up and let them in....

"Anne!!!" His voice was strident, commanding and impatient. His fingers were drumming angrily on the armrests.

"Yes, yes, all right, Mr. Justice," she whispered in a tone of hushed submission. Her hands lifted to begin unbuttoning her blouse.

"Stand up."

She looked at him uncertainly, her fingers hesitating. "Get up and stand over there, in front of the map." He gestured toward a wall map of Western Europe hanging a few feet from the desk.

She moved, unwillingly, to comply; standing, then walking slowly like a condemned man taking his place at the killing wall, then, finally, turning to face him in desolate resignation.

"Strip," he said gruffly. She was amazed at the lack of emotion in his voice. Again, she moved to begin unbuttoning her blouse.

"Shoes. Take your shoes off first."

She shrugged. Whatever, she thought, it's your show, and bent, reaching for her foot. She lifted a foot, crossing her legs at the knee and wobbled for an instant as she fought to retain her balance. She slipped her shoe off easily and dropped it to the floor. She switched feet and quickly removed the remaining shoe. The hard, quarried floor tiles felt cold under her stockinged feet, and she wished wistfully that he had told her to stand on his Persian rug. She wriggled her toes uneasily and waited for his next instruction. The photos remained in a stack on his desk, but he ignored them. She prayed that he had forgotten them completely.

"Take off your stockings."

She bent to lift the hem of her skirt. He followed the movements of her hands with intense interest. She wished for an instant that she had picked something less provocative than a garter belt and hose that morning, but her last pair of panty hose had developed a run when she tried to put them on, so it was this or nothing and nothing would have been much worse. She fished under her skirt, revealing little but a flash of bronzed thigh, and released the clasps of her garters. She rolled the hose down her shapely legs, right to the tips of her toes and stooped to carefully insert the tight, nylon donuts into her shoes. Oh no, she thought obstinately, as she stuffed the hose into the toes of her shoes, he's calling the shots here. No boom, boom music or stretching my stocking back and forth over my head like a stripper for his enjoyment, not unless he says so.

She straightened and he pointed toward her and said, "Skirt."

She hooked her thumbs into the stretch waistband of her skirt and began pushing it off her hips. She wriggled as she worked her clothes over the rounded curves of her hips and buttocks, and a slight smile creased the corners of Mr. Justice's mouth. She didn't know whether to be pleased or disheartened by his reaction, but he gave her no time to ponder the question. Immediately, just as her skirt fell to the floor, and she moved to step out of it, he snapped another instruction at her.

"Panties." His voice had an edgy quality, and she glanced to see if he was becoming aroused again, but he was still small, pale and flaccid. What is the point, she wondered as she reached under the tails of her blouse. He was watching carefully as the wisp of bright fabric slid down her thighs and into view. He licked his lips in anticipation, and passed the back of his hand across his forehead. She moved slowly, taking her time, and bent to lower the garment below her knee. She stretched the fabric to enlarge one leg opening and lifted her foot through the hole. She swung the empty leg around to her opposite side before letting go and allowing her panties to drop to the floor. They floated gently, like a silk parachute, down the sculptured column of her leg and settled on the arch of her foot. She raised her foot, catching her panties with her toes, and lifted them to her waiting hand. She caught a glimpse of him through the corner of her eye, as she took her panties from her foot, and, grasping them by the waistband, snapped them in front of her to shake out the wrinkles, before folding them neatly and laying them on top of her skirt on the floor. “What in the hell are you up to now, girl, her good voice chided her again. Are you trying to be provocative? Did you like that, what he did before? Did you? Yessssssss, Ohmygod, you complete slut, you liked it, and now you want to get him up again, don't you? That's what this business is about with the panties. Why, you little whore, you're trying to make his cock hard and ready for you again, aren't you?”She bit her lip to quiet the voice; sometimes, it told her things she did not wish to hear, made her see things she did not wish to acknowledge.

Mr. Justice shifted in his chair restlessly. His tongue swept across his lips again, and he looked feverish. Color tinged his cheeks and tiny drops of perspiration dotted his forehead. She glanced at his lap and appreciated a subtle stirring; color was beginning to return there as well. She felt a renewed quickening in her loins at the sight of him, and her bad voice whispered seductively, “Oh baby, look at him, he likes what he's seeing, he's getting hard again, isn't he, watching you, seeing you move, looking at your body and getting hard all over again just for you. Be bad, baby, be bad as you want to be and make him all stiff and hard for you. Make him big and fat and thick for you to suck some more, baby.”

His lips moved to speak, but her hands, anticipating him, had moved to the buttons on her blouse. She flicked them open with practiced fingers and in mere seconds her blouse hung open from her throat to her belly. She unbuttoned the cuffs and shook her hands to free her wrists from the material gathered there. Her blouse swayed with the movement of her hands, and the tails parted to reveal her belly and the dark triangle of hair below. Mr. Justice leaned forward for a closer look and his hands gripped the armrests of his chair tightly. “Ah, baby, here he comes for you,” her naughty voice giggled, and she struggled to conceal a smile when she saw his need beginning to reassert itself.

She shrugged her shoulders and her blouse slithered down her back and arms. She let it float noiselessly to the floor. Then, she reached behind her and released the clasp of her brassiere. He stared at her cleavage, and she rolled the straps off her shoulders and let her breasts fall free of the cups. Her nipples were taut, distended with her own renewed excitement, and one tip reached out tensely and snagged the lacy edge of her bra. It dangled precariously for a second, hanging from her nipple like a climber on a rope, and she waggled her shoulders, shaking it free and it dropped to the floor in front of her.

The light was poor and she was standing just beyond the circle of light from his desk lamp. She was partly cloaked in shadow, and her form seemed to float in the dimness like a hovering angel. He gasped and the beat of his heart quickened in his chest. My God, she was beautiful, perfect, a statue of exquisite perfection shimmering in the gloaming at the fringe of his sanity. His mouth watered for her and his tongue wallowed helplessly in its watery bed, so smitten was he with her beauty.

She leaned back against the map and raised her arms above her head. Her breasts lifted, stretching, and the hardened ruby points lifted proudly toward the ceiling. She turned her hips and demurely crossed her legs covering herself, posing for him, and he gurgled for her. “He is yours, love,” she thought, her naughty voice returning. “Look at his prick reaching for you, lifting its fat head and blinking its eye at you. He had grown for her, lengthened in his hunger for her and was hard again.

"Come here," he said. He pointed to a place on the floor between his legs and kicked the chair where she had been sitting earlier, sending it away clattering noisily to make room for her. She smiled confidently, sure of herself and stepped to the place he indicated. Her legs brushed his as she positioned herself between his knees. He protruded stiffly from the gap in his underpants and hung heavily, bobbing slightly as Rufus breathed. Her mind raced ahead and naughty spoke, “Take him, isn't he beautiful, soft and sweet, delicious to suck,” and she reached to put her hand on him.

"No," he said, and caught her hand with his. "Be still." She froze and let her hand drop to her side.

His eyes roved her lush curves rapturously, flashing, gleaming, sparkling with desire for her and he feasted on her beauty. His hands twisted the armrests of his chair, and he leaned forward to feel her heat on his cheeks. He pressed the side of his face to her belly and breathed deeply and the scent of her filled his senses. She felt the rasp of his beard stubble against her soft skin and wanted to press him to her body, but did not. He sat up, lifting his chin, and touched his tightly closed lips to her nipples, one after the other, like a Count would kiss the gloved hand of a great Lady, and she longed to thrust those hard points into the hot wetness of his mouth, to be sucked and tickled with his tongue, but she restrained herself.

He leaned back in his chair, panting, his eyes hot slits which flicked across her treasures like anxious bees seeking nectar, and his strength arched up achingly from his shorts and throbbed for her touch. His tongue danced feverishly across his lip and he pulled out one of the drawers beside his knee.

"Put your foot there," he instructed, scooting back to make room. She complied, lifting a foot to the drawer and resting it there. Her knee was higher than his desktop, her thigh formed a right angle with her hip and her legs were spread, exposing her to him. He rolled his chair closer and positioned himself with his legs straddling her standing leg. His hardness nudged her knee on his approach, but he ignored it and focused his attention on her womanhood. His fingers stroked her thighs, first the one between his knees, then the other angling out from her hip toward his shoulder. His fingertips trailed sweet fire over the tender skin of her inner thighs and she shivered. She put a knuckle between her teeth and bit to restrain her hands from snatching his and thrusting his fingers into her. His fingers climbed her baby soft skin with agonizing slowness, pausing to press and test the resilience of her taut muscles, measuring her strength, and her naughty voice exhorted her. “Grab his hair with your hands, yank his face into your crotch and make the bastard tongue fuck your pussy, make him lick your clit and suck your juice.”

She bit her knuckle harder and tried to ignore the voice. His fingers reached the limits of her thigh and traced the margins of her hairy triangle. His touch was light, tantalizing, like the tickling of a feather, and when his fingers reached the inverted point at the top of that triangle and dallied there while her heat built, she fought a titanic struggle within her mind to quell the urge to scream "Fuck me" at him.

His feather drug across her fleshy lips and her heart leapt into her throat. Sensation, tingling fire raced in her loins, and the fine hairs along the tops of her thighs stood in trembling need. "Ohhhhhh," the sigh whistled past her knuckle. He leaned closer and touched her with the tips of his fingers. "Ohhhhh," she gasped again.