Office Girl Allison – BDSM – Sex Story


Office Girl Allison

© 2022 by William D’Ark

Palms upraised and open

I stand before you, Sir.

Although my palms look empty

A gathered wetness glistens there.

I daily bring girls’ manna to thee

Your every command a gift to me.

Desire shines bright within my eyes

Cast in quiet cries and sighs.

You call me to your side each day

Clothed yet naked, on display.

I kneel with legs spread wide

Certain that I will not stray.

We play at timeless scenes

Pleasure fueled by enticing chores.

A fire burns chasm-deep within

Fueling my hidden howling soul.

Palms upraised and open

I bend to you my Sir.

Although my palms look empty

I am reminded that I must serve.

Four o’clock in the afternoon was not our usual quitting time, even for a Friday. But that particular Friday was the beginning of the long December break. Allison and I found ourselves leaving the office early, carpooling to the department party scheduled for the Stanford Park Inn in Menlo Park.

We had given ourselves an hour to get there. That was plenty of time unless traffic along the El Camino was heavy. Turned out people were moving quickly. We drove east from Hillcrest then took Page Mill Road into Palo Alto.

We were stopped at the traffic light, looking to make a left turn onto El Camino when I asked Allison to show for me. It was her first time as a contract D&s office girl. She didn’t respond right away, thinking over what I had just asked her to do. The light changed and I drove on.

Patience, William.

We had been colleagues for years but only recently discovered that we shared BDSM lifestyle interests. The summer Redwood City munch had kind of reintroduced us that way.

Susan and I had gotten to the host bar early that evening. It was a balmy day, sun setting and breezes beginning to stir. The door to the restaurant-bar was wide open with people seated beneath sun shades on the sidewalk and others enjoying the cool evening air indoors. We walked to the back where our group had gathered. Susan was dressed as she knew she must – a short, blue-patterned muslin sun dress. The dress’ quarter-inch shoulder straps supported well-shaped breasts that were nicely profiled beneath the thin fabric. The evening breeze had made the areolas crinkle and the nipples tighten.

Muslin is my favorite warm weather textile. It’s softer and thinner than its cousin, the weight being half that of linen. So, yes, Susan’s braless breasts were showing well even through the dark blue patterning. If you stood close enough and stared long enough – which she didn’t mind you doing – you could make out all the details of those tender nipples staring right back at you. They were dark brown and wide as a fingertip. They like to announce themselves not only when the air was chill but when Susan was aroused. Showing them, presenting those nipples for adoration as she was this evening, all the time got her going. So it was in all our nipple-loving interests to keep the woman stirred up and slippery-wet. With the right conversation, the right admiring looks, maybe even an occasional, um, accidental touch.

Something I looked forward to doing every time we were together, especially in public.

That night Susan was also teasing with the hem of that mid-thigh muslin dress. Knees together in the low, padded corduroy chairs we had chosen, holding a wine glass in one hand, she used the fingertips of her free hand to expertly, casually, slide the hem back and forth across her lap. Or up and down her shapely, smooth white thighs, especially if she found someone paying attention. On occasion she would set the wine glass on the floor next to the padded chair…. Then make a big deal of simply crossing her legs, using both hands so as not to offended any particular city code (as if that mattered to the group we were with)… while offering stolen glimpses all the way up , if you know what I mean. Not inside exactly, but far enough up to enjoy a parted vertical smile positioned between those soft smooth thighs. She would giggle at our reaction, smooth down the dress fabric, lift up her wine glass and within a few minutes go through the entire ritual again.

I think my favorite part was her pulling the hem up all the way and leaving it there for a minute or two, right at the V-shaped shadow zone, casually sipping her zinfandel. She would cast sidelong glances my way to see if I approved.

I loved it. LOVED it. I was quiet about it, watching her play. But de-lighted.

You have to adore a girl who is neither bashful nor apologetic for being a real flesh and blood woman. Who is confident enough in her own skin to let us enjoy those womanly features. In that respect she wants to be seen as a woman and is eager to knock us to our knees overtly sharing bare skin whether stomach and thighs, breasts and nipples or even a freshly shaven pussy – in Susan’s case, one so smooth and bright it resists all but the darkest of shadows when let loose upon the world.

Luminous, Susan’s beautiful cunt that evening. Gleaming. … I n v i t i n g us.

I had been inside her every way you can imagine and had never had enough. Her passions were infinite. They built quickly during playtime. Sometimes she would spray the bed or couch cumming so hard – or even the leather Acura seats – then apologize for it. As if she had done something wrong! What? No, not wrong at all dear woman. She’d given us a blessing. An anointment. Manna.

Consider how the world has changed because we lifestyle power exchange BDSM types refuse to be quiet. Wrapped in that refusal is our modern age insistence that a woman’s sex be brought full into the light of day. For five thousand years that precious body part has been layered over, belted, sewn shut, closeted, hidden away as if it didn’t exist. As if the owners – men mostly – had decided it belonged only to them. When, truth be told, a woman’s sex is nothing less than a seat of creation. Something so significant it should be seen as part of everyday living. In how a woman dresses to distribute it, offers it up for appreciation or surrenders it for proper use.

All those contributing parts – from metaphorical portico to atrium to nave and apse – are the basis of our physical and emotional health, ongoing pleasure, expansive ecstasy as well as quiet nurturing retreat. The narthex, with its bulbous blessing bell, sets the stage for ecstasy as well as transformation. For when a penitent speaks the right syllables and pays attention to all the soft details, not only may they receive permission to travel the full length of that paradisiac aisle, but the blessed Ma – woman’s eternal spirit – may be launched towards the heavens… To drift there, hopefully. Suspended in space by a series of explosive releases weaving body, mind, and spirit into a woman’s sexual soul.

While she cries out from pure pleasure!

One has to agree, the gods have been generous with this design. All are rewarded.

As a consequence, and I happily speak for everyone on the planet, we pussy-adoring seekers want to be invited inside there. With hands and tongues and cocks and even sets of nipples time to time when girls get together that way. Leading cunts to the arena too. Legs wide aside, pressed hard, sliding clit to clit, up and down as close to being inside as physiology will allow. At the entrance to that blessed cavern. That sacred sanctuary. Everyone wants to go there, anticipating something remarkable like we experienced long ago when mothers carried each of us to term. Before being pulled by who knows who into the strange eccentric world surrounding us now.

Susan understood. She liked to invite people there and she did so often. She liked to open wide too. None of this well-maybe-if-you-really-like-me stuff. She loved to make the offering then to gasp when one thing led to another and the penitent’s penetration went that deep inside. She would shut her eyes and reach out to pull the partner nose-to-nose close. Then gasp again when the object of interest went deeper still on the very next thrust. Hips might buck, rearing up in case the object hadn’t yet gone in all the way. Gently at first but then back and forth with purpose. Till, well, you know…

Till the cumming began.

The release. The letting GO of all the recent frustrations. Like the shedding of some physical weight.

Cumming and cumming and fucking cumming again..! Till the sheets or fabrics (or leathers) were soaked.

Eight or ten of those little explosions and she would be gone. Truly gone. From the here and now, gone. Not really present but able to cry out for more. Literally. Crying for it. But not really in the here and now.

Sex? Bondage? Playful discipline? Stripes or welts or bruises? Didn’t matter, she wanted it all.

Sometimes the hairs on the back of my head would stand up from too much, really. Too hard. Too long.

Is she going to bleed?

Or, hmm… Maybe not too hard after all. She’s wants more. So give her more. Make her go longer. Make her call out louder. Make it rough-rough. And distribute her more widely so it’s not all on you. Give her to friends, strangers, neighbors… the girl has to have it. She needs to be gone that way. Just keep her safe.

Fuck girl. Sex girl. Pleasure-pain girl. …Naked girl. She put the gorge in beautiful. She was (is!) a lifestyle treasure. The perfect power exchange partner if you both are so inclined.

All because we have insisted that now it’s okay to bring vaginas into the light of day. True, it may be a while before society is ready to see it out there on display – in a fashion sense, I mean. As an extension of the skirts-with-no-panties trend we lifestylers favor. But look how long it’s taken just to free the nipple. I mean, we’re still not there and that’s a body part both sexes possess! True, a breast is more than just a nipple. (Hang on, I promise not to get lost here.) Female breasts are sensitive apparatuses. They are art, for one thing; curving, dancing, luring attractions. And a source of nourishment as we all know. The veins that run like patterned lightning just under the skin are a visual spectacle. And the nipples that cap them, well… don’t get me started on that topic; we will lose track of Allison and her very interesting story. But the main thing that keeps naked female nipples from becoming universally accepted is… the pleasure principle at work there.

Not all women react to nipple stimulation the same way. Some say the sensations are annoying, irritating. (They discover their way to the EXIT door sooner than most.) Others have said, oh yes, I kind of like the sensations… ~ yawn. We accept that point of view with patience. Still others – more these days than in the past – will say that nipple stim is absolutely required…oh my god…! Those women, bless them all, can cum from nipple play.

It’s the pleasure principle at full throttle. As if such a woman had three clitorises. Orgasmic nerve centers, part of a woman’s wiring; her meridians, orgone, biofield, however you want to say it. Distinctly different from a man’s.

But until society is down with the idea of women’s nipples being an acknowledged stepping stone to expansive, orgasmic experience, day and night, whether at home or commuting to the office, even we vocal alternative lifestyle types will have to suck it up and practice patience. Progress is being made. We are hearing that more women are braless at work, challenging out of date acceptance codes. This is excellent news, allowing subtle sexuality to infuse the last bastion of conservative, puritanical attitudes – the boring, routine workplace. We are seeing topless women more often at open-air events. Not just the Folsom Street Fair, Sturgis or the annual Pride Parade, mind you, but at seasonal bacchanals like Ren Fairs, urban street fairs, arenas, concerts and parklands all across Western society.

But I digress.

We were talking about Susan’s pussy on display the night of the Redwood City munch. Back to the story.

The night was just getting started. Who knew where it might lead? Remember, we were seated in the back, several of us, positioned around a low ebony table. Susan was a center of attention for a half dozen or so admirers standing there chatting, waiting for another generous upskirt journey or enjoying those barely covered breasts. True, there were other gorgeous, sensual women nearby. But whether it was the way Susan had learned to dress or just her own smiling, oozy-wet chemistry, she was the one people wanted to connect with time after time. Single guys certainly, but couples too. They knew her reputation. They could have her. A few of them already had. They only needed to ask – ask her – then for her to ask me, her Sir at the time. And I nearly all the time said yes unless her safety was an problem. So who knew where the evening might lead?

But that night in between glugs of wine and laughter something unexpected occurred.

Another hem approached me, this time from the side. This was shorter than Susan’s; it was way above the knees. My chair was a low riser, as I’ve already described. And I had been leaning back against the pillowed contours talking with friends. Point being, when the hem approached me it was almost at eye level. After it had fully arrived, silently calling my name, I couldn’t help but notice the barely covered parted thighs that came with it. My eyes went to the dress’ border where some sort of Scandinavian-looking design was highlighted. I wondered it was a sideways splatter of runes at first. It registered in my mind as odd but, really, my eyes didn’t linger there for long. The grey shadows beneath that way up, thigh high dress were taunting me. Thighs I couldn’t name were disappearing into a late afternoon gloom like slender tree trunks whose boughs had gotten lost in clouds.

I almost reached out to stroke them, those thighs. To follow their journey. To slide fingers as far into that shadowy realm as Fate would allow. But I gathered my wits and looked up at their owner instead. Wondering who all that satiny skin belonged to.

Allison peered down at me. An office mate. A co-worker. An associate. Medium height, medium weight, inviting figure, shoulder length brown hair, late twenties.

She said ‘Hello William.’

Yikes! Was my cover about to be blown? Was my professional, vanilla self about to dissolve into a soupy mess of office politics and innuendo? I suddenly wanted to spank that itchy wayward hand and hide it away.

Then I noticed that Allison had her hands inside deftly hidden pockets of that cotton Scandinavian dress. A slight smile graced her face. And wait, was that a twinkle I spied in her eyes?

No warning given, the hands in her pockets flexed. They flounced the Scandinavian bordered hem in my direction. Shadows gave way to blessed, gods-given ceiling lights. And there beneath the madness of that alluring gesture (and the scent of lilacs drifting out from the gloam) a picture of lily-white lace flashed full into view. The image of Allison’s lace panties, their middle seam scrunched between pulpy labia, had attached itself to my brain like I had been mind-branded.

I blinked. Probably three or four times before I wondered to look up instead of sideways. To return her smile.

‘Allison,’ I softly spoke. ‘What a nice surprise.’

Two nice surprises, actually, but I didn’t want to over react. I mean, leave that to the newbie doms.

~ cough

I stood up and held out my hand. She took it gently and we shook. Gently. Lessee… three times up and down maybe. Gently, anyway.

My attitude had definitely softened. ‘I don’t know what to say except I’m happy to see you here. In Redwood City. Is this your first time?’

‘For this munch?’ she innocently asked. The hands were still in her pockets. She seemed shy I thought if I had misunderstood the gesture, ‘Yes it is. You know I live further down El Camino. Sunnyvale. My daughter and me. The two of us.’

I knew all of those facts, of course, after working together so long. That she lived in one of those infinite winding apartment complexes in the Peninsula’s hot zone. That she was a single mom. And Allison knew that I knew. She felt like she needed to say the living alone single mom thing. I liked that she had.

I’m available, she had just told me.

‘I’ve been to several South Bay munches,’ she added. ‘Tonight I wondered it would be interesting to see what I’ve been missing here. Shelby is with her grandma. Call it my one night out this week.’ She gestured widely across the room and I took the cue.

I slipped my free arm around her from the back and turned to the group gathered nearby. ‘People… I want to introduce a longtime friend and, well… a longtime friend. This is Allison. She’s a South Bay girl so… um, it’s her first time here. Let’s enjoy her business.’

Fresh meat! From out of nowhere! Fangs were instantly bared and saliva ran. Jungle drums began…

No, I’m kidding.

People responded warmly and well, I’m happy to say. More hands were shaken, but not as gentle as mine I noticed. Allison smiled to all and chatted briefly with some. My hand was still at her waist, stroking the full length of her arched back from hip to shoulder. She didn’t seem to mind. A panty waistline presented itself to my touch. A bra interrupted her otherwise smooth cotton covered back. But it was the three-quarter length zipper line that caused my power exchange instincts to kick back in. The hand I had mentally slapped into place now wanted to slide the zipper all the way down. Allowing power exchange lips to utter well-practiced words in her ear that would magically convince this woman to go remove all the offending underwear.

Good Christ, stop it William.

I crushed the nagging hand into a fist and pushed it into my pants’ pocket. I swallowed another glug.

And that reminded me… ‘Allison, can I get you a glass of wine? My treat of course.’

Suddenly I felt Susan’s gaze at my neck. Like the tip of a hot blade. No telling how long it had been there threatening my very life.

I ignored it for the moment.

‘Yes, thank you,’ Allison bashfully replied. But she was squinting at me. Had she somehow been reading my mind? ‘Are there snacks too?’ she asked. ‘A cold chardonnay and something to eat would be perfect.’

I stood up straight and proper. ‘Let me see what I can do.’

THEN… and only then… did I allow myself a downwards glance at the seated Susan.

‘Time for a refill?’ I calmly asked, reaching for her empty glass.

Susan pulled at the border of her own short, very high-up muslin dress.

Omg is she gonna open her knees?

In my peripheral vision I saw bystanders suddenly crowd closer around.

‘Yes, please,’ she replied. She lifted her empty glass. ‘Whatever you’d like to bring me, Sir.’

There was no emphasis on the spoken sir… That was a good thing. Susan’s submissive persona was keeping the jealous vanilla Susan in check. We might avoid a subbie wrestlefest after all. Not that I was feeling especially overcome by Allison’s appearance, but given that I was the woman’s senior at work and that she had done that very submissive I’ll-show-you-my-panties thing… within just a minute or two of our unexpected meeting… Sure, I would buy the wine.

I was already thinking about how to charge in all to a future expense profile.

I asked friend Steve to step in with Allison while I trekked to the bar.

Something all the time true of these munches… there is a sort of invisible barrier separating our group from the rest of the establishment. Doesn’t matter where they are held, walking away from an alternative lifestyle cluster all the time feels like stepping out of The Matrix through one of those wobbly full length mirrors. It’s the vibe we give off, I am sure. The barely-dressed women like Susan. The occasional dominatrix wearing studded leather. A collar here, a rope-bra beneath white satin there. And the guys are almost all the time mis-dressed. That’s the only way to say it. They either opt for out-of-date memed tees and faded black denim, or get way too weird outfits topped with pins or kerchiefs or poorly styled hats.

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