The Offering Cup

Krisella kept a ceramic coffee mug on her desk at work. Handmade, colorful. She looked forward to a cup of coffee in that mug each workday morning. Workdays for Krisella were Monday through Friday, barring any national holidays.

Her workplace was a law firm. The offices were clean, organized, and discreetly prosperous. Decorum, propriety and diligence were the watchwords of the firm. Krisella was one of a dozen secretaries at that law firm.

Each secretary practiced her own morning coffee ritual, many using the shared coffee mugs in the cabinets of the law firm's kitchenette. The mugs were of good quality and had the law firm's logo emblazoned on the side. The mugs in the back of the cabinets had the law firm's prior name, which was mostly the same, before that firm merged, several years ago, with another firm. But Krisella used only her colorful ceramic mug for coffee each morning.

The receptionist started brewing the coffee when the receptionist arrived each morning. It was one of her duties as part of "opening" the office each day. Krisella often arrived not much behind the receptionist, and she liked the receptionist's coffee. It tasted good and the receptionist always made sure to keep a fresh pot ready throughout the morning.

But whether Krisella stepped into the law firm's foyer each morning, cheeks chilled from having walked from the exurban commuter bus, or cheeks warm, dropped off that morning by her husband—usually only when he had a maintenance job in the downtown—that morning's fresh hot coffee in her mug had been on Krisella's mind the entire length of her whole commute.

Special motivation for starting the day. A day that could, always, run longer than expected.

Krisella and her husband were used to her arriving home late. Late, but seldom too late. The partners who ran the law firm that employed Krisella so steadily and lucratively for the past decade-plus, they were family men with their own suburban obligations to which they needed to return on-time. Or, at a reasonable time. Traffic being abominable in and around the city.

After arriving each morning, smiling to Patty at Reception, Krisella hung her coat, if any, on the hook near her desk, and put her purse into the deep, bottom drawer of her desk, the one she could lock if she wanted.

She changed out of any too-casual shoes she might have worn through her commute into the office, and slipped on one of the pairs of office-appropriate heels kept overnight in that same, lockable drawer. The heels were mostly pumps or slingbacks, that Krisella rotated for comfort, style, and for whim. Each pair the color black, nice and neutral so that she need not worry about clashing with her outfits, and nice and high so that it made her walking around the office extra-fun for her employers and for herself. Proper office heels on her feet, she went to the ladies' room, next, and freshened up. Then, she returned to her desk, made sure no one needed her yet, and if no one did, took her handmade, colorful coffee mug to the kitchenette. There was always hot, fresh, black coffee brewing in the kitchenette. This was a well-run urban office, the office services department was always on-point. Patty at the receptionist desk, or her backup for the day, always made sure the kitchenette was full of the only legal stimulant they could provide their staff.

Krisella poured herself a mug full of coffee, then let it cool on a counter while she gossiped and small-talked about family or television or book clubs with whomever came into the kitchenette for their morning coffee doses or for any of the free snacks the law firm provided to their labor force.

But when her mug was cool, Krisella sipped it once, then walked slowly around the ring of offices that the firm occupied. The firm had an entire floor of this elegant and understated Neo-American revival Gold LEED certified Class-A office building. Unlike law firms on television, the firm was an exemplar of quiet and stillness, as befit a law firm with nearly exclusively corporate clients in an obscure and soporific industry. Soporific and lucrative, for the furnishings and the decor and the decorum exemplified a casual comfort, such as the quality of the carpet underneath Krisella's high heels, but without any ostentation. The art pieces on the walls were nothing special, and were mostly ignored.

The building was neither rectangular nor circular, and the firm's offices on the fifth floor were arranged around a ring of short, straight hallways that connected the entire way around, but had been made with so many sharp right angles and turns, that the halls had a considerable degree of privacy from other parts of the office, merely several feet away.

Coffee in hand, Krisella slowly made her circuit around that outer ring of connecting hallways. Interior secretary stations, beginning to be populated for the day, store rooms and clerk spaces on the inner side. On the external side, the offices of partners and senior associates. Arriving less punctually than the support staff, of course.

She said hellos to the other secretaries and paralegals, but seemed less obviously interested in the attorneys. That was because Krisella was more selective with the attorneys. Krisella tried hard to get the attention of any of the partners who mattered—they all had the offices on the best side of the ring, with the river view. Kirsella most-wanted to make eye contact with these men—and one woman—while she sipped her morning coffee from her handmade, colorful ceramic mug.

It was her daily ritual, each workday, now lasting for years of her employment—steady, lucrative, dependable—at the small, urban law firm.

Monday mornings, especially in the fall, which was the firm's busiest season, were always the best mornings and the ones Krisella looked forward to the most. She could almost always count on spotting some white residue at the bottom and on the insides of her handmade coffee mug.

When she saw that, she would sometimes tease her big lummox of a husband with a text message. "I think they had a very busy weekend at the firm, honey. I think a lot of the lawyers were very stressed out," she might text him.

Krisella would then watch her phone, waiting for the text to go from 'delivered' to 'read,' enjoying the special buttons she was pushing in her husband's mind.

Often, a fast response from him: "Did they leave lots of offerings in your offering cup, baby?" his answering text might read.

"They did, baby."

"Lots of sticky residue?"

Krisella would giggle out loud in the office, seeing the effect she had on her husband on an average Monday in autumn. "Lots, honey," Kirsella would text him back, maybe with a suggestive emoji or two attached. But Krisella knew how to end that morning texts with a flourish: "Gonna kiss you real slow when I get home tonight, babe," picturing herself kissing him slowly, with her lips and only the tip of her tongue, very, very slowly, then with her tongue deeper and deeper into his mouth. After that text exchange, she would put her phone away and let her husband simmer in his own juices.

Krisella had found the job at the law firm in a serendipitous way years ago, back in the purer, earlier days of the internet.

A partner at the firm, recently divorced and swingin' rat-pack style, found Krisella and her husband on a social kink site: West Virginia couple wanting her to suck off sexy, professional men, with her husband hoping to be able to get a snowball now and then.

Well, at the next law firm Christmas Party, the young partner brought the couple as his guests and Krisella's husband got more than an occasional snowball.

The party was at the firm itself, with the conference room doubling as the buffet, the law firm's foyer serving as the cocktail lounge, and the receptionist desk doubling as the bar. Professionally catered, with everyone in cocktail party attire. Just before midnight, they sequestered Krisella in a lavish partner's suite, one of the river-view offices, where she knelt on the plush carpet, the top of her dress came down, and a dozen of the male partners—and the one out lesbian partner, Denise—took Krisella's mouth and face for a holiday sleigh ride.

Her husband, seated in the partner's plush x-chair X4, was inconspicuous and ignored by the gaggle of well-dressed gentlemen jockeying for attention from his kneeling wife. Inside the circle of men around her, Krisella's presence was rescued to sticky, wet stroking noises and the sounds a woman makes with her mouth and hands very, very continuously full. The lawyers made noises, though, more distinctly that Krisella, and distinct enough that her husband was pretty sure she was swallowing her first load of cum, and doubly sure of that a few minutes later when the sounds of a man coming in his wife's mouth were repeated. Kirsella swallowed the first three loads the partners gave to her, one from the single young partner who had invited her to the party, and two from partners who both had their wives back at the more respectable areas of the party, trading dull small talk with other wives and the female associates. Going back to that part of the party was a lot easier after dropping a load in the mouth of this pretty, new, chubby slut.

After taking the third of those first three, Krisella stood up and said, with a mouth still mostly full of sticky, creamy load number three, "bweak time," and Krisella walked over to her husband, still rocking in the partner's x-chair.

Her husband understood what his wife expected of him, and moved himself into position.

"Merry Christmas, honey," Krisella said to her husband, her mouth inches above his waiting, open mouth, and all the men in the room with their cocks out, looking at her, laughed. Laughed with her and at her husband. Some of these lawyers might be unfaithful, but they would all hate to be cucks. Their laughter made it clear.

Then, Krisella, with a smile, left her husband with a new taste in his mouth, and, still smiling, got on her knees on the plush carpet of this partner-sized office, and let the next stiff, horny men make use of her mouth and hands.

After a few more satisfied customers, Krisella repeated her ritual.

The second time Krisella snowballed a man's cum into her husband's mouth that evening, she said "Happy Holidays," and the men in the room laughed again but the joke was played out.

But after that second load, the rest were too impatient to spare here. "That's enough for him, two loads is payment enough to use his wife," one of the commanding ones said. And so it was.

Then Krisella was taking multiple at a time and the cum was going everywhere. Swallowed into her mouth, spraying her chest and staining her dress and getting into her hair. Her makeup quickly gone. Just a nasty, slutty blowbang happening in a space that had been featured in high-end business architecture publications as a testament to elegant and sophisticated design and use of materials.

Krisella looked good on her knees. A chubby twenty-something woman wearing a dress size-twentysomething—it fluctuated—retro bob-cut brown hair, lips full and so adorable as if made for sucking and pleasing cocks, eyes big and brown and so adorable as if made for looking up while a cock went too deep, past the back of her throat, and made those brown eyes tear.

Her top down, all her coverable tattoos were uncovered. Handmade, colorful, her back was a canvas painted with flowers and nature and dragons and grandeur, the designs spilled down her arms and stopped at her wrists.

Her skin was pale like mountain girls like her were pale, her thighs soft and full and her belly soft and full and her butt big and full and her breasts dark-nippled and her breasts big enough for multiple hands to squeeze them at multiple strengths, simultaneously.

It was, Krisella found, a unique and addicting sensation.

Krisella was kept busy until the party ended. She and her husband were the last to leave, along with her partner escort. So many bad puns had been made about giving her a White Christmas, but when Krisella checked her look in the mirror of the law office's ladies room, she had never seen herself look so trashy, so slutty, so beautiful.

"A trashy girl in a fine downtown office, and all these rich lawyers could not keep their hands off me or their dicks out of my mouth," Krisella thought. Oh what a night! Giddy with potent, manic energy of fantasy becoming reality, of touch and desire and connection, oh what a night, indeed, and she could not stop herself from singing low and to herself, and dancing to that peppy-happy-sexy melody with feminine joy, alone in the ladies room, peeing and washing her hands but not daring to wash her face, her beautiful, sloppy, glazed slutty face!

Krisella took a picture of herself with her camera phone. She wanted her own memory of this!

The law firm's party where Krisella had been the secret guest of honor had happened in December, of course.

The partners met in January and by March, Krisella had her new career as a legal secretary. She had her own desk at her own secretarial station, supporting two attorneys in the corporate department.

They had required her to still come into the office for interviews, during parts of February. As Krisella's special talents were being kept from some of the female partners, some of the male associates, and from all of the female associates and support staff, the partners and associates who were in the know about her special abilities and proclivities, wanted there to be no appearances of impropriety. The interviews were mostly one on one, behind closed doors, during business hours, and mostly professional.

But not completely professional, of course.

Krisella appreciated the tact and discretion her new employers showed for her during the interview process. Through the interviews and meetings, she got a feel for the job, and for what would be expected of her. Krisella had a semester of community college and a cosmetology license. But she was an avid reader and understood computers so secretarial work was well within her "skill set."

Also in her skill set was the ease with which she bent over one of her bosses' meeting tables in his office, let her retro-fabulous sheer granny panties be pulled off her big hips, and let her big, cushiony butt take the pounding a horny, and stressed, fifty-something husband and father-of-two needed to give her so he could functional most-optimally at work and thus keep providing for his wife and the two he was father of, out in the safe suburbs of the city.

The offering cup began with the young partner who first met her off of social media; that hard-working, hard-partying swinger who drove so much of the firm's new business and so much of the firm's secret culture. One Monday morning, she arrived at her desk and station to find the colorful ceramic cup waiting for her, with a bright gift bow glued to the side.

"I was thinking about you the whole last week on this business trip," he explained to Krisella when he found her at her station later that morning. "Got this mug downstairs at the fancy gift shop. It made me think of you, with all your colorful ink."

Krisella smiled. "Thanks," she said. "I love it." She took the bow off the cup's side, in front of him. "I've been waiting to take the bow off until I knew who gave it to me, lest there be a mistake and someone just accidentally left it."

"No accident," he told her. "Like I said, I was thinking of you every day, and the first day I was there, I went down to the fancy gift shop in the hotel and brought it right back to my room."

"Oh did you? That is so thoughtful."

"I did. I was going crazy, and the only way I could get back under control, was to jerk off, thinking about you. I got naked, lay back on my bed, and thought about how good you look, when you're on top of me on the couch in my office, and so I jerked off thinking about you, into the mug I bought for you. And every time I got horny back in my room that trip, I would take out your colorful cup and finish myself into it. Coming and coming, sometimes, two, three, four times a day, shooting every time into this," he looked at the mug on her desk and she stared at it, following his eyes but also fascinated by this simple ceramic mug, that seemed to be reverberating like a talisman, like a chalice, on her desk.

"I thought I saw some stains on the inside of the cup," Krisella said. "But I didn't want to say anything." She winked at him. "You know, probably just a little dust in shipping." She looked at the cup again. "But, now that I know it's clean, that it's actually already been . . . washed? Sanitized for my protection? I know I don't even have to wash it first, but I can go ahead and drink my morning coffee from it." They made eye contact, long and sultry in the silence. "Wanna watch?" she invited.

Turns out, this was the perfect time for a mid-morning coffee break, to inaugurate her gift from her favorite partner's business trip.

"So kind of you to think of me while you were gone," Krisella told him in a quiet voice, as she led the way to the kitchenette. He stayed closed enough behind to see her big hips and bigger bottom wiggle in front of him in her office-appropriate tight pencil skirt.

"Of course," he replied. "You're truly exemplary, Krisella."

She giggled.

In the kitchenette, she added the coffee slowly, while he watched the mug more than he watched her pour. "No need for creamer, that's been taken care of," Krisella joked to him. "And no need for sweetener," she said, smiling at him like she was not married, like she had never been married. "I know you're plenty sweet."

Her unmarried superior smiled at her and looked into her big brown eyes and melted with casual lust. He had been working at this law office for longer than Krisella, he had worked his way up and over the long, hard road to owning a piece of the business, and yet never had these stentorian halls felt so alive, so fresh, so worthwhile as they had since she joined the staff and handled so many of their staffs.

All from the simple act of Krisella sipping her coffee from the cup she had been gifted.

Or was it from the simple act of Krisella grinning over the steaming coffee as she sipped it, her eyes warm and smiling, as excited to play these office games as he was excited to lead them.

And so that morning began what was to be the law firm's most sacred secret tradition, that of the offering cup.

Initially, the offering cup was how the young partner began his day with Krisella. She would report to his office, close the door. She would bring with her the colorful ceramic mug. Handcrafted by some chi-chi artist selling high-end ceramics in the overpriced boutique of an international five-star hotel chain. The artist had signed the bottom of the mug, but Krisella thought of it has her mug, hers and her employers, as if they had crafted it themselves.

Krisella took good care of it, handwashing it only, and it kept its bright colors for all the years of its life.

Once on her knees in her benefactor's office, her employer would jerk off and cum into the mug, while Krisella watched, aided, or teased him, often a combination of all three. Then, Krisella would take the mug, fill it with coffee in the kitchenette, and return to the partner's office with her coffee, and sip her cup in front of him.

However, eventually he was not in the office some days, but then another partner who was, had been appointed to have his offering coaxed out of him for Krisella's morning cup, and to have her dissolve his seed into her coffee, so better for her to drink every drop down.

For years, it was a potent and agreeable ritual for all involved with which to start the work day.

Occasionally, she might tease her husband during the day with a naughty text or an even naughtier photo. But of course, she never told him everything, because he, as cuckold, did not deserve to know everything, and Krisella sensed that her husband, loveable dolt that he was, knew that, too.