Mika

To describe Mika as gorgeous would be an injustice to the definition of the word and any synonyms. She was a young, tall, slender, platinum blonde Scandinavian goddess with flawless features. Aphrodite and Venus themselves would be appropriately insecure in her presence.

To say she was a world-class cunt would be more than accurate, though. There are Arctic glaciers that have warmer foundations that Mika.

Anyway, that's always the conundrum when faced with the prospect of fucking a beautiful, albeit world-class bitchy, woman. It's the age-old battle for men between their little head and the big head.

Who the fuck am I kidding? The little head has been undefeated since the dawn of time. Just ask Eve's Adam if you want proof.

This whole thing with Mika Lifflander, the hot-shot fashion buyer for a large regional department store in the Philadelphia area, started rather innocently enough. I was the security director for the chain of stores, responsible for not only external thefts such as shoplifting, but also for internal frauds committed by employees.

On this particular day, I was in the shipping warehouse checking on the possibility of some tampering with electronic scanners that impact the price tags that end up on merchandise.

Mika strolled by while I was inspecting the mechanisms. She wanted to check on the status of her departments' imported coats that were about to depart on delivery trucks. Any appearance by Mika herself was rare in the distribution center, she usually dispatched her minions, her assistant buyers, to perform such menial tasks, so I confess to being surprised when I noticed her.

The somewhat sensitive nature of my job required that I maintain personal distance from almost all other employees. However, within the last month, I had attended a retail seminar at the local Convention Center and had a impromptu, steamy two-night tryst with a visiting representative from the famous fashion house, Guess. She was a tall New Yorker named Donna who had legs the approximate size of a Manhattan skyscraper, and I spent the better part of forty-eight hours with my various appendages between them.

I hadn't known it at the time, but this same vendor was responsible for the account for Mika's department, and Donna had apparently spilled the beans to Mika about our little clandestine rendezvous, regaling Mika with some food for thought about the size of my cock and 'boundless sexual appetite'. (These were Donna's words, not mine, but hey, who's to argue?)

Mika, as always, was impeccably dressed, today in a light, almost sheer, sleeveless chiffon Diane Von Furstenberg mini dress. Perhaps it was her native Norwegian genes (Why is the adjective for Norway called 'Norwegian', anyway? Is there a country named 'Nor-wee-gee'?), but my first thought was that she was pushing the Spring wardrobe a bit early; it was late March and the temperature was still in the high forties. My next thought was how fan-fucking-tastic she looked in the dress, even more devastatingly scorching than usual.

Her presence was soon punctuated by wolf-whistles, cat-calls, and brazen invitations by the warehouse men, but Mika ignored and dismissed the audible commentaries with the flippant indifference of a Medieval queen addressing her peasants from the balcony of her palace.

Although I would normally go out of my way NOT to talk to Mika, for some reason, I opened my mouth and instantly regretted it, as I prided myself on never making comments to female employees with even the hint of a sexual overtone.

"I think they must be making notice of the lack of sleeves, eh, Mika?"

My professional stature in the company was such that if I wanted to make your life miserable, I could, though I rarely invoked such power-plays. Despite that reality, Mika stared at me almost contemptuously for having the audacious gall to address Her Majesty without having been prompted to do so.

She flipped her golden hair off of her tanned, toned shoulders and with the arrogance of a political talk-show host, she hissed at me in that accent which would be irresistible in most women yet mainly off-putting coming from Mika's mouth.

"I don't think it's the sleeves that they are all looking at, do you, John?"

I must have made a face that resembled one's countenance after they have consumed a barrel full of lemons, and turned my attention back to the task at hand, grumbling to myself beneath my breath, wondering how a woman so classically stunning on the exterior could be so consistently mean-spirited. I thought, 'Does she ever get laid, and if so, what kind of man could stomach her, regardless of her looks?'

I was about to find out.

I didn't even know that Mika was still near, my head was buried beneath the lid of the ticketing machine, but her next words caused my head to hit the lid in shock. "I understand you ran into Donna Yoakum last month at the seminar, John."

I rubbed my bruised temple in legitimate discomfort, trying unsuccessfully not to let my face reveal the 'How the fuck did she know THAT?' surprise that now permeated my nervous system.

Mika smirked at me, pleased with herself. "In fact, I have it on good authority that you ran into her repeatedly, again and again."

Before I could reply, Mika went on, which was probably best because anything I said at that point can and would have been used against me. "Not to worry, she gave a very glowing recommendation as to your attention to detail." Mika glanced down and riveted her steel-blue eyes directly onto my crotch, so as to eliminate any ambiguity in her next sentence.

"And, most important, at least from my perspective, was her vivid description of your fixed assets." The look in Mika's eyes now was one that I had not witnessed before, they sparkled and glazed with unmistakable desire.

Suddenly, I had an enormous amount of empathy for Adam when the poor bastard was tempted by the forbidden fruit.

Mika turned sideways, and in the sunlight of the warehouse windows behind her, her dress became essentially transparent, providing me with a perfect silhouette of her sheer thong under the dress. My dick was growing fast and hard, and she fucking knew it. her eyes blazed onto my lap and she licked her already wet lips and ran her manicured fingers over her collarbone seductively.

"I'll be at the Warwick tonight, that new dancing club on Locust Street, you know the one?" I nodded dumbly, caught in her web now, damn it.

Her resplendent face was now void of that constant snarl, and almost looked prurient. "Maybe it's time we called a truce and performed some mutual inventory. Maybe you could clear your busy schedule and meet to discuss the possibility?" Her eyes seered into mine. "Say, about nine-thirty?"

I should have brought an apple to munch on and covered myself with fig leaves, such was the trap of Biblical proportions that I ran the risk of falling into, but nonetheless, I walked into the Warwick at nine-twenty-nine. Mika, not to my surprise, was nowhere to be found. After all, what diva with any sense of self-image would not show up fashionably late?

I sipped on a sparkling water, wanting to keep my full faculties and not succumb to the buzz of alcohol to cloud my thought processing. The allure of Mika's pussy had already brought me here tonight, against the better judgment of the big head, who remained winless in the eternal battle with his alter-ego impulsive cousin who resided to the south.

In the sea of gyrating bodies on the crowded dance floor, a comely brunette caught my eye and visually entertained me for a dance or two, and momentarily almost made me forget about the basic reason I was there. Almost.

I smelled Mika before I saw her, a burst of vanilla perfume wafting through the air of the club. Then, I felt her after I smelled her, the soft skin of her thigh brushing against the back of my own before I even had a chance to turn around. When I did, and saw her, I swear I could hear my assiduous little head shout as he looked northward to the brain. "See, look at this woman, this is why you big brains never stand a fucking chance!"

To try to portray a visual to you nice readers, if Christina Aguilera would have walked into the Warwick right then, patrons would have gasped and exclaimed, "You know, you look like that fashion buyer, Mika Lifflander, except she's a little hotter!" A slight exaggeration, you say? Well, you haven't seen Mika in that outfit.

Her normally platinum-blonde locks had been freshly highlighted and streaked to achieve an overall golden-honey-ash hue. She wore a stunning off-the-shoulder, low-cut draped-neck teal-colored mini dress with ivory beads an open back that hugged her sleek, lean torso like one of OJ's gloves. She was turned slightly sideways as I turned myself, so I could also see that the dress, if you could call it that, was also cut open in the back, and reinforced only with a small zipper that ended in the crack of her ass. It would have been virtually impossible to wear a bra in this ensemble, and Vegas handicappers had set long odds against Mika wearing any thong, as well.

She smiled as I ogled her unabashedly. "See, it isn't the sleeves that attracts the most attention," she purred mockingly.

I tried to maintain my composure, though it was rather apparent I was the gazelle being circled and sized up by the hungry lioness. I wrinkled my nose and sniffed into the air. "Hmmmm, Aqua Allegoria perfume, very nice." I then let my eyes wander down to Mika's dress, or lack thereof, wondering how those pert tits could defy gravity that fantastically outlandish. "And, let me take a semi-educated guess.......Tadashi Shoji for the designer dress?"

Her pale blue eyes sparkled in mirth for just a second, betraying the icy coolness of the impenetrable veneer that she was desperate not to reveal, at least not quite yet. "Hmmmm, very impressive, you must work in retail." I bowed at the waist like a magician who had just found a rabbit in a top hat. "Well, if so, that also means you can't be rich, so good thing you're well endowed."

She glanced down. "Supposedly. We'll see." Her pink tongue snaked out of her mouth and nibbled on my ear.

At that moment, I was reminded of a somewhat obscure song from the late nineties, an otherwise forgettable ditty with an unforgettable title. "I Might Be a Cunt, but I'm Not a Fucking Cunt." That was still to be determined at this point in the game. I vaguely recalled that the music video that accompanied the song displayed a couple having sex while the woman was wearing diving flippers, and looked down at Mika's ankles.

I breathed an audible sigh of relief when I observed that there were no such Fuck-Me-Flippers adorning her ankles tonight, just a pair of Jimmy Choo open-toed stilettos in black embossed leather. I estimated that the shoes alone retailed at about eight Franklins, and guessed that she was able to splurge on shoes from all that money she was saving on underwear.

But I decided not to mention that to her. When God was handing out senses of humor, Mika was back in line getting second helping of body and beauty. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I looked at Mika, as did perhaps three-quarters of the males in the club by now, no doubt wondering what lottery I had won.

Mika looked at me, hands on hips.

How do you break the ice with The Ice Queen herself? Admittedly, my attempt probably wasn't the smoothest.

I sighed deeply, and held my palms upward in a show of despair, the gazelle signaling sweet, inevitable surrender. "I'm still not sure If I can do this, Mika," I stammered like a schoolboy whose dog had indeed eaten his homework, sincere but embarrassed in his explanation. "I have cold feet."

Mika clucked her tongue in a dismissive manner, hearing my story and not believing a word of it. "Cold feet? Well, I have a VERY warm pussy to cure that." She had a point, I had to admit. She wrapped her arm around mine. Meanwhile, my little head was waving for a time-out, yelling up to the big head, "Fuck your cold feet, you spineless pussy, what are you, Sasquatch? Are you nuts!?!?"

Mika cooed into my ear, temporarily drowning out the frantic chastising from my dick. "What's your next objection? We're trained to overcome objections in my line of work."

I suppressed a smile, and cut right to my greatest fear. "This inventory we're going to perform.....the results will be held in the strictest confidence, right?" My desperation could not have been appealing to Mika, I surmised.

But, to the contrary, I underestimated that she was accustomed to having guys practically pant and beg for her carnal prizes, and my reticence was actually making her even hotter.

She nodded with grave solicitude. "Of course, our little secret." She furrowed her brow, causing me a flash of anxiety. "However, i think it's only fair that Donna should be confided in our exercise."

I exhaled. "That would be appropriate. Agreed."

Mika then dropped the sentences that consummated the negotiations in my favor. "I must tell you, though, I do have a fetish."

'Oops, I knew it, too good to be true', I figured. I cringed, expecting the worst. 'Just don't let it be a strap-on, please,' I whined internally. I'm much better at pitching than catching when it comes to all things anal.

For the first time, I saw a glimmer of softness in Mika's heretofore perpetually steely eyes, a window of flustered mortification. She continued haltingly, her voice barely a whisper.

"This facade that I put on, at work, especially? It's just an act, a charade, a wall, a defense mechanism to keep the men, and sometimes the women, at a safe distance." I listened intently. Where was this going?

She went on, her gaze now at her feet, afraid to make eye contact with her next revelation.

"I need to be dominated. I'm a closet submissive. I hand-picked you. I love your confidence, your discipline. The more you ignored me, the more I had to have you."

My dick now had reached the approximate size and texture of a flagpole on top of that aforementioned Manhattan skyscraper. You know, the one about the length of our friend Donna Yoakum's legs?

Mika almost bashfully looked up at me, finally. "You can do anything you want to me." As if I didn't understand, she repeated it for emphasis. "Anything." I heard her giggle for the first time, and the unexpected cuteness in the laugh caused my heart to skip a beat. "In fact, I DEMAND it. I want to be your toy, your sex kitten."

Emboldened by the pleasant turn of events, I stood closer to Mika, so close that our chests touched. "Kiss me," I said. Her eyes bore into mine, but she didn't react, paralyzed by the command. I could adapt to this role seamlessly, I decided instantly, taking her up on her offer.

I repeated, "Kiss me. Kiss me like you want to fuck me, and show everybody in here just how much you want to."

Mika's impeccable flash flushed with wanton desire, and she gently took the back of my skull in her soft, small hands and opened her lips to present me with the warmest, sweetest tongue that I have ever tasted, before our since, it was like cotton candy set on fire. She broke the kiss after perhaps ten seconds, and I tried to suppress my panting, and then she resumed the sexiest kiss imaginable, this time letting her one hand drift down to my crotch and she began to graze the outline of my twitching cock with the back of her palm.

I opened my eyes to see that we had attracted a rather sizeable audience, some gaping unabashedly, while others were trying to be discreet voyeurs, but voyeurs nonetheless. Not that I blamed them, I would be watching and aroused myself were this occurring to someone else. I felt as if I were the stand-in for a lead actor in an erotic play.

Mika withdrew her delectable mouth from mine, but continued to stroke my now painfully throbbing cock through my pants, apparently reveling in the fact that dozens now were witnessing our public foreplay. She whispered so that only I could hear, "John, just what part of 'anything' don't you understand? May we get out of here?" She looked around and smiled brazenly at our throng of admirers. "Now? Or do you want to just do it right here? I will if you tell me you'd want to."

Despite that thought-provoking invitation, I opted to guide and escort Mika towards valet parking to fetch my vehicle. Our walk from the bar was the equivalent of a trip down the red carpet at Grauman's Chinese Theatre, the only props missing were the omnipresent paparazzi, but it wouldn't have shocked me if someone took some discreet cell phone pictures of Mika as we departed, she was that scorching.

As we climbed into my car, Mika made sure to tease the valet boys with an exaggerated and prolonged decline into the front passenger seat, her long, tanned legs spread wide, her skirt riding up her thighs obscenely, providing the red-vested guys with an unfettered view of her smooth pussy that will be fodder for many a fond conversation around the key rack, I'm sure.

She flipped the lid of her own cell phone and fired off a brief text message as I pulled out of the garage and headed towards Mika's neighborhood in Northern Liberties. "That was to Donna," she informed me, as she turned her body towards my own and began to shimmy out of the top of her dress, her perfectly proportioned tits, sans any tan lines, spilling out and defying gravity. She ran her hands along her impeccable breasts alluringly. "I wanted to tell her that the games were about to commence, and thanked her again for her recommendation."

She slid the sleek phone back into a small, hidden pocket in the hip of her dress, but first pressed the 'off' button. "There, no disturbances for the duration of the evening." She began to leisurely pinch her puffy, pink nipples. "And beyond, perhaps, if you indeed have as much stamina as advertised."

We navigated our way north through narrow 17th Street, and then slowly headed east, towards the river, down the wide three lanes of Spring Garden Street. Mika had raised her hips which allowed the hem of her skirt to be pushed up to her belly button, so that the bottom of her dress met the top in an intersection on her exquisitely taut navel. She put one of her tapered legs, still sheeted in the stiletto, up on the dashboard, and moved her fingers from her tits to her newly exposed cunt, her aroma permeating the small confines of the car like a fragrant garden full of fresh, blossoming, country flowers in the early Spring air.

She broke the silence as we stopped at a traffic light at Broad Street. "The jasmine flower releases its sweet scent at night, after the sun has set." She spread her labia apart with her index and middle finger. "Jasmines are known to have several layers of lobes,and extract oils that legend says can be used as aphrodisiacs."

She dipped the index finger into her canal, circled her clit a few times, and fed me the juice. I lapped it up like a baby kitten with momma's milk. Her voice became huskier and laden with more of that impossibly sexy accent. "True jasmine has oval, shiny leaves and the bud is widely considered to be the most redolent." She placed her finger back into her now dropping snatch, and served up her nectar to herself.

As the light changed, she propped her other leg up on the dashboard as well, and spread them as far as she could, one over the gear shift and the other scraping the side window, and eased a finger into her gaping anus, and she groaned as she digitally assaulted both of her holes. Pre-cum spurted out of my cock head, puddling my lap. "Would you do me the honor of de-flowering my virgin ass tonight, John, with your big dick?"

Women perspire, men sweat, that's the distinction, right? Well, I had sweat cascading down my forehead now, watching the humid, vaginal perspiration coat all of Mika's slippery vulva and tight, pink, puckered anus. I gulped, alternately glancing between the road and her exhibition, and tried to sound casually reassuring. "It would indeed be my honor, Mika, and I promise, I'll be gentle."