Pussy-Licker: The Office Slut

People are stupid.

They can't tell the difference between fiction and reality. That's what I call stupid.

The imagination is a playground of the mind where anything can happen, a romper room of possibilities. There are fun and delightfully naughty things that can happen within the interaction behind words on the page, or on the screen, and the reactions they kick up in your mind.

That doesn't mean that real people with real lives and real thoughts and emotions behave in the same way. Because they don't. People are more complex than just a bunch of genitals. We can conjecture up a series of three scenarios to explore various aspects of this phenomenon.

'Well Kitty, there is the little matter of the audition in order to assess your suitability to fulfil all of the demanding requirements of the role. Can you please undress, leave your clothes in a neat pile in the corner, and stand ready for the attentions of the selection panel, thank you...' There are four girls, all in their late-twenties, maybe, it's difficult to tell, and it's not necessary to be specific. Just one tarty older woman... who must be well past thirty years. This is fiction. The four girls... the four women, are being interviewed for the very important role as 'Office Slut'.

The Management Focus Group has determined that Office bonding requires a certain playful element in order to reduce stress-levels and thereby maximize efficiency. Of course, for as long as there have been offices there has been an office slut. The girl who flirts and dresses provocatively. The girl that other girls talk about, and speculate about, while the older women tut-tut and claim that they would never have behaved in that way in their day. But naturally, there was an office slut back then too. The good-time girl who had furtive affairs with the married studio managers. Who they gossiped about. Who -- they claim, had sex with the manager in the stockroom, who -- they say, crouched down to do oral things that well-brought-up ladies don't talk about. The girl with more attractive curves than a scenic railway...

Styles come and styles go, but it was ever thus.

So the high-level boardroom decision is taken to legitimise the position, and employ a full-time slut. Notification has been circulated, and applicants have been whittled down to four possible candidates.

We will focus in particular on just one of them. She is Kitty. And she is removing her clothes at this very moment. Her blouse was already low-cut, and she was wearing no bra. A bra is hardly a requirement for a potential Office Slut. Her breasts are pleasingly large with perky prominent nipples, as we can now clearly see. She slips her short skirt off, lifting her legs one by one to step out of it, her high-heels catch and tug for a moment, causing her breasts to shimmer attractively.

She looks up questioningly at the interviewer, Mr Rosco Cartier, the co-ordinator of the three-man one-woman selection panel.

He says 'yes, the panties too.'

She tucks her thumbs beneath the elasticated waistband of the wispy breath of lace that constitutes her panties, tugs them down to her knees, and then down and off, to stand naked but for her pull-up stockings and high-heels.

Let's just fill in some backstory here, for the sake of convincing authenticity. Would a girl really do this? From her point of view, she has no developed keyboard skills. She might get a zero-hours contract at a Call Centre. She might get a minimum-wage job sitting at the supermarket check-out desk scanning endless consumables that go bleep-bleep-bleeping across the bar coding. Neither of those options sound good. She frittered away her school and college days flirting with boys, trading hot gossip with her girlfriends about who was bonking who, talking make-up tips and hints, how to French kiss, listening to Boybands on her earbuds. Nothing academic was quite as much as fun as the way dishy jocks would look her up and down, checking her out with an approvingly curled lip. Their approval makes her feel good. Even from the first time she'd had sex she knew she loved the way it makes her feel, desired, satisfied, fulfilled. A confirmation of her powers of attraction, or her femininity. It was, in many ways, her natural vocation. So why deny it? Why not use it to her advantage?

All she has to do is convince the selection panel of her suitability for this career opening. All she has to do is come out ahead of the other three applicants. The rest will take care of itself, she feels herself already overqualified...

People are stupid. They can't tell the difference between fiction and reality. That's what I call stupid.

Writing erotic fiction is different to creating other forms of prose. It's the only form of literature which can have a direct physical effect on the reader. Porn fiction is the one unique form of literature that actually induces a physical change of state in the reader. It gives the male reader an erection and a female reader a moist lubricating pussy. No other genre of fiction can do this. Most people read lubricious fiction just for the explicit bits, as masturbatory stimulus, and leave off once they've cum. They don't really care if it's well-written or carefully-crafted or not. Yet there's a balance between getting enough explicit dirty passages to maintain reader-attention, while blending in enough character and plot to make it sufficiently interesting to write. Personally I believe that if enough attention is taken to setting up such details then it makes for a more convincing erotic experience.

And yes, I enjoy it. It makes me rather proud and just a little a humble, because I guess some prose is better than others at making your cock hard or your pussy moist. For example, let's conjecture another scene. This second scenario may be the idealised fantasy that stays inside the strict confines of our heads. Two lonely people who meet by chance for a one-off night of unbridled passion. A kind of tough Raymond Chandler hard-boiled movie Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall encounter, in a city-centre hotel bar where a trio play tasteful lounge-core jazz (detail invests the text with authenticity). Or it might be real. Who is to say?

She sits at the bar and she's thinking, 'sitting over there is a stranger who makes me feel so warm and magical. I would like nothing more than to bewitch and beguile him. To fascinate him with my eyes. To seduce him with my smile.' Her internal voice sends out a kind of telepathy, telling him 'I know you're watching me from across the room. I'm lifting my glass up to sip and looking over the rim at you. As I lower the glass, our eyes lock. Then I lick my lips. You can see the full pout of my lips quiver. I pick up the cherry in my glass, rub it over my lips, then suck it into my mouth.'

Decorum be damned. There's no hesitation. She leaves her money on the bar, and slinks off the stool. As she gets up to walk away, she drops a napkin on his table. The only writing, in lipstick is the number 413...

After a tactful pause, he leaves a generous tip on the table and follows her without waiting to finish his drink. The neon midnight flares and blusters outside the hotel, the sky heavy with the promise of impending storm that is both literal and metaphorical.

He: I pull my slouch-hat down over the craggy rim of my forehead, my lantern jaw set in determined concentration. Where will the winds of time and the whims of fate draw me? I feel the aching burn deep within my soul. The image of the dame in the bar flickers around my concentration, bewitching and beguiling my thoughts away, while I should be working on the casefile. I got bills to pay. I got contracts to fulfil. But all I see is the way those lips caress the cherry's round redness. Glancing down at the folded napkin in my grip... '413'.

The wind is chasing a craziness of stars around in the neon night. I have needs too, a rage to be sated. I stride towards the lifts. Room '413'. Yes...

The storm in my head, and the urgency in my groin answers and reflects the gathering storm over the city roofscape. He reaches her beside the lift-bay where the bored bellhop sits, there's an illuminated panel listing the floors. 100+ on the first floor. 200+ on the second... all the way up to the fourth floor.

Her: 'And, oh my ravenous lover, where to begin...' In the elevator, our kissing starts. Hot and heavy, tongues interlocking, slipping and slithering in each other's mouths, then slowing down to sensual and arousing. From the moment we first connected in the bar, we knew each other inside and out in a cold minute. We both have lives outside of this night. But here and now we have no past. We pluck our own space out of time to indulge in each other. My marital complications with a profligate partner who's driven us to brink of bankruptcy. And I'm sure he's got a thing going with that big-titted bitch of a secretary. But nothing of that is our concern. Sometimes, doing wrong is the right thing to do. Your dominant voice is as deep as a well. A surly half-open mouth that never quite closes. I look into your cloudy grey eyes that are full of fuck-you. The sparks from our internalised banter carry into real life.'

Yet all he says is 'I was hoping...'

She says 'hope is a wonderful thing. I don't know where we'd be without it...' while she has the look of one of the beautiful murderous children in horror movies.

'You say the sweetest things.'

She: We've only just met, but I trust you with my body and my mind. It's just you and me. No-one else need know. I am hungry for you. I am ravenous for you. As I stand at the door to open it, I feel you unzip my dress all the way down. The dress falls off my shoulders to reveal my sexiest undergarments. Sliding my panties down, pulling my breasts out over the cups of my bra, you take in all the scents and taste.

This is exactly the scene I was thinking about, the image I was holding in my head. There's something so very right about this expensive hotel room, the furnishings, the décor, the aroma, the light. The pastel cushions, the rich coverlet, the low gleam of the table-lamp and the shaggy heart-shaped carpet. I'd love to wreck this hotel bed. If the room had two queen beds, I would reserve one for sleeping, and the other for fucking. I should have remembered to put towels down. But right now I don't have time to think. And there will be the stain of bodily fluids.

Look at his naked skin aglow in the half-light half-dark. The long delicious uncoil of his heavy cock. Look at his peach-fuzzy ass-cheeks. We will find ways to pleasure each other with fingers and mouths and tongues and genitals. Finding release, but also edging. Enjoying each other's bodies in ways we never knew possible. I like it soft and sensual. I like it hard and raw. We find ways to entertain each other's minds and bodies through the night. I like not knowing what comes next as you playfully put your hands over my eyes like a blindfold...

Him: no clothes, just naked lust, lots a delicious oral sixty-nine for the first round. In general I would tend to agree that dialogue between lovers and sexual partners is a good thing, and that verbal communication can resolve most issues, but that's not always easy when we're passionately caught up in the midst of energetic sixty-nining, with my cock pulsing its way down your throat to kiss your tonsils while you're vigorously pussy-humping my face with my tongue slip-slithering so deep up your pretty little cunt that I swear I can taste your cervix. I want to feel your cunt-muscles convulsing up against my mouth as you cum... especially when that delectable pussy squirts its wine all over me. I want to cum in your mouth, then share wet cum-kisses. My cock is pulsing just at the thought of kissing your mouth messy with my spunk.

Do we shower together now...? Or do we fuck-fuck-fuck-fuckety-fuck? I fuck you. Cunt first... doggy-style. You fuck me... cowgirl, riding my hard cock, slower, faster, controlling your pace, speed and depth of penetration until we cum. As you cum over and over, gushing and squirting. Then when I cum in your cunt, it drips out because I'm still gushing as you pull out. You clean my cock with your tongue, I clean your pussy with my tongue. The bed is wet and already wrecked. A funk of sex-aroma, cunt and cum heavy on the air.

Now we take that shower together, my hands on your glistening-wet body, your breasts, between your legs, deluged in the needle-sharp jets of scalding water, loving the feel of you, your hands on my body, fondling my cock and balls, crouching down to bite the head of my cock.... not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to make me wince... then I suck your nipples and bite the smooth round curves of your bottom... the night has just begun. I'm ravenous for you...

He says 'later I'm coming for your tasty ass.'

She whispers in French 'vagine?'

He says 'cloaca.'

She tells him 'please tell me your spunk will fill me, and not get thrown out with a condom. If you want to use a condom in my ass for lubrication, I would be OK if you pull out, uncover, and spray cum up my back...'

So, no condom.

He: Holding you, biting your shoulder gently as I slide deep into you as you arch your back to receive me... do you like it hard and fast, or slow and sensual? Tell me how you like it... tell me? Although I might get carried away and fuck you hard anyway, groaning as I cum inside you. Orgasm is a crazy slippery neon storm all over my mind. All over your mind. All over our shared oceanic fused oneness. We lap over into each other until it's impossible to say where one of us ends and the other begins. The closest us poor scared humans ever get to full total mind-meld.

'I loved it' she tells him, and she tells the pastel cushions and the rich coverlet and the low gleam of the table-lamp and the shaggy heart-shaped carpet. Does this night have to end? Or is this the first day of the rest of our lives?

'And I'll respect you in the morning too...' he responds.

Morning. Room service knocks. She covers, barely, and accepts the tray.

We sit on the bed, naked, feeding each other. Eating food off each other. We call housekeeping for new sheets before we leave, and drop a $20 on the bed, which is soaked along with every towel in the room.

People are stupid. They can't tell the difference between fiction and reality. That's what I call stupid.

In days of old they used to say

'the way to a man's heart is through his stomach'...

modern girls know better than that,

the way to a man's heart lies

approximately six inches lower than that...

control the cock and you control the man...

These are such beautifully flirtatious ideas... these are the teasing fantasies that lovers weave for each other. What is it that leads to the next situation? We are whispering post-coital intimacies, the way lovers do... and she says 'I once gave a wrist-job in a train to a guy, inserting my hand into the flies of his trousers, unseen and unsuspected in the passenger crush. It reminded me of Anaïs Nin fiction, the beautiful mystique of chance sexual encounters, initiated on impulse, consummated discretely and secretly in ways that no-one else is aware, other than the two participants. And then remembered afterwards with a delicious frisson of sensuality. The man on the train who must be going over and over in his mind, the touch of those exciting fingers on his cock, the throb and pulse that they so teasingly provoke, biting his lip so as not to betray what's happening, the catch in his breath that he can't control. Scarcely believing that it happened. So grateful that it did.'

I say 'I love your idea of giving an anonymous man a wrist-job in the train. That's such a beautifully perverse idea... and so generous of you. Bringing such a joyous gift into his dull life. Such a charitable act should not go unrewarded. Maybe we can switch that scenario around, and we -- equally anonymously, can retreat into the train washroom where I can crouch and enjoy licking your pussy until you cum... without once saying a word to each other... I'd simply adore that. I take nothing for granted. I do what little I can to make this world a better and more sexually-fulfilled place, by orally pleasuring one pussy at a time... If I can bring joy to a woman with my mouth, my tongue or my cunniligual skills, my day has not been in vain... Will you stand for me, holding your dress up, with your panties lowered to permit me access...? I do hope so...'

She smiles. 'Your idea of licking me in the train washroom is a novel idea, exciting and thrilling. I prefer long indulgences, but a hasty snatched cunt-licking assignation in a speeding train washroom has its undeniable attractions. Trains are equipped with spacious and clean washrooms, and passengers are decent enough not to disturb or interfere with the occupier.'

An older gentleman's tongue and a young moist pussy are an exquisite combination. I've always enjoyed a woman on top, particularly when she's sitting on my face pussy-fucking my mouth. And yes, she has such a perfectly poised sweetly lickable little vagina, such a delicious pussy, and a flirty inviting smile on her face... who could possibly resist the temptation to lick that lovely little clitoris? Not me, for sure... Her pussy is a sexual wonderland in which to lose my tongue forever. Pussy-lips so sweet they invite a dialogue of tongues. The sweetest love-kiss of them all... And yes, me loving to crouch for you, flicking the delicious morsel of your clit with my tongue, ploughing the blade of my tongue along those exquisite lips, tasting the wine, your hands coming down around the back of my head, adoring the way you're drawing me into the convulsions of your orgasm... Lost in the pleasure of licking you, and to hell with other passengers who need the washroom... people don't knock on the engaged washroom.'

That is a playful dialogue between lovers, teasing along the edges of truth and fantasy. Was it real? Was it true? Had she really jerked-off an anonymous man on a train? Or was she playing games, toying with the beautiful mystique of chance sexual encounters she'd found in Anaïs Nin fiction?

People are stupid. They can't tell the difference between fiction and reality. That's what I call stupid.

Three different sexual scenarios. Which one is true, which of them fabrication?

Kitty fails the audition for the Office Slut vacancy. Rationalising it all, whenever there are four candidates there must be three applicants who fail. Three who leave disappointed. Only one who smirks with that inner glow of satisfaction. Kitty goes for a coffee at the corner Indie coffee shop. She heard it on the grapevine that the tarty older woman... she must be well past thirty years old, has been chosen instead. Gossip says that she sucked off the three male member of the selection panel, and licked the female interviewer to orgasm in order to get their vote. Kitty can well believe that is true. First time she saw her she knew she has a slutty cocksucking mouth. The bitch. But doesn't that furtive underhand behaviour simply better-qualify her for the job? Kitty sighs.

It's as she sips her latte that her cellphone buzzes. It's an offer. From Mr Rosco Cartier, the selection panel co-ordinator. In the text he admits that -- yes, she's regretfully failed the audition for the office slut role. A pity. He'd cast his discretionary preference for Kitty, he explains, but he was outvoted. But if she's interested in another proposition? She finishes her drink, and waits until he arrives. The wispy breath of lace that constitutes her panties are still in her handbag. She'd not bothered to slip them back on beneath her short-short dress after the interview. She smiles when Mr Cartier arrives, at his suggestion they move to an alcove, away from the hustle. He buys two drinks and watches her over the steamy rim of his glass.