Paganini's Tale, Chapter 11

Larry's office was hardly an office at all, really; it was a
small cubicle separated from other small cubicles by
plasterboard dividers painted get-active colors, reds and royal
blues. His at least, was in the corner, so he got a little
extra space. Still, it had no door, only a doorway.
   He had his desk catty-wampus, angled to the corner, so he had
scoot-back room; his desk formed the base of a triangle. He
liked it that way; it made him feel more spacious, as if he was
master of all he surveyed, such as it was: a calendar on the
wall, the bulletin board tacked full of notations to himself, a
pastel print, some degree-like certificates, a file cabinet.
   Through most of the day Larry made telephone calls and filled
out forms. Occasionally he was called in to personally meet
clients, but that was at most once a week. The little cubicle
was home to him, almost more than home itself was. Again: such
as it was.
   He was on the phone with a client, assuring her that the she
would get those supplies when the intent money arrived, and
that was policy, he couldn't do anything about it, she had
understood that and he was sure she could understand that now.
   Then his doorway was filled by a black and lovely presence.
He looked up and saw her standing cant-hipped, one arm up on
the top of the barrier. "Get off the phone," she mouthed.
   Larry mumbled a few more words to the woman on the other end
and then hung up, all the while looking his vampiress woman up
and down. Tits high and small, today tightly wrapped in thin
burgundy silk, above a black knee-length skirt. Her dark hair
was curled in a pert businesswoman's flair, and she carried a
briefcase.
   She looked on the outside like a member-in-good-standing of
some relatively huge conglomerate, paying a visit to a business
associate. Her dark eyes smoldered a different story. When the
phone hit the cradle, she spoke clearly: "Mr. Montgomery, how
nice to see you, do you have a few moments?"
   Larry cleared his throat, then manufactured: "Ms.... Ms.
Bartles, what are you doing in this neck of the woods?"
   Then she came toward him, her step that of a panther's. She
put a ruby-nailed hand on his desk. "So this is your office,"
she purred. "Somehow I'd pictured something like this. How
correct."
   Larry couldn't tell whether she meant him or her. He decided
she meant him. "It suits me," he said stiffly.
   "That it does," she said, and drifted her hands toward her
stomach, drawing long, slow circles around her navel. The red
nails mesmerized Larry for a moment as he watched them
circling, circling... then he watched her fingers move up to
caress her budding nipples, just now poking out from beneath
the silk.
   He glanced behind her; nobody in the corridor.
   The woman's other hand moved to the spot on her skirt that
covered her cunt, Keeping her arm fixed, her fingers pushed in,
creasing the fabric, pushing on her pussy lips. From behind,
she would look like she was simply talking with Larry, since
her briefcase was on his desk, not yet opened, but clearly
being readied.
   He relaxed and enjoyed the show, enjoyed knowing that the
risk of being noticed was slim, and that even if it was, most
of the other people on the floor were men, and would simply be
jealous of this exquisite woman touching herself in front of
him.
   But then she got serious. She began to pull up the front of
her skirt, inch by inch, gathering it in her hand just above
desk level, pulling it up in such a way that her fingers pushed
at her cunt with each fold. Her other hand was now busy at her
tits, pinching her left nipple, rolling it through the fabric,
pushing the firm flesh hither and yon.
   Even from behind, nobody could mistake what was happening. It
was no longer something that Jack or Wayne would smirk at; they
would have to talk about it. What if Mr. Higgins walked by?
What could he possibly think that wouldn't damage his chances
of promotion? Jesus, he thought, I could lose my job!
   "Look," he began to say, but she cut him off.
   "Shut up. Scoot back in your seat."
   "Now wait just a minute..."
   "If you don't I'll simply continue. There's nothing you can
do to stop me that wouldn't cause more trouble than following
my instructions."
   Larry was indignant. "Just because of what we did together,"
he whispered, "doesn't give you the right..."
   She was smiling wickedly. Her fingers began again pulling up
her skirt, the bunch of folds clearly rubbing against her cunt
lips. He was angry at his hardening cock.
   He could imagine the scenarios. What could he do? Call her
crazy? Haul her out of here physically? <That> certainly
wouldn't go unnoticed. He could find no way out. His cock
wished it could find <its> way out of his constricting
underwear. He readjusted his seating.
   "Just push back in your seat," she said in satin tones, and
I'll take care of that cock of mine." She moved to the side of
the desk. As Larry looked to the corridor, she slipped behind
it. She got down to her knees.
   He scooted back. She moved into the knee-hole of the desk,
backing in without taking her dark eyes off his. Grabbing his
calves, she rolled his chair back toward her.
   She unzipped his pants gradually, stroking his bulge as she
did. He took a deep breath, keeping his eye on the corridor.
Then he realized that only a very sharp eye could possibly
catch what was going on beneath his desk, which reached almost
to the floor. And her skirt, which hid her legs, was black as
shadow. As long as he kept his face impassive and looked like
he was working, nobody would bother him.
   So as her delicate fingers wormed between the waistband of
his underwear and his skin to haul out his erection, he picked
up a pen and brought it to his lips, as if thinking about the
report in front of him. His cock, cooled by the air, swelled
even stiffer, almost poking up past the level of the desk. He
leaned forward to angle it downward just as she hauled it down
the to face her.
   Her hands slipped up and down its length, grabbing shortly,
then releasing. He bit the pen with each grasp. Then her
fingers seemed to begin to move independently. Each finger
became a butterfly, fluttering its wings against the tight skin
of his shaft and shiny cockhead. He look down for a moment,
watching her hands move like an accomplished violinist's.
   It was incredibly erotic. His cock seemed more hard than
ever, since his pulse was racing, expecting at any minute for
Mr. Higgins to walk in just to chat, as he sometimes did. He
could be in here for twenty minutes then, with her fingers
playing arpeggios on his prick.
   Yet she wouldn't seem to use her mouth. He wanted her to take
it in her mouth, to tongue it warmly, slickly, to swallow his
weapon of pleasure, but she wouldn't. He tried edging forward
on the wheels of his chair, but she wouldn't take it in her
mouth. Hip thrusts did nothing, since he was sitting down.
   Her fingers were nearly as good as her mouth, delicately
tracing patterns of swirly dimensions on his prick. Almost
<because> he knew she wouldn't suck him, it made him want it
all the more, made him want <her> all the more.
   The skin of his cock almost hurt, it was pulled so tight. The
purple head ached with pressure so great that he almost winced
whenever her fingers would stroke it.
   Knowing he couldn't pretend concentration forever, Larry
picked up the phone, pretending to listen to a client. His cock
ached with an exquisite pain, a yearning so intense that it
became almost orgasmic. She was now stroking circles on that
head, like the laps of a tongue tip, yet dry, vaguely abrasive.
He closed his eyes tightly, wincing, gripping the phone
tightly, focusing on the sharp pleasure building like crystals
in the pit of his stomach. When he opened his eyes, Winston was
standing in the doorway,
   Panic struck Larry. Winston looked bemused, as if in on the
joke. But then Larry realized that Winston must be thinking he
had an wince-able client on the phone, and that Larry was stuck.
He put his hand over the receiver of the phone. "This will
take a little while," he mouthed, "I'll buzz you when I'm
done." Winston smiled, nodded, and waved as he left.
   The adrenaline rush from the panic was helping put him over
the edge: her fingers still danced lightly on the drum-tight
flesh. He wanted contact so badly he was trying to buck without
moving, damn whoever came by, he needed that touch. Each stroke
became more and more painful, when suddenly she grabbed his
cock with both hands and pumped up and down hard, milking his
shaft with firm practiced hands.
   He was helpless before her. He fought it back, trying to
stave off the orgasm, but her hands pulled it out of him almost
effortlessly. She hissed in a breath through her teeth, and
kept milking for a few more strokes, then tightly squeezed,
solidly, while the afterconvulsions of orgasm rocked his body.
   He pushed back on the wheels of his chair, not quite out of
reach of her grasp. Her face was dotted with jism, sparkling
now that her face was in the light. She was smiling again,
still wickedly. "That cock of mine did well," she whispered.
   Keeping hold of his softening tool with one hand, she used
the other to wipe his cream from off her face, into her mouth;
she sucked her finger, lapped it, mouthed it just as he wanted
her to do to his cock. "My come tastes good," she said, "taste
it." She wiped off a gob from her temple, then held her hand
out of the cubbyhole.
   He looked stricken. Someone could see her hand. Quickly, he
moved down to her hand, mouth open. When her finger was in his
mouth, she crooked it, taking his cheek between finger and
thumb. She pulled him down to her.
   "I can have my cock any time I want it. I have taken
possession of it." She looked straight at him with dark black
eyes. "You merely carry it around for me. Do you understand?"
   He surprised himself. Usually after coming he didn't give a
shit about sex either way. Now, he cared very much. He could
feel the beginnings of another hard stirring his prick.
   He nodded.
   "Good," she said. "Now scoot back so I can get out." He did,
and she stood, swiftly moving to the front of the desk. Again
her back was to the doorway. She put her hand on the briefcase,
ruby- tipped fingernails slipping between handle and case.
   She smiled her smile again. "Until the next time I want it,"
she said. "Until then."
   Then she turned and walked out of the doorway,
   After a few numb minutes, Winston walked back in, saw his
stricken face, and shook his head. "That bad, eh?"
   Larry looked up at him. "Yes," he said, slowly, "Quite a
call. But you know how some people are."
   "Lunch?" Winston asked.
   Larry realized that his cock was still hanging out of his
pants, luckily hidden by the desk. "No, I, uh, I've got to get
a little more finished on this report. I guess I'll take a
raincheck."
   "Okay," Winston smiled. "Next time."