The Fever

It was happening again. Syrie gasped as she woke up, realizing that the sweaty state of her sheets and the creeping feeling beneath her skin that burned its way around her body could only mean one thing. Her fever was back.

"Oh God, no," she whispered. She thought she had gotten past this. She thought that after intensive therapy, after changing her name and her job and moving to another country, she had finally put the past behind her. But now it was back, back to consume her life once more.

She quickly leapt out of her bed and headed to the bathroom to take a cold shower. As she stood beneath the punishingly cold water, she kept repeating her personal mantra over and over to herself: "I won't let this consume me. I won't let this consume me. I won't let this consume me."

She managed to get her clothes on. The sensible business attire was tangible proof that she'd changed, and it made her feel better even as her skin continued to burn and her head began to pound. She put on talcum powder and perfume, hoping to disguise the fact that she was still sweating, in spite of her icy bath.

Syrie opted to walk to work, and didn't bother to bring her coat. She hoped that a nineteen-block hike in the winter cold would both exert her physically and chill her raging body out. She couldn't afford to go to work like this, and she had to get on with her life. She needed the long workday to help distract her; it would be the perfect way to get past what was happening.

Nineteen blocks later, she knew it was useless. Her head was throbbing, her skin was pulsing . . . there was only one cure for this, and she knew exactly what it was. Syrie angrily punched the elevator's call button, and walked into the lift just behind another man who worked in her firm. "Good morning," he said in a friendly way. Syrie didn't trust herself to speak. They were in the elevator alone as the doors closed, and both of them were going to the 42nd floor. Syrie looked at the man as she began unbuttoning her blouse. He was a pudgy, balding account executive who kept pushing his glasses up his nose as he read the morning paper and ignored Syrie completely. But all she was thinking was, "Thank goodness his trousers are zip up and not button. This will go a lot faster."

She abruptly hit the emergency stop button on the elevator wall, and the lift shuddered to a halt. The man looked up, momentarily confused. He'd been riding the elevator up to the 42nd floor for years, and he knew how long it took to get up there. He turned to Syrie to ask her what was happening, and his eyes widened in shock as the newspaper slipped from his hands. Syrie was fast, Syrie was on fire. Her shirt, bra and skirt were already on the floor, and her panties soon followed.

"What the hell are you doing, Miss?" the man asked, backing up against the wall.

"I'm sorry, but this has to be done," Syrie murmured. "It will all be over quickly, and then it can be like nothing happened. But please, please, please let me do this . . ."

"Do what?" might have been the question the man asked, if Syrie hadn't distracted him by walking over to him, her 38D cups full and swinging, and knelt down in front of him. She unzipped the fly on his trousers and undid the clasp at the top, then yanked them down along with his boxer-briefs. His cock leapt out immediately, already hardening from Syrie's little strip-show. He seemed incapable of saying anything else, especially after Syrie swallowed him whole.

"Oh my God," he said softly. It had been years since anyone went down on him. His wife stopped doing that after their first year of marriage, and since he worked around the clock to provide for his family, he had long ago decided that prostitutes were more trouble than they were worth. But now this nubile woman with her gorgeous green eyes and ripe plump breasts was giving him the best head he'd ever had in his life.

Syrie deep throated his cock, which grew to be eight inches in her willing mouth. She increased the pressure from the top, then gathered his balls in her hands, softly kneading them as she continued to inhale his dick. Eventually, she leaned back, letting his cock pop out of her mouth so that she could lick it up and down, all the way down to the base, then lick his balls and take them into her mouth one at a time. By now the man was grabbing the back of her head and exerting pressure. He didn't care about anything now except taking full advantage of what Syrie was offering.

The pounding in her head was decreasing, but not going away. Syrie knew she'd need more than this to keep her fever at bay, more than this to get through the rest of the day. She released the man's hard cock and stood up slowly, letting her body rub up against his on the way. "I need more," she whispered. The man's eyes met hers and his mouth hung open. He still couldn't bring himself to speak, so she said the words. "I need you to fuck me. Right now."

"Yes . . . yes, okay!" He finally found his voice, and quickly fumbled around with his clothing, as if he didn't know what to do first. He grabbed Syrie's ass as she helped him out of his suit jacket, then out of his pants. He lifted her and turned her around, pressing her naked body against the cold metal of the elevator wall, and she spread her legs out, revealing a pink, moist cunt just waiting to be filled by his cock.

Without another word, he guided himself into her, and Syrie cried out with pleasure as her headache ebbed away and her skin cooled. He grunted as he fucked her, and then wanted to kiss her, tasting his own cock on her mouth. Up against the wall, hanging somewhere between the tenth and eleventh floor, she took him in as deeply as she could. He wasn't very big, but he was big enough for her to at least feel something going inside her, and for the purposes of cooling her fever, that was enough. He grabbed one breast in his clammy hand and stabled himself against the wall with the other and Syrie just hung on for dear life and tried not to hate herself for giving in yet again.

When he finally felt his climax building up, he seemed suddenly to be much more in control of the sitution. Without a word to Syrie, he spun her like a top and grunted again as he began pumping his seed onto her firm belly.

"Nnngh! Aughh!" he said incoherently as the sperm shot out in little jets. Then he stepped towards her, and actually rubbed the tip of his deflated penis on her skin, watching in apparent glee as the last strands of jizz were wiped onto her. Syrie found the ritual strange.

Then again, she had just fucked a complete stranger in an elevator. What right had she to call anything HE did strange?

She got dressed as quickly as possible, releasing the hold button to let the lift move again only once she had her blouse and skirt and shoes on. She adjusted the seams and put on the blazer as the elevator moved, not even looking at the account executive as he struggled into his pants and shirt. The familiar feeling of shame had stolen over her. This man would talk. Maybe not right away. After all, it hadn't quite sunk in yet. But soon enough, he'd someone in his inner circle about what had happened. And one by one (or two by three, if they were anything like the men at her last establishment) they would come looking for her. Next time she got into an elevator with a man, or even a group of men, it might not be her hand pressing the emergency stop button. And if it got out of hand, she would have to leave once again.

The elevator doors slid open and Syrie walked out with her head high. No one could have guessed what had happened on the elevator. And no one could have seen that she felt utterly destroyed inside because she had once again been desecrated by The Fever.