Wanda

Based on my marginal understanding of human psychology, an even shakier perception of the Jenkins activity survey, Wanda is definitely a Type A personality. Insatiably ambitious, a champion competitor, a seeker of recognition, she hungers to win, be victorious in all things. She values the laurels, the bonuses, the perks of merit. Her in a nutshell, but out of the office she is playful and pleasingly submissive. Away from the stresses she imposes on herself, Wanda of the boudoir, naked, ready to be guided, raunchy, explicit in her desires, purrs and pants, wants nothing but to please, to make a bedmate quiver from her giving pleasure.

Wanda next to me, my member dancing in the air, she takes me in her mouth, between her legs, in her ass. My long, narrow cock with its greater surface area then something smaller and stubbier is acutely sensitive to her friction, the sensations she imparts.

Some slip up, see her as nothing but artifice, a fair-haired bimbo closeted in a superbly healthy body, a spectacular bust in clinging fabric featuring yards of cleavage. Legs ornamented in filmy nylon and high heeled come fuck me pumps as an invitation for her invasion.

Of course, I fall into no such trap. I see her sexual topography, all its varied shapes, angles and planes. I want in her pants just as others do, but I see more then her sexual side however impressive it may be. Her shrewd intelligence and business acumen are remarkable to behold. She loves T.S. Eliot's and Emily Dickinson's poetry, character driven, well written films, picnicking in a park, shedding her shoes, going barefoot, eating cold chicken and potato salad out of a wicker hamper. She is at once charming and assertive, clever and resourceful.

Her office on the forty-third floor, one wall all shinning glass looking out on other Emerald City high rise buildings. In her workplace she plays down her sexy contours, her sexual manner and her submissive nature. She wears spectacles, big glass ovals over intensely blue eyes, just a smidgen of lipstick, eye shadow and rouge as cosmetics. Her subtle scent of perfume is not too eager, too compelling. Working in this stylish, comfortable office her flaxen hair is sometimes arranged in a ponytail or contained in a tight bun. She wears high heels, old school ones, the kind my mother wore in the sixties working in the Sam Klein's real estate office in downtown Indianapolis.

I a writer living in a rustic cabin in the woods far from Emerald City; Wanda my literary agent is another man's wife. Tim, her husband, a respected tax attorney, another Type A personality, favors flashy cars and hand made Italian shoes, a titian-haired woman as a mistress. Named Stacey, she dotes on him, does what he desires, lives in the pleasurable comfort of a posh condominium he settled her in two years ago. Fiercely protective of her bisexuality, Stacey finds wickedness stepping through her body as her female lover enters a bed sold to the highest bidder, freshly vacated by Tim, and still sizzling with spent lust. Her partner laps Tim's paid out sperm, and then these Sapphic lovers fall asleep in contented bliss.

Wanda, Stacey's Sapphic lover, keeps this secret from the husband yet tells me.

My agent sinceA VIXEN'S KISS, my first book to do business before being unceremoniously tossed on the nearest discount table; Wanda sucked my cock for the first in this office nearly a year and a half ago. After she stripped from her clothes, we fucked on the sofa; I saw her unbound breasts for the first time. Breasts, if I was her child, I'd wish to suckle on until I was five or six. On the chic furniture she favors, I sucked each breast until my mouth was quite numb. My trousers tightly bound about my ankles, I must have looked foolish above her. Her mountainous bosoms still beckoning me, I gripped them firmly, bunched them about my hard member and fucked them as an adjunct pussy, then did the same to her mouth.

Wanda, tough, ballsy negotiator, cell phone always at the ready, a Blackberry Pearl often palmed in her hand husbands my career, earns me much more then my middling talent should hope. My latest book,THE MURDEROUS MADAM, is doing some lucrative business, a short blast of it, before it falls off the scope. Wanda is working a deal with a producer in Hollywood, not first string, but still a player, to sell the book's movie rights. I want Gretchen Dixon, the amply busted actress with the gravelly voice to play the main character.

"Good morning, Mrs. Johnson." My salutation complete, I stroll into Wanda's inner sanctum.

I always feel like the cock of the walk, entering Wanda's office on these quarterly visits. Today is no different. I smell her lavender scent; her blonde hair drifts down on her back, beige pumps with three inch heels on her feet over the sheerest stockings. She is wearing her glasses, a cream colored skirt and a matching jacket with a white silk blouse underneath. Sitting well behind her desk, talking on the telephone, she is wheeling and dealing, toying with a gold Cross ink pen in her right hand. Her legs up on the desktop, feet crossed at the ankles, the skirt forming a neat line above her knees, she immediately has my attention. I doubt she is wearing panties or a brassiere.

She motions for me to occupy the chair near the desk and from that vantage point I watch her talking for several long minutes before returning it to its cradle.

Wanda's bag, her raison d'etre, is to pick up all the chips, win the whole pot for her clients. She does too after paring off her ten percent.

"Sean, this guy in Hollywood is so close to signing."

Wanda, holding up her left hand, bends her index finger, forms a miniscule gap between it and her thumb.

"This close" her finger and thumb gripped close together once more.

"How about we do some celebrating? Maybe open a bottle of champagne," Wanda is still leaning back in the Wingate mahogany armchair. Her desk is elaborately carved, French, a 19^th century Renaissance walnut knee hole plated with a black stone top. I sit in a Louis XV Fauteuil de Bureau, a solid mahogany and golden upholstered reproduction of a mid 18^th century chair with intricately hand carved legs.

Two chic French vintage chairs covered in silk damask weave, a matching sofa, the one we fell on long time ago, also with the same bowed legs, sit across the room with a walnut coffee table between them.

In one corner is a distinctly non French non antique chair. On retro chrome legs, a flirtatious lips pop art chair. Its velvety-plush, red fabric is eye catching; its base and back conformed into the shape of lips make me laugh.

Too much French influence for my simple taste but it suits Wanda. I do love the cherry red lip shaped chair though.

"Wanda, let's wait, let the guy make a firm proposal."

"I can think of something we can do while waiting."

Wanda smiles; swings her legs off the desk, stands, drops her glasses to the desk where they clatter. She makes no sound crossing the deep pile carpet to the office door. Outside someone is tapping on a computer's keyboard, several voices whisper in the background and I hear Wanda's secretary. Velvet Brown's nasal twang heard in the Idaho woods where I live is guaranteed to awaken hibernating bears and drive off trout. From my side of the desk, my left eye, the better one, catches a glint of her firm thighs, the back of her knees, those nicely tilted high heeled feet. I hope she is locking the door, to keep pesky staffers from blundering in, catching us flagrante delicto. Like that very thing had never happened, which it had in this very office several months ago on this very desk. She has mentioned how the stone's biting coldness seeped into naked skin, the portion of her ass not resting on the desk's green and black blotter. I remembered knocking a gold-framed picture, the black onyx globe and gold pen and clock desk set to the floor when I flung her down on that memorable occasion.

In business and bed, Wanda never holds back. With such a body, I think not since her sexuality is an unalterable force of her nature. She likes to fuck and be fucked. Riding Wanda, grasping her, I am breathless. Frolicking in bed, pinning her down, pushing this and that way I often end up bruised and battered, but always wanting more.

Wanda turns on her heels, in a rolling rhythm of swaying hips; she saunters back, all the while staring directly into my eyes. First, she unbuttons the overlaying jacket of her suit, then the pearl buttons of the silk blouse underneath. Top button first, the next, the others in quick succession until her breasts are clear of any intervening fabric. Her nipples erect, licking her lips, in front of me, her wide spread legs nearly touching my knees.

Cradling her breasts, she looks down at me. "You missed them? They've definitely missed you."

"Oh yes. Not seeing them often enough tends to give me writer's block. May I suck them?"

"You sound like a sweet little boy asking for candy the way you say may I suck them? No, first, I suck your cock. I want you to come in my mouth."

Wanda drops to her knees, hosiery making a protesting sound; bends forward, reaches over, unzips my trousers and hauls me out.

"This is the game plan lover. I suck you off; you fill my mouth with sperm, just jolt it in there. Then we close this dreary office, walk arm and arm to the Plaza, me getting off seeing guys on the street staring, wanting to fuck me. I'll be so wet; you'll take advantage of my horny state, and give me a good hard fucking."

Wanda fell on my cock, as she sucked; I writhed inside her mouth, looked toward the ceiling, and thanked the fates for crashing our orbits together. Being a literate man with artistic aspirations, I'd pen a poem feting this liberated woman. This sexy, big breasted woman loves this effort as she loves power and the profit gained from hard work physical toil or the exhaustion left in the wake of a laboring mind.

Within the hour we were in the hotel bed. Serenely, sometimes silently, sometimes raucously, we enjoyed one another well past the dinner hour then dined in the room. Overpriced burgers, too crisp French Fries, cottage cheese, lemon meringue pie and of course lots of coffee. Wanda lay back propped on pillows while I ate fries off her flat stomach.

She wolfed down her sandwich and fries in record time, finished her portion of cottage cheese and even consumed the bit of lettuce, as a finale, smeared lemon and meringue across my dick and sucked me. I was still munching on my burger, working on fries and pushing my cock into her mouth.

Desperately Seeking Housewives, a program I've never seen or wanted to see was on the tube, its sound turned way down. The TV's meek Cyclopean radiance painting the bed and us in a mélange of light and shadow was our solitary source of light.

Wanda working on me with a will; I considered the idea of a singularly erotic poem commemorating this woman, her over the top sexual ardor, how she became such a ravenous and hungry beast when being fucked, the warmth of her mouth, how passionate drawing semen into her throat, how she blew me with ice cubes in her cheeks, after gulping steaming Starbuck's Breakfast Blend prior to pouncing on me.

This brought to mind, a red haired Australian woman, a nearsighted archaeological grad student, who did the same thing in a feather bed looking out on the flat calm of a sparkling blue Aegean sea.

Hours spent giving and taking pleasure quickly tripped by, then finally exhausted, we slept. I awakened, my body facing her, my left hand, my writer's southpaw cupping her nearby breast. She woke; lazy-eyed from sleep and grasped my cock. "Good morning," she said in a near whisper. We made love once more before checking out and having coffee and croissants down the street near her office.