Not Like Other Men Pt. 03

I didn't need to masturbate after Harry dropped me off home around eleven. The finger and vibrator job at my boss Lance's house was sufficient sexual gratification for one for one night!

The lingerie he had bought me was classy, upscale, hugely expensive stuff. It wasn't the tat that many guys buy online for their mistresses and girl friends; crotchless knickers and quarter cup bras in garish colours. But then I wasn't either of those, I wasn't even his lover. I was a middle aged, married woman in my forties who worked for him. A woman who recently had started a parallel relationship with him. A relationship that now included undressing for him and flaunting my body at him and tonight donning the gear he'd bought me and masturbating while he watched me and finishing that by inducing a strong orgasm with a vibrator that he provided. It was all getting rather spooky!

I was remorseful but couldn't discount the fact that whatever I had done was done willingly. I wasn't forced, I did it because I wanted to do it because I wanted to please him. The big, unanswerable question was, of course, why? Our relationship at work hadn't changed from when I had started working for him six months ago. That was polite, friendly, slightly flirty yet mutually respectful. Seemingly totally irrationally, when out of work it changed completely. I fell under his spell and became his play thing or, as he called me, his slut and inexplicably, that thrilled me.

Lance had sold his research consultancy to the advertising agency for which we both now worked for millions. He was now deputy chairman of the global group of ad agencies and consultancies, earned an absolute fortune that included a company car and chauffeur as he didn't drive and the use of a company owned house in Regent's Park. His family home was in the country and he was on his third wife a very attractive, thirtyish ex model. He had several children both grown up and younger with his second wife. His present ex model was still to produce.

What sets Lance apart from most research experts was that not only did he have a brilliant mind, a first from Oxford and an MBA from Harvard but also was down to earth and was a persuasive and brilliant salesman, characteristics that were rare amongst such 'scientists.' A large and significant part of his job was promoting a brilliant, cloud based, market research tool he had developed. I was recruited to work on the tool and recently he had introduced me to the sales side of the research consultancy and I had been to some meetings and lunches and dinners with him which I thoroughly enjoyed.

Although I couldn't put my finger on a reason for my submissiveness to him and more intriguingly my wish for him to control and dominate me in sexual situations, I feel that it stems from watching him in action at these meals and meetings. In what appeared to be an effortless manner he had very senior businessmen, politicians and intellectuals eating out of his hand. So much so that he persuaded them to spend many, many thousands of pounds on his product. He was smoothly manipulative and persuasive to the point that often they would be signing up to buy even before we even got to the main course.

As part of the sale of his consultancy business to the group that now employed us he had negotiated our independence to the point that we had our own offices in a delightful Georgian building near to the main piazza in Covent Garden. Although fairly small, some 10,000 square feet and spread over three floors it was perfect for the sixty or so staff in the consultancy. It was brilliantly fitted out with all the latest office and IT equipment and gadgets, including a basketball net, a pool table and slot machines. It also had changing rooms and showers so that people could cycle to work or go on runs during the day. In the many years I had not worked I had lost touch with how offices operated and when I was interviewed and shown round I was amazed and loved the environment from the moment I witnessed it.

*

It was one of my days off when he texted me

'Ok for drinks this afternoon, I'm in your area?' it read.

'Of course,'

He named a pub not far from where I lived and told me to be there at four

I drove the few miles to the pub. On the way there my phone rang.

"I'm in the garden at the back," he said.

"Ok," I replied.

I saw that we had moved from our quite pleasant and chatty work relationship to this very different out of work one where there were few pleasantries and no affection.

As I approached the dozen or so tables in what is more of a courtyard than a garden I saw Lance sitting there fiddling with his phone. Looking up, a smile spread across his face as he saw me walking toward him. I smile back and emphasise the sway of my hips. I know full well that as I walk across the courtyard/garden that his eyes will be feasting on my swaying hips and full, jiggling breasts. I am used to that as, after all, I have been full breasted for nigh on thirty years. Almost, but not quite, unconsciously I accentuate the movements of my hips and breasts and feel encouraged when he nods and smiles. I am excited because this is our first date.

I weave my way through the tables and big planters with tall green plants in them that break up the area a little and provide the customers with a degree of privacy. His table is beside two planters that are side by side. It's probably the most secluded table there.

I run my gaze appreciatively over him. He looks good, but then he always does. Wondering what on earth he is going to do to or with me, perhaps both, I see that he's wearing beige chinos, with boat shoes and no socks, which looks quite sexy. On top, he has a dark blue, button up shirt with two buttons undone showing some salt and pepper hairs on his chest. That surprises me as I had not seen his chest before. He's always well-dressed in a cool sort of way, but one that is in keeping with his age bracket. It would be uncool for him to dress too young and he's never that.

I'm wearing a casual, yellow dress the hem of which is a few inches above my knees. It has small, about half inch diameter brass buttons all the way up the front. I wasn't wearing anything on my legs and I had left the top and bottom two buttons undone. It's quite tight across my chest, but fairly flowing beneath the waist with a v slit in the middle of the hem at the back. Knowing how much he likes my boobs I am showing a fair amount of cleavage and as I walk the inside of each leg in turn is exposed up to my mid-thigh. I feel good. In part that is because I am seeing him, in part because I know that I look good in the dress and in another part because of the stares and leers I get walking across the garden. The biggest reason, though, why I feel good is the anticipation of what is going to happen, but not knowing what that will be!

As I reach the table he stands up and pulls a chair out for me. We don't touch, shake hands or kiss, but then we never do when not with others although we do when in business situations; odd.

"White wine?" he asks.

I nod and smile as I see that his gaze is on my chest that I accentuate by standing up straighter.

"Yes please."

I watch him as he goes over to the bar to get it.

I check my phone and when I look up he's returning with two glasses, my white wine and his red. We smile at each other and I cross my legs. It was not quite a Sharon Stone because I was wearing the white Janet Reger underwear he had given me, but it was getting on that way. His smile got bigger as he sat down and passed me my wine staring very obviously at the expanse of bare leg I'm showing. That made my pulses race a little as I realised this was the first time we had been in a sexual situation in public.

We sat for a while just chatting about this and that as my nervousness increased. I was, of course, expecting something to happen but couldn't imagine what it would be or why on earth we were in the garden of a pub.

"What have you been up to today?"

"A little washing and ironing and shopping, real scintillating stuff."

"Why don't you work more days?"

"Could I?"

"Of course a slut's perk," he said grinning and making me feel dirty and cheap yet excited.

"Oh yes", he says almost as an afterthought. "I got myself a new mobile phone".

"I thought you were happy with your iPhone."

"I was, but I was just browsing around and this Samsung one has loads of new features on it and the iPhone is monitored."

"Monitored, how?"

"By the company."

"Can they do that?"

"Well they do own the fucking thing so of course they can, so be careful, we can hear and see everything."

"Didn't know that."

"So I guess you've been sitting here playing with it then?" I ask jokingly.

"Yes I had some time to kill so I have."

I was really enjoying this relaxed get together with him. It was like two normal people or, two lovers, I thought, wondering if and when we might actually physically become those?

We continued chatting about his new phone and I see him put his hand under the table and do something with it. Just at that moment there's a buzzing noise from within my handbag. I reach inside and pull out my iPhone looking at the screen as I do.

"Well I don't recognise the number," I say.

"But you can guess who has sent that message can't you?" he says smiling as he lifts his up so I can see the message.

It simply says:

'I want to look down the front of your dress.'

I had thought that something along these lines might be on the agenda but seeing it in writing and having him staring at me as I read it gave me a surge of adrenalin and I knew that, as usual, I was falling under his spell.

'How?' I text back.

'Shut up and come here,' he texted back smiling.

He leaned forward so his face was only a couple of feet from mine. I didn't know what to do at first and pondered on what would please him most. I followed suit and leaned forward so that our faces were less than a foot apart. That made the top of my dress gape. Quite pointedly he looked down it saying.

"Mmmmm nice view."

I knew that he would see the swells of my breasts that were encased in the flimsy white bra he had bought me that I had modelled for him at his house and wondered if he would be able to see my areola and nipples? Holding the front of my dress to stop it gaping I went to straighten up and he put his hand on the back of my neck to stop me.

"Move your hand away and stay like that," he muttered both embarrassing and exciting me at this demonstration of his control.

I didn't move and wondered what the other customers were seeing and thinking.

"So what else have you been doing this morning, other than shopping?" he asked.

"Nothing really."

He slid his hand into his pocket and pulled his new phone out. Almost immediately there was a buzzing noise coming from my big 'wags' bag. He must have set the messages up whilst waiting for me. I got my phone out and looked at it.

I read the text.

'Let me you see your bra'

Feeling more tingles of excitement go through me I asked.

"How? I can't just sit here and flash it to you can I?"

"Yes you can," he replied. "Just undo a button or two of that dress and let me see inside".

I looked around to see how close other people were and if they were looking at us.

"But what if ..." I start to say.

He interrupted my protest. "No one else will see, and what if they do it's only some slut flashing her tits."

As the top two buttons of my dress were already undone my cleavage, which as I have thirty-six inch D cup boobs, is quite deep, was on show. I unbuttoned the third button that was half-way down my boobs and leaned forward slightly.

"And just what am I supposed to be able to see with you like that?" he asked.

I tut and undo another button, the one sitting snugly between my nipples.

"Better but still no bra," he said, nonetheless staring at my boobs just as a middle-aged couple walked past with the man ogling my chest. His wife didn't seem to notice.

I took a deep breath and then exhaled disapprovingly. Looking around again I take another breath and then undo a fifth button. He leans forward once more and takes hold of the neck of the dress, opening it up so he can see inside. I panic a little thinking that someone will see, but together with that panic there is also a surge of excitement and I realise with some distress that in some ways I would like that.

He smiles as I think he recognises the white lacy, diaphanous bra. It is low cut across each of my breasts and the lace on each cup barely covers the edges of my areola that I know are visible through the delicate material. I know equally well that my nipples, which for sure will have hardened, will be on display to his enquiring eyes. I must have had a premonition of something like this happening when I selected my underwear, I thought loving the look on his face as he ogles my bra and tits.

"Mmmm," he says. "Very nice"

"Happy now?" I ask, somewhat reluctantly I admit, sitting up and starting to re-fasten the buttons.

"Yes thanks," he replied. "You're doing very well...so far".

I do up the lowest button, the fifth one. Looking down, I see that the two buds of my aroused nipples are clearly evident through the material of dress. I complete the fourth button and my fingers go to the third when he says quite sharply.

"No leave it."

I look down again and see that the swells of each of my breasts above my bra are clearly on show as are the edges of the bra and my deep cleavage. Nowadays, showing that much is not out of the question so, for his no, our pleasure and excitement I do as he says, as if there was any doubt that I wouldn't and leave the three buttons undone. It makes me feel good, sort of liberated and empowered, perhaps like women felt in the sixties when 'burning your bra' was apparently all the rage.

Just as I finish, my phone buzzes again.

"Oh what next!?" I ask, picking the phone up.

The text message is simple.

'I am going to put my hand between your legs.'

God no I think really meaning god yes but I am scared. I look at him non-verbally pleading but also, I expect, showing my excitement.

"Move closer to me,"he whispers.

I take hold of the seat of the chair I'm sitting on and shuffle it forward toward him and the table turning it slightly so that my knees are pointing towards him. Leaning forward he puts his hand on my knee. Moving his head close to mine so that to anyone looking, it would appear as though he was whispering in my ear or kissing me, he slides his hand off the top of my knee to the inside of it. Looking me in the eyes he traces his fingertips ever so gently along the inside of my lower thigh.

As the sensations build up I bite my lower lip, grip the seat of the chair, bend the top of my body forward and turn my legs further towards him.

"Open them," he whispers.

Without thinking, I don't resist but croaked back. "How far?"

"I'll tell you when to stop."

I opened them so my knees were an inch or so apart. Nothing from him. Then another inch, still nothing other than him sliding his fingers so they were now up my skirt where my thighs were pressed together.

"Keep going Jayne."

I open my knees further so that the fleshy area of my thighs part a little making me feel very wanton. He slides his fingers between them as he says.

"You can stop now, I can get to your cunt."

Consumed with worry about being caught and feeling guilty about what I am doing I stay still. Overriding both of those feelings, though, is the excitement and satisfaction of pleasing him as he pleases me. Our domination and submissive relationship really has become two-way and very mutual.

Leaning forward a little and bent towards him my legs are partially hidden by his body and the table but, of course any customer if they looked closely would see that his hand was up my skirt. I grit my teeth as his hand goes higher and higher. It reaches my upper thigh and his fingers linger, stroke and squeeze it just a few inches from where we both really want them to be. My pussy feels as though it is about to explode and seems to be radiating so much heat that I wonder if he can feel it?

I lean further towards him and my shoulder rests against his chest. That feels nice. It's affectionate and intimate, emotions that generally we do not display when in this mode of our relationship. They resume their journey and inexorably go further until they can be no more than an inch or so from the gusset of the lace and satin panties covering my wet and throbbing womanhood. I open my legs further.

Suddenly from behind me there's a scraping noise as some chairs are pushed back and people get up to leave. His fingers stop moving, but are not removed from my thigh. I see him looking over my shoulder behind me and, presumably, after he sees that they have left, they continue their relentless progress. He starts tracing tiny circles on the top of my inner thigh.

As my arousal increases so my breathing gets heavier and heavier. I want to close my eyes, lean back and moan at the pleasure, anticipation and excitement he's giving me. But of course I can't do that. I can't show what I am feeling.

And then his fingers come into contact with my knickers. That makes me jump and he smiles. My eyes are half closed and my mouth is open a little. I've now reached the point when I have no idea whether anyone can see what we are doing, but more importantly I now don't care; I just want more and more of what he is doing to me.

I shift back slightly in my seat and push my knees more firmly against his. I enjoy the physical contact albeit that it's only modest and his hand follows me. He rubs his fingers firmly up and down the soaked gusset of my panties. It feels so good, so sexually intense, so dirty, so wanton and, incongruously, so right. I want to lean back further, spread my legs wide and cup and squeeze my tits as he finger fucks me to an orgasm with all the other customers watching. But of course I don't.

I am biting my bottom lip and gripping my chair so hard that I am worried that I'll draw blood and break my fingernails. I can think of nothing other than. 'He's rubbing my pussy in the middle of a pub garden and I am loving every second of it.'

After several glorious rubs that sends surges of sexual pleasure through my entire body he stops. I open my eyes and watch him bring his hand out from beneath my skirt, lift it to his face and inhale my feminine scent, just as he had with my knickers at his house. A broad smile spreads across his face.

I hadn't climaxed, he hadn't made me cum which was probably as well because I can, sometimes be noisy. But he took me so near to an orgasm and held me there a little while before stopping. I wasn't quite sure whether stopping was a courtesy or a punishment. He knew full well that I wanted to cum and equally that he could have made me had he wanted to. He knew now that I was incapable of resisting or stopping him and that when we had one of our sessions I was his slut as he termed it, to do with as he wanted.

"Another wine?" he asked.

"No, could I have a Coke or orange juice please I'm driving?"

My eyes follow the sculptured pertness of his taut bum in the tight chinos as he made his way to the bar. I look round the tables again and I see a couple across the café staring at me and a group of young guys giggling and looking straight at me. I look away feeling embarrassed, guilty and excited and see him turn from the counter, smiling as he looks back to see me pulling the top of my dress up and the bottom of it down a little to cover as much as I can. He shakes his head effectively telling me to stop and leave it alone, which, deep down is exactly what I want to do, so I do leave it alone.

As he gets back to our table with our drinks two couples walk past us from behind me. They look over at us and smile. I look away but he smiles and we both wonder whether they know what's been going on. From the looks on their faces I rather expect that they did.