Monthly Archives: May 2013

Mad Men were onto something




Things got out of hand rather quickly, as they say.

I really never meant to be on my back on a desk in an empty office, asking him to fuck me harder, harder. I had never had sex in any place of business, much less my own place of business.

It is a thing from another time, like train travel, handkerchiefs and phone booths. It went out with drinking at lunch, a 9 – 5 workday and smoking in your office. People simply don’t do it anymore, no more than they ask a coworker if he is gay or tell the receptionist she has a nice rack.

People don’t have sex in their workplace anymore. It’s just not a thing.

But work is not a Monday through Friday thing anymore, either. The world wants what it wants on demand, 24/7, and that means there are people who work on the weekend.

There are a few, like myself, who are in their offices alone. Every Saturday I do my work, by myself, with only the cleaning lady for an hour. And the internet. And my cell phone.

My cell phone proved to be my downfall. A device unheard of in the days of Don Draper, when office sex was de rigueur, as commonplace as a completely male board of directors or calling an employee “sweetie.” I have never worked in such an environment, it really never occurred to me that I would be at work, standing while a man kneeled in front of me sucking my clit into his mouth, making my knees buckle.

I had told him to come see me, had even mentioned I was alone at work. There was an attraction there, that was undeniable. But we are both adults, in control (theoretically) of our bodies and our sex drives; we would not fuck at my office, that was a given.

I unlocked the door, we moved toward the back of the office, out of sight of anyone who may have seen him come it. A few kisses, some small talk.

“Aren’t you worried someone might see us?” he asked. I realized it was a healthy fear; we moved deeper into the building. I could feel myself getting turned on by the smell of him, his nearness, the maleness of him, work rough hands on my face, looking me dead in the eyes, pulling me forward. When he pressed himself to me I could feel his hardon on my belly, it jumped at my touch through his jeans.

On the edges of my brain, I could hear my breath quicken, I felt myself lead him to an unused room, an office complete with phone and printer, desk and chairs, but devoid of people. We stood, kissing, hands exploring each other.

“Will you, will you let me?” I didn’t answer, I didn’t really know what he meant. What I knew was this – his tongue in my mouth, his fingers in my hair, his arms around me. Then he was down, on the floor, on his knees, pushing my skirt up, my thighs apart. His mouth on me, sucking sucking sucking, truly eating me, like a starving man at a feast. My legs starting going, refusing to support me, he laid me down on the floor, his tongue never leaving my pussy, his fingers opening me up, fucking me as he licked, sucked my clit. He dived into me, I could feel myself slipping away, gushing onto his face.

Then he is kissing my mouth, his fingers still inside me, I can taste my juices on his tongue, his face is slick against mine. He wants me, it both frightens and entices me how much of me he wants – my heart I’m afraid. He demands nothing, but he wants, he wants. He looks at me as he feels inside me, learning my pussy, what makes me moan.

“I won’t stand in line,” he tells me as we lay on the floor of this office, his fingers reaching into me. “I won’t stand in line, but I will love you.”

I am gone, I am fucked by these words, by the fierceness, the suddenness of this. I am coming, on his hand, I know I must be crying out, my mind is in freefall, my cunt clutching him, my mouth devouring him. His eyes are searching me, what is he looking for, what does he want, I no longer care. For a moment, I will give him anything he asks, I know this, I feel myself sliding, losing control.

To hell with it.

“Please,” I say, nothing more. I know what I want, him inside me, pound me, use me, do it. He makes me say it, makes me tell him what I want.

“Fuck me, fuck me.”

He pulls me to a chair, I pull my knees up, my heels on the chair, and he is fucking me hard.

“Look at me, open your eyes and look at me when you come,” and I do, both of us coming, giving good as we get.

There is no afterglow, there is no soft place to lay, we simply find somewhere to sit, sheepishly reaching out to kiss now and again, more and more, until we are back in the vacant office. I need no convincing, he does not ask.

I am on the desk, skirt up around my waist, holding on the the edge of the desk. “Harder.” I need say it only once, he hits that spot that makes my pussy tighten, he fills me, slamming over and over, and I come again.

This is not pretty sex, a montage of interlaced fingers and soft kisses. I come with a vengeance, gritting my teeth, growling, he pushes my legs back, deeper, balls deep.

“Stop, stop.” I am done, finished. It is over. We have done this thing.


Every day, I walk past the office, sometimes I look at the floor, the desk. It shows no signs of the acts that took place. I know I will never have office sex again, it was spontaneous, to plan it would allow my brain to reason, it wouldn’t happen.

But now I know, I understand it, the appeal of an act in an unexpected place, sense of urgency, the juxtaposition of work and play, the weird ‘did that really happen’ feeling I get when I go into that room.

Hats off to you, Don Draper.

Given freely






“No, not yet.”

The nerve of him, this was all his idea and now he was denying me. But really, it wasn’t his words that stopped me – it was his eyes.

Deep. Brown turning to hazel, focused, at the moment, on me – my face, my own eyes.

He had told me that he thinks I may have a submissive streak, an observation I vehemently denied. I submit to no one, in any arena, ever. “I am a grown-ass woman, why would I feel the need to submit, to obey, to do as others (much less you) tell me to do?”

“Hell, I don’t know, but I think maybe you might, in bed.”

Oh, now this was such bullshit, I had to call him out on it. Told him not only did it not turn me on to be dictated to, ordered, expected, but that I would never do anything that was demanded of me. Fuck that.

Now I looked across the table, and he told me what I would do, and what I would not. Could not. Was not allowed to.

“C’mon,” I said, barely above a whisper. I could hear it, weakness in my voice. I hated it, hated hated hated it. I could feel myself thinking “please” but refused to go there, I would not beg for my own orgasm.

It had started as essentially a dare. My submissive tendencies, or lack thereof, had been touched on occasionally, with me still telling him he could fuck right off, and him chuckling under his breath, as if to say, ‘sure tell yourself that if you want.’

But now, now he was pushing it, pushing me, and I hated myself for allowing that, for not laughing in his face.

But, I wasn’t. I was looking at him, waiting for him to say the words that would push me over the edge, let me freefall.

The words that would allow me to come.

‘Fuck you,’ I thought. I couldn’t believe I had allowed this to go this far. When I sat down at the table, a drink was waiting for me, dripping onto the tablecloth. A very strong one.

“Drink up baby,” he said. “I’m two ahead of you.” So I drank the drink, gulping it down, thinking nothing of it. My head started swimming almost immediately. Then he reached his closed hand across the table. Without thinking, I reached out, palms up. He opened his hand and a bullet vibrator, no bigger than his thumb, fell into my hand.

When I saw what it was, I laughed, closing my hand around the smooth object, looking at him.

“What the hell David?” I half whispered. “I mean, I like gifts and all, but geez you could have left it in the box, wrapped it up.”

“But its not a gift, not really,” he said, a smirk coming over his face. “I just had an idea, if you’re interested.”

Anything sexual, hell yeah I’m interested, even when, as it was in this instance, against my better judgement. Especially then. So, like a sucker, I asked what he had in mind.

“Will you do it?” he asked.

“I don’t know, depends on what it is.”

“You know I don’t want what is not given freely.”

“I know you don’t, but I don’t know what you are going to ask.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes, with my life.”

“Then, will you do what I ask? Will you Sasha?”

He knew the sound of my name off his tongue did something to me, affected me.


Both a thrill of excitement and a wave of relief washed over me. Thrilled because he obviously had a plan that involved me and a vibrator, relief that whatever happened, I was not responsible, David was.

He took a swallow of his whiskey, smiled.

“Glad you wore a skirt,” he said. “Panties?”

“Yes, I’m wearing panties.”

“Slip that toy into them.”

I started to get up, but he stopped me. Said he wanted me to do it while I was sitting at the table. After he said that, his mouth curled, daring me. So, naturally I made sure the tablecloth was over my lap, opened my legs, pulled my panties aside and pushed the bullet up against my clit. I smiled right back at him, with an eyebrowed raised, answering his dare.

Little did I know it was a remote controlled vibrator, I jumped when he wiped the smile off my face by turning the the vibrator on.

His eyes widened, he opened his mouth into a smiling “O,” laughing at my surprise.

I immediately felt my body going limp, automatically doing what it does when a buzz starts in my pussy. I leaned back in the booth, my eyelids getting heavy as I went to that other place.

“Hey,” he said, not loud, but sharp. I sat up, but he didn’t turn the vibe off.

“Come back to me, don’t go anywhere,” he said. No, ordered, he ordered me to stay alert, aware of where I was, here with him in this bar.

“I’m here,” I told him. “I can do this.”
“You will do this.”

“Oh, is that so? And why will I do this?”

“Because I asked you, and you said you would. You said you would give this to me, did you not?”

I had said that, I told him I would. The insistent buzz in my panties continued, along with his stare. He did not attempt to look casual, to glance around or smile. He looked at me, I could read the changes in my own demeanor by the look in his eyes. The longer the vibe stayed in place, the more turned on I got, the more intensely he looked at me. When he changed the speed on the bullet, he observed me, like an interesting display at a museum.

And every time I started to relax, go limp, let myself go and give in to the sensations, he brought me back.


Insistent. A bit demanding, just enough. He kept me from slipping away.

And it worked, my pussy gushing and twitching as the tension built. Yet, I stayed on top of the arousal, aware of what he was doing.

“Baby, I’m dying over here,” I said after several silent minutes, the hum of the vibrator barely audible as it rose in pitch. “I want to come.”

He gave a chuckle but never took his eyes off me, those eyes that I had seen close as he himself came. He was not allowing me that luxury.

“Not yet,” he said, turning the speed on the vibrator back down. “Open your eyes, look at me.”

I did, I looked at him even as I felt the tension build in my belly and my thighs, my body tightening, getting ready for release. I fought to keep my eyes focused on his, to sit up straight and not betray myself to the world. But I was losing, I could feel myself melting.

“Sasha, look at me.”

I looked at him for what could only have been a few seconds, but seemed like an eternity as he steadily turned the vibe up, smiling. I fought to find a way to go with the wave of pleasure coursing through me while concentrating on him, on his face.

On those eyes.

“Now. Come to me Sasha, come now.”

And I was freefalling, looking at him, watching him watch me. Relief and release, pleasure I was having to rein in, his control of me forcing me to control myself. I came and came, I didn’t think it would ever end, my body jumping and squeezing itself. I felt my fingernails dig into my palms, somewhere I knew I was about to cry out.

“No, don’t, be quiet. Shhhh, be quiet for me.”

And I did.

I pressed my lips together, as if I were teetering on an “m” forever. I heard a noise in my throat, muffled only by sheer will, a whining sound, plaintive and begging. But I did not. I just came, refusing to close my eyes, giving him what he wanted, what I wanted.

“So, what did you just prove? Nothing. That I enjoy an orgasm, big deal.”

“But you gave it to me,” he said. “I didn’t force you, you gave it to me, a gift.”

And I understood. I understood giving up control.

Not submitting, I will never understand that, to allow someone to dominate me, to need to relinquish control. I was always in control.

I simply surrendered it.