Michelle: The Bachelorette Party Ch. 02

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Michelle ends up in the most compromising of positions.
9.3k words
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Part 2 of the 3 part series

Updated 08/31/2017
Created 02/04/2009
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I think I stopped at the part where I'm about to take off my panties. Oh, that got your attention, did it? Well, if you recall I had just made it up to my boss's office. I want a few comfortable minutes and she has a leather couch in a sitting area by the window. And the panties? You know how I get. With everything I had seen and been a part of earlier they were rather...soaked.

So, how much detail do you want here? You know why I'm on this couch with my panties off and my skirt hiked up. Do you really need to hear all the...okay, okay. You can get rid of the hound-dog face. You look like a six-year old who was just told there won't be any presents for Christmas. I'll give it to you just how you like it: down and dirty.

Despite the fire raging between my legs, or perhaps because of it, I take my time. The party will last for a couple more hours so I can waste thirty minutes up here without even being missed. I lean back and settle into the leather. My eyes close and my hand reaches between my legs.

I let my fingers run through the curly brown triangle that you won't let me shave. I'm not sure why you like it so much but for me I find it helps with the anticipation. There is nothing arousing about toying with my pubes but still my stomach tenses and my mouth instinctively opens.

It would be over in a flash if I let it. But where would the fun be in that? For me or you? So I trace my finger lightly along the outside of my lips and let the tingle of excitement swim through my body. I have never considered masturbating at my place of work and so there are no office fantasies to pull from. It doesn't take much, though, to imagine being discovered in this compromising position, even if the possibility of that is extremely remote given that the party is downstairs and I am the only one here who has a key to the rooms.

I suck a finger into my mouth and then move it down to join the others. Spread with one hand, touch with the other. It's immediately obvious that licking my finger first was unnecessary as I am as wet as I can ever remember and my opening accepts my finger with ease.

The great thing about masturbating is the familiarity. There are no wrong moves. The timing and touch is exactly what you want and when you want it. Of course, the familiarity is the problem as well. It's hard to surprise yourself with an unexpected sensation. The experience, though enjoyable, lacks the excitement of another's touch. But I'll have to settle since this is all I have and I simply need to come.

One hand leaves my crotch to fumble with the buttons of my blouse. I tease my nipple against my thumb while letting a few slick fingers slip down to tempt my...oh, you know how I like it when you play down there. I poke gently into that tight opening and imagine that it's your finger sliding into my ass, your lips caressing my taut nipple.

Keeping the finger pressed against my butt, I lower my other hand to get serious about this session. My clit is screaming for attention and I drag pressure up through my lips until I hit that neglected ball of pleasure. The first touch is always so heavenly. My eyes close again and I'm just about to loose myself in delightful abandon when I think I hear something on the other side of the room.

The table lamp lights my space but throws shadows across the expansive office and I can make out little in the corners of the space. I strain to see into the dim recesses and am startled by a slight movement against the back wall.

"Hello..." I feel stilly talking to an empty room. "I can see you," I bluff, almost laughing at my ridiculous ploy.

"Don't stop on my account." The deep voice emerges from the darkness and slaps me like a hand to the face.

My hands fly to my mouth and I scream through my fingers. I can feel my heart beating in my throat and I'm momentarily frozen with fear. But as the man comes into view my fear dissipates as quickly as my irritation increases. Arthur Corbin, one of the junior associates, walks out of the shadows. It is not until his eyes dart from my uncovered boob to my spread legs that I remember what I was doing here. My legs slam shut and I pull my blouse together

"Oh my God!" I think I have reached the height of embarrassment earlier when I was exposed to all those women at the party. That suddenly seems like a trivial matter to be laughed at and forgotten. At least that incident was beyond my control.

I try to talk between gasps. I think I'm hyperventilating. "What are you...how did...oh my god, I can't believe...how long have you been standing there?" I want to slit my wrist with a letter opener but I'm still too afraid to move.

His laugh makes me feel even smaller, if that's possible. "Long enough. Or maybe I should say 'almost' long enough. A few more minutes and we both could have had a happy ending."

For a split second my eyes are drawn to the bulge in his khakis and realize that I have been unwittingly providing a show for his arousal. I'm beyond mortified. I consider leaping through the glass but I'm not sure that the three-story fall would be fatal.

"What the hell are you doing up here, anyway?" I'm just starting to regain some of my faculties and it dawns on me that although I am engaging in a lewd and improper act, I am in the office space where I am assigned. Art is a whole floor from his office.

"I was in doing a little work on an account. Hard to get anything done with all that racket down there." He tosses his head to signify the muffled music coming from the party below. "Then I heard something above me and thought I'd investigate. And I'm so glad I did. Damn Michelle, I didn't know you had it in you. You're always so proper around the office."

I take a deep breath to steady my response. "Art, I am obviously extremely embarrassed by this. I, of course, thought I was alone but that does not excuse my behavior. I would really appreciate it if we could just keep this between us. I really don't want to have to explain this to Ms. Hester."

It's a long, tense moment before he replies. Art runs a hand through his receding red hair and seems to contemplate my suggestion. It might be best if I stab him with the letter opener first, then turn the dull blade on myself. I realize that I'm not breathing and abruptly take a big bite of air.

"I think I would prefer keeping this between us, as well."

"Oh, thank God." The words spill out like a sigh. "Thank you. I'll just get my things together and lock up." Maybe no one will have to die tonight.

I'm trying to get out of the deep sofa without flashing him when I realize that he is not moving. I get an odd feeling when I glance back to his face. His smile has a slightly sinister quality to it.

"Art, I'm going to turn off the lamp so you may want to flip on the light in my office so we can see our way out."

He still stands his ground. "No, I don't think we're leaving yet."

Should I be worried? I have not had many dealings with Art Corbin but the office scuttlebutt is that he has aspirations that exceed his talent. You know I don't feed on the gossip but you can't help hearing things. A few of the secretaries have gone out with him and the word is that he's decent in bed but a bore at the dinner table.

But is he dangerous? He's about your height but pretty frail looking. He's always talking about the membership he has at some gym but I know he doesn't lift weights. Squash, maybe? I think I could take him in an arm wrestle.

"Art, I know this has been an impossibly awkward encounter." I try to take a little control of the situation. "Let's not make it worse by prolonging it."

There's that little gleam in his eye again. "Get comfortable, Michelle. You're going to finish what you started. And I'm going to watch."

My eyes felt wider that a hoot owl's. "Are you out of your mind? There is no way I'm going to continue anything. You only saw what you did by accident. I could never...I would...just no!" Heat radiates from my body like coal-burning stove and my face invents a shade of red previously unknown to the universe.

He chuckles like I told a cute joke. "Well, that's up to you, of course. It's not like I'm going to force you to do anything against your will."

I never even consider rape as a possibility. Why am I still so slow to see the worst in people when I witness them display the worst so often?

"But before you decide," Art continues, "you might want to consider the two dozen pictures I snapped on my phone while you were diddling yourself a few minutes ago."

Even as I see him tossing the silver rectangle in his hand I am slow to connect the dots. So what. The asshole took pictures of me. He's already seen me live. What difference does having a picture...light bulb. Damn, I can be so dense.

"What are you saying, Art?"

"Saying? I'm not saying anything. I'm just sending some pictures to my computer." He presses a button with dramatic flair and I catch on to the game he's playing. Only it's so much more than a game to me.

Having worked with lawyers for the last ten years I sort of know how they think. An implied threat can always be refuted. Art is careful not to put anything into words that could be used against him later.

Okay, I see that murderous look in your eyes. You're just going to have to trust me and calm down. Remember your promise; you won't get mad. No matter what I tell you. I know it seems unfair that I made you promise that now but there's a lot of story left. So just settle down and keep fucking me. I promise you can punch something later.

Back to the story: I try to nail him down. "So you're implying that if I don't...if I don't...masturbate...oh, God...if I don't...do that in front of you then Kim Hester will see the photos you took?"

Instead of answering Art puts a finger in the air to indicate a pause in the conversation. He opens up his phone and starts talking. "Hello...Milo, my boy. What's shakin'?"

I presume the person Art is talking to -- or at least pretending to talk to -- is Milo Scott, another junior associate with the firm who also plays Art's puppy dog around the office. I'm not sure where this is going but I hate how clever he thinks he is.

"...oh, just hanging out at the office...trying to get a handle on the Salazar case...yeah sure, maybe about ten." He takes a quick glance at his watch. If he's not really talking to Milo then he's really one hell of an actor. "Sure, no problem...I'll meet you...oh and Milo, wait until you see the pictures I have to show you. You won't fucking believe them."

He winks at me and I feel my blood boil. "No, don't even try guessing. Just trust me. You are going to be totally blown away...alright, see you then. Late."

Art flips his phone closed and gave me an innocent smile. "Sorry...now where were we?"

I'm close to tears but I refuse to let him see that. I wish for the thousandth time that I had some kind of superpower. Like time-jumping. Or maybe I could melt his brain with my thoughts.

"You would really be that much of a fucking asshole?"

"Ooh, I like how you say 'fucking'. Say it again."

I don't comply. Instead I just flip him off.

Art mocks surprise at my gesture and continues talking. "So, I'd really love it if you would lift that skirt and bare those tits again. You are such a sexy little bitch."

I flare like a brush fire in the wind. "Bitch? Did you just call me..."

"How's your mom?" he interrupts.

I'm stunned into a brief silence by the disjointed switch of subject. As usual, I'm a bit slow on the uptake.

"I'm really trying to take a bigger interest in the personal lives of my coworkers. I was thinking I'd give your mom a call, maybe go out for coffee or something. I'm sure I'd have plenty to share with her."

Okay, now I've caught up and I really want to kill the son of a bitch. Actually, killing him seems far too merciful. Just how bad is this waterboarding shit, anyway?

"Of course, if I meet her on Monday it will have to be a late morning rendezvous. I have an early staff meeting with all the partners and associates. I'm supposed to have a presentation on the work I'm doing here today. I was worried about having visual aids but I think I might have solved that problem."

The weight of the situation finally settles on me and I feel suffocated by the implications. My family, my job, my entire life in this community is at stake. How could I ever face anyone? When I passed a stranger on the street would I always wonder if they had seen the pictures of my filthy display? I could never leave the house again.

I mull over my choices as quickly as I can. I could beat the shit out of him but he would still have the pictures. Even if I destroy his phone, he's already sent the pics to his email so it would do no good. I'm sure I can't figure out the password for his computer. I'm screwed.

I see few options so I resort to the thing I dread maybe even more than exposing myself to this creep. I beg.

"Please don't do this, Art. This is more than just a silly game. You will ruin my life."

"I don'twant to ruin your life. You know what I want."

Yes, I know what you want you little piece of shit but you can't know...oh my God, am I actually contemplating this? The thought of touching myself in front of anyone but you is...unthinkable. I can't wrap my mind around the image. It's actually so far out of my realm of thought that I can't even dream it.

"Art, you don't know what you're asking. I just can't. You don't understand how impossible...how embarrassed I am at even the littlest things. I need to take medication to go to the gynecologist."

Art studies me for and for a fleeting moment I think that I may have cracked through. Then he says this: "You either spread those legs right now or I'm leaving. And I don't think you really want me to leave upset."

I shoot scorching daggers at him with my eyes. For the moment I'm too angry to focus on the possible impending degradation. Art shrugs his shoulders and pulls out his phone. He casually snaps another picture of me in my livid state and turns to walk away.

I panic. "Wait!"

After my display with the stripper earlier this should be a piece of cake, right? One more person staring at my hoohah shouldn't make a damn bit of difference. Sure, it's a guy but it's just one guy. Sarge is a guy and he already practically fucked me on the floor in front of dozens of people. Why should I even care if this degenerate gets added to the list? What's one more?

But it isn't the same. I was helpless to stop what happened downstairs. And even though it is the arousal from those very acts that brought me here for relief, I would have crawled through glass to get away from it. Or would I? Did I secretly want that public humiliation? I was trying to remove myself from the situation but how hard was I really trying?

Art turns to walk out again and I understand that I don't have time to diagnose all my sexual peccadilloes at this precise moment. Before I can talk myself out of it I close my eyes and spread my legs. I know, I know, you can't believe I actually do it. Well, I'm right there with you, sweetie. But trust me, I do it. And I sit there in painful silence, a slightly queasy feeling enveloping me as my entire body reddens. I think maybe I'm sweating blood.

I'm mortified by the sticky feeling between my legs, knowing that I'm not only showing him my privates but that I'm obviously in a heightened state of arousal. I might have questioned my inner desires when reviewing the events downstairs but there is no way any part of me wants this! I pray that one of us will have a stroke in the next five seconds. I honestly don't care which one.

"Nice..." His voice trails off and I imagine his depraved leer. I'm still too overwrought to open my eyes.

"Now the tits."

I'm in my happy place, I'm in my happy place, I'm in my happy place. It's not working.

I bite my lip so hard it almost draws blood. My legs stay open while I separate my blouse. One boob lies bare having been freed earlier for my solo pleasure.

"That's a start. Now lose the bra."

I can hear his breathing becoming irregular and raspy.

I squeeze my eyes tighter and unclasp my bra, showing him both of my boobs. Now you know how I feel about my boobs. I've yet to figure out what the big deal is. When I'm talking with a guy I'm constantly losing their gaze to my cleavage. And you pant over them like a puppy with a new bone. It seems Art is in the same club.

"God, they're even bigger than I thought. Those are some sweet tits you got there, sugar." There is a hint of something in his voice I can't quite place. It's almost like a worshiper before a holy shrine. I finally open my eyes to see his face and am somehow shocked by what I should have seen coming a mile away.

It's inevitable that his dick would come out sooner or later but seeing it in his hand throws fresh fuel on my emotions. I don't want to see this but now that I've looked I can't seem to pull my eyes away. It's like a hideous car wreck, my eyes involuntarily glued to the horrid scene.

It's bigger than I would have thought. Not that I've given much thought, or any thought for that matter, about the size of Art's penis. I want to look away but somehow I can't. The sheer idea that this asshole even has a dick is a repugnant thought and I cringe because I can't help noticing that his cock more than fills his hand and he's hard as glass.

"You like that big cock, don't you?"

Do I need this? After everything that's gone on tonight do I need to get caught ogling his dick? So now, on top of everything else I'm now going to have to scratch my eyes out.

"Oh yes, you and your dick have so much in common," I say.

Art is unaffected by my sarcasm. "So let me see you play with that cunt."

I physically recoil at the use of the "K" word, as my friends and I call it. Such a vulgar term for a beautiful thing. I almost reprimand him for his choice of anatomy terms but then recognize that I don't really want to have a conversation with the sleazeball.

It's not that I don't know that touching myself is expected. Hell, it's why I've he's had me flashing my kitty at him for the last several minutes. But now that I actually have to do it I'm having second thoughts. Shit, who am I kidding? I'm way past second thoughts.

My finger brushes the moist lips of my sex and I'm jolted by the sensation. Oh Peter, Paul and Mary, this confirms it. I'm a big fat whore; an exhibitionist slut. I'm actually getting turned on by this emotional rape.

There is no question that I have seriously underestimated the intense erotic power of these circumstances. I can't remember ever being this sensitive and as I move my finger deeper into my silky flesh I am flooded by a pleasure so extreme it threatens to take my breath. It's like I've been dipped in endorphins.

Oh, this is going to be quick, I think. Hell, I just might come in the next ten seconds. Perfect. That will end this show before it even begins. But then the reality of the situation hits me and I inwardly scold myself for being so naive. Art doesn't give a rodent's fart about my orgasm. This is about him getting off. If I want this to end, I need to make sure he finishes quickly.

The moan that I previously held at bay now escapes me -- anything I can do to hasten his release. I hate that I'm so irrationally aroused by the very thing that petrifies me but there is no denying my body's reaction. I'm as horny as a furloughed sailor.

"Oh yeah, that's hot. Play with your tits."

I'm not accustomed to having my masturbation directed but I decide the best way to end this is to play along. My free hand grabs fist full of boob and I bring it up to my mouth. I'm disgusted and stimulated by my display as my tongue stretches to reach my nipple. I hear a grunt from my audience and I want to throw up. Just as badly, I want to come. I'm going to need some serious therapy.