Getting the Job: Carol Kirkwood Part 7: Performance Review

By Imorol

Disclaimer: This is a fictional story for adult entertainment purposes.

Now, to the story…

It was early Monday morning, so early it was still dark outside the closed curtains. Lying in bed was Carol Kirkwood, snuggled down under the duvet. One hand pushed down inside soft pyjama bottoms, fingers gliding over a welcoming pussy, syrupy juice coating them. Against a large breast her other hand pressed, finger and thumb pinching a stiff nipple through the PJs.

Having woken up before the alarm went off she had taken the opportunity to play with herself. Racing against the clock she circled her clit, sighing as fingers worked the sensitive spot. Other hand switching between boobs to tease her nipples, Carol’s hips were slowly, grinding against the mattress.

Climax nearing, hips rocking, fingers moved quicker, swiping over and over the happy little clit. Breath whistling through clenched teeth she pulled a nipple before giving a sharp twist. Body moving against the bed she strummed her clit, racing towards a wonderful morning orgasm. Hips lifting from the mattress Carol buried two fingers into her sopping pussy, heel of the hand pressing and grinding a stiff womanly bean.

‘Ooh,’ the Scottish blonde sighed into the bedroom. Eyes darting to the side, the alarm clock was near to sounding. ‘Yes…Yes!’

Fingers scrabbling back and forth over her throbbing clit Carol Kirkwood brought herself to climax. Writhing on her bed she moaned as she came, filled with bliss. Fingers flicking rapidly in her crotch they were coated with the girl cum running from her twitching hole. Mind buzzing with pleasure she worked her pussy and nipples, riding waves of pleasure, eyes closed, lips pursed as they emitted breathy gasps.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Reaching over the famed weather presenter turned the alarm off. Under the covers fingers lightly stroked labia, spread warm bubbling juices along the crease and over the pulsing bud.

‘Tempting as it is…’ Carol said to herself, removing her hand and climbing out of bed. Sitting on the edge of the divan she noticed a text message had been delivered to her phone. Picking up the device she realised her fingers were shining with girl cum. Not wanting to soil the mobile she licked up the sweet juice with a soft moan. Cleaned up, she read the message.

Hi Carol

As you’re broadcasting from the Manchester studio today, Mr Alger Cantrell would like to meet with you after BBC Breakfast has finished.

Regards,

Neil Hearst

From her producer, the message was not unexpected. Whenever working out of the Manchester studios the BBC News and Weather Director liked to have a “performance review” as he called it. An associate of the SF Talent Agency, Mr Cantrell was amongst the various men that Carol serviced in order to maintain her prominent position on British TV.

Despite being in a different city the morning’s routine remained the same so getting up she began her day. After a shower and a brief breakfast, attention turned to the day’s wardrobe. Laid out on the bed were a white giraffe print blouse, black knee-length skirt, white lacy bra and black boyshort knickers. By the bed was a pair of black calf boots.

Picking up the black knickers she considered them. ‘No,’ she concluded, turning to the open suitcase on the floor. Knowing the man’s particular kink, one shared by many of those men and women she’d met, the Scot had a better idea of what underwear to put on this morning.

One of the reasons Carol was broadcasting from Manchester today was the fact she’d been in the city over the weekend for a friend’s hen night. Saturday had seen her wearing a tight white dress, similar to one sometimes worn on TV. Wanting to be comfortable she’d worn a pair of white Sloggi brand control briefs. Together with the rest of the hen party she’d spent several fun hours at a women’s strip club.

As it had turned out a pair of the male strippers had been fans and Carol was the recipient of a couple of rather daring lap dances. With strong male bodies sliding over hers, hard chests rubbing against her large soft breasts, hands brushing along her body, and a pair of considerable bulges prodding at her, Carol had been hot to trot. Her knickers had been soaking wet for most of the night. Copious amounts of slick cunt cream had stained the cotton gusset.

Despite her agreements with the SF Talent Agency and her producer, Carol Kirkwood was free to sleep with whoever she wanted. It was a matter of choice that the gorgeous mature woman only had sex under those arrangements. Still, it had been hard to deny herself the pleasure of those exotic dancers who’d clearly wanted her.

In the end she’d noticed another member of the hen party slipping off with a couple of the strippers. Carol Vorderman is such a slut, she’d smirked at the time before tucking some money into the tightly stretched pouch of yet another hard male, hand cupping the thinly covered bulge. A few times throughout the night she’d slipped off to the ladies herself to have a cheeky wank. Sitting on the toilet, tight white dress pulled to the waist she’d frigged her clit while fantasising about the men who’d rubbed their bodies against hers.

Now it was Monday morning as those same Sloggi briefs were retrieved from the suitcase. Opening the knickers the gusset had to be peeled open, once soft cotton glued stiff by the flood of feminine honey deposited there. Thick crusty streaks marred the panel. Wow, I really laid down the cream. It was a fun night, Carol giggled. Bringing them to her nose she sniffed her own dirty knickers. The rich scent of stale pussy and girl cum filled her nostrils, assailed her senses. Phew, that’s a lot. Alger will appreciate them, I’m sure.

Stepping into the dirty underwear Ms Kirkwood pulled them up her legs, felt them snuggle over her bum and settle on her hips. Adjusting the briefs, the crusty gusset scratched against her fanny, skin raising goosebumps of excitement. Fighting the urge to masturbate again, the blonde quickly finished dressing before heading to the studio.

***

Throughout the morning Carol Kirkwood felt a fresh wetness in her knickers, the crusty cream moistened by renewed arousal. Knowing she would be used by the Director of BBC News left her feeling fidgety and horny. Without her broadcast producer and their sexual games to distract her, the Scot felt like a bitch in heat. Several times already Carol had snuck off to a guest dressing room where she’d slumped back in a comfortable chair, skirt up, legs spread and frigged herself off, juices trapped in the gusset. Making the final live broadcast the Sloggi control top briefs were glued to her crotch, leaving her feeling hot and sticky.

‘…so be careful out there today; it’s gonna be very wet and slippery,’ the weather girl said into the camera, barely able to stifle a laugh.

Fighting a growing excitement the presenter recorded a further cut of the forecast to be shown throughout the morning. With a warm smile and waving thanks to the assigned cameraman, Carol left the BBC Breakfast studio and headed for the office of Alger Cantrell.

Stepping through the door Carol was ushered into the executive’s inner sanctum. Standing before the man’s desk, hands at her sides, the door clicked shut behind. Sitting behind the desk was Mr Cantrell, a middle-aged man in shirt and tie, dark-haired, broad-shouldered. Lord of his domain, he appeared relaxed and confident. It was an image underscored by the large cock sticking up from the open fly, hand stroking languidly.

‘Good morning, Carol,’ the BBC executive said. Hand continuing to move, he looked the TV star over.

Attention drawn immediately to her impressive bust, eyes traced the full rounded curves, moving from one breast to the other. Framed by the monochrome blouse, one-to-many buttons lose, was a generous swell of cleavage. Peeking at the bottom of the neckline was the barest glimpse of white bra. Looking closer, the outline of the undergarment was visible, half-cups struggling to restrain their burden. Hand moving a little faster, Cantrell admired the vision of Carol Kirkwood’s chest.

‘Good morning, Mr Cantrell.’

Skin tingling with spreading warmth it was as if Carol could feel the heat of the man’s gaze. Under his scrutiny she felt like a toy, here to be used for his titillation and pleasure. Stiff nipples threatening to escape their lace confinement, a thrill of excitement ran through her. Beneath the black skirt her knickers were sticky, rich nectar seeping from her labia, adding to the mess in the gusset.

And I am here for his pleasure, the presenter wondered. But I’ll get mine also.

Eyes moving up, the man looked into the blue of the woman’s own. There was no mistaking the flame of excitement there, the feeling mirrored in the rest of her gorgeous face, the flush of the cheeks and the quirk on lightly painted pink lips. Light shone through her hair, a glow suffusing the golden tresses.

Gaze southbound it passed back over the twin breasts pushing out the patterned top. Coming to the waistband of the black skirt, the Director bit his lip, taking in the womanly flair of Ms Kirkwood’s hips, rounding behind into a full backside. Drawn to the centre he imagined what colour knickers were hidden beneath, what state they were in. Pulse rising, hand moving faster still, he wanted to know how dirty Carol’s underwear was. She knew his kink and indulged it.

‘Take a seat,’ Cantrell said, gaze following her hips as she moved, savouring how they seemed to fill out as the woman sat, skirt draped over her thighs, lower legs disappearing into her half boots.

With movements elegant and smooth Carol tried to hide the excitement burning inside as she complied. Sitting up straight in the visitor’s chair, chest thrust out in invitation, hands clasped in her lap, knees together, ankles crossed. From beneath heat pulsed out from the woman’s crotch, another wave of slick arousal spilt into her knickers. Nipples stiff and aching were hidden by the pattern of the thin blouse.

Stepping from behind the desk, hard cock leading the way, the executive stopped next to his visitor. Holding his prick at the base the man waved it at the woman, his demand clear. A deep groan sounded as hot breath washed over the crown before a warm mouth closed around it. Pressing upwards a tongue caressed the manly rod, cheeks hollowed and suction engulfed him.

As the Director came around his desk Carol watched his tumescence bounce with each step. Coming closer it glinted with light, a bead of moisture forming at the tip. Puce in colour, the angry looking head looked wet, as did the shaft. Long experienced with Mr Cantrell’s games, she knew what was coming and was willing for it.

Eyes turning up to meet those of her boss, pink lips parted and Carol Kirkwood accepted the cock into her mouth. Wrapped around the shaft, she closed her lips and gently sucked the head. Pressing her tongue to the welcome cock, heat radiated from it, filling her head. Electric tingles coming from her taste buds, there was more flavour than just male musk. He’s fucked someone very recently, she wondered, I wonder who. Happy moan rising from her throat, the mature Scot began to suck in earnest. Hungrily giving the blow job, luscious lips moved along the shaft as it entered deeper into her mouth. Male and female tastes gathered on her swiping tongue.

Director of BBC News and Weather, Alger Cantrell had his pick of those ladies and gentlemen signed to the SF Talent Agency. Much to his on-going delight many of the staff either worked directly for the agency or were associated with it. From all of those he could call upon to satisfy his sexual desires, he had a particular thing for Carol Kirkwood. It was a mixture of her looks, her mature stature, her physical appeal and her personality, including her submissive side.

Of course that didn’t mean he didn’t indulge himself with the others. Indeed, not long before his current visitor had arrived, Mr Cantrell had been fucking another Scottish beauty, Fiona Bruce. Looking into the blue eyes blazing up at him, he smiled at Carol Kirkwood, knowing she was sucking Fiona’s pussy juice off his prick, knew she could taste the other woman’s essence on him. One of his numerous kinks, the Director simply loved feeding Carol the flavour from one of her colleagues. By his count she’d sampled most of the female BBC News and Weather presenters.

‘Uh, that’s it, Carol. Suck my cock,’ the man encouraged, pushing deeper into the sucking mouth.

Wrapping a hand around the veiny shaft, the Scot stroked the cock as her lips drew back and forth. With every inch accepted more of the other woman’s juices coated Carol’s taste buds, building her arousal further. Recognising the taste from previous visits to this office she wondered it was probably Fiona Bruce, a woman she’d not interacted with much, at least sexually. Perhaps one day that will change.

Looking past the smiling countenance sucking at his dick, Cantrell’s gaze focused on Ms Kirkwood’s ample cleavage. Big hand reaching down it cupped one large breast. God, they feel good. Pressing the tit to Carol’s body he watched the cleavage swell, marvelled at the soft weight in his grip. Wrist rotating, strong fingers caressed the woman through her patterned top, exploring the outline of the bra beneath. Detecting the stiff nipple a digit pressed against it, forcing the teat into the soft flesh of its mount.

Slurping on the cock sliding in and out of her mouth, Ms Kirkwood moaned as her nipple was compressed under the rough handling. Then the hand was sliding across, fingers groping its twin. Leaning forward in the chair, the Scot pressed into the touch, enjoyed being felt up as the man sought out the other nipple, this time pinching it. Clit throbbing between her legs, she couldn’t help but rub her thighs together, stimulating her crotch, sticky crusty knickers adding to the sensations.

Turning her attention back to the cock she was sucking, it was at the entrance to her throat. Relaxing the passage she opened wide, head pressed forward and took the meaty prick down her gullet. Sliding deeper down her throat, Carol’s lips slid further along the shaft until they pressed against the man’s body, nose in his pubic hair filled with the smell of manly musk.

‘Oh, that’s…yes,’ moaned the executive. ‘Fuck yes.’

With Carol Kirkwood deep throating his schlong the man reached into her blouse, fingers gliding over soft warm flesh. Encountering the half-cup bra his digits slid under the material, parting either side of the hard nipple. Closing, they scissored the teat as they dug into the surrounding full breast. Palm cupping bare skin he once more pressed inward, watching the cleavage jiggle and well upwards. Quickly he swapped to Ms Kirkwood’s other tit, groping it, fingers caressing its smoothness.

Suddenly the BBC director pulled away, hand leaving the woman’s chest, prick sliding wetly from her throat, popping through the enwrapping lips. Quizzical expression on her face, Carol looked up at him, a thick string of saliva connecting cock and bottom lip. Breaking the connection, Mr Cantrell stepped in front of the seated woman.

A moment to enjoy the declivity framed by the blouse then he undid the first button, fingers tingling as they rubbed against warm skin. Licking his lips in anticipation the next button came loose, lacy white bra showing, the cups straining. With the third button released the blouse parted, Carol Kirkwood’s stunning cleavage bared in a sexy lace half-cup brassiere.

Standing over the seated woman, hands slid forward, gliding over the smooth underwear, strong fingers cupping the paired tits from above. Pressing and lifting he smooshed the boobs together, the already impressive cleavage welling up under his direction. Broad smile on his face the executive officer played with the ample bosom, jostling them together, lifting and dropping the tits to see the flesh jiggle.

Breathing hard as her pulse pounded, the TV presenter revelled in the man’s touch. Being used for someone else’s pleasure got Carol hot, set her pussy throbbing. Thighs still sliding together she was wet, her crotch a furnace, labia swollen with desire, quim begging for attention. Through the molesting arms the man’s prick waved, bouncing under its weight as the tip dripped pre-cum.

Carol’s view was blocked as Cantrell leaned down, lips softly pecking her tits. Hands still groping, he planted kisses all over the stunning cleavage, nose filling with the scent of her warm skin. Switching from one breast to the other the exposed flesh was caressed all over with his lips, each kiss harder and longer than the last, passions growing. Mashing them from below his face pressed against the welling cleavage, playfully motorboating, cheeks rubbing against the sexually heated mounds, thumbs pressing against erect nipples. Moaning he burrowed deeper, the sensation transferred to Ms Kirkwood, excited her teats further, vibrations seeming to charge down to her clit.

‘Oh, yes,’ the blonde sighed as the man canoodled her bust.

Getting down on the floor, kneeling before the weather presenter the Director expertly flicked the catch on the sexy bra. Tension suddenly released it flew open baring a pair of magnificent tits, each large, rounded, topped with a thick nipple standing proud from the light coloured areola.

Voicing a moan of need Cantrell’s mouth dropped over the first breast, covering the nipple. Cradling the tit with both hands he hungrily suckled as if trying to drink from the mammary. Within his mouth his tongue lashed over the tip, probing it, testing its rubbery texture, savouring its flavour. Unceremoniously dropping his hands the man moved to its sister, holding it as he greedily suckled once more.

Throwing her head back Carol sighed with pleasure as her tits were feasted upon. ‘Oh that feels so nice,’ she moaned. ‘Suck harder, My Cantrell. Suck my nipples harder, please!’

More than happy to oblige the mouth worked on Carol Kirkwood’s boobs, lips closing on the soft hot flesh, mouth sucking the teats in, tongue lathering them with spittle. The entire time strong hands fondled, fingers caressed, jiggling and jostling the two bountiful mounds. Kneeling before the seated woman, the man’s dripping prick rubbed against her calf boots, the touch threatening to send him over the edge to soon.

Taking the opportunity to move on to his favoured kink he released his grip on the TV star’s chest, drawing his lips from a succulent breast and stiff nipple with a loud pop.

‘Christ I love your tits, Carol. They’re just the best!’ he gasped, cheeks flushed with excitement, warmed by her soft skin. With glazed eyes she smiled appreciatively back at him. Shuffling backwards on his knees the executive issued his next order. ‘Spread your legs, Carol. I want to see your knickers.’

Bum sliding forward in the chair the Scot did as she was bid. Perched on the edge of the seat, legs spread wide, black skirt pulling up along thighs to reveal a triangle of white underwear snuggled tightly to her crotch.

Down on his hands and knees before the seated woman, the BBC Director hungrily stared between her legs. Eyes wide they drank in the sight of tight white cotton clinging to the curves and swells of a mature fanny. Down the centre was a defined camel toe, clearly delineating the womanhood, the reinforced cotton of the control briefs showing a large wet stripe.

‘Oh, you’re wearing Sloggis! Oh, I love it when you wear these!’

Growing up Alger Cantrell had masturbated over catalogues featuring women’s underwear, especially savouring the intricate designs and appearance of shapewear. The way it smoothed and shaped the contours of the female figure, clung tightly to womanly curves. To his mind it was amongst the most feminine and sexy of underwear.