Sex with a Sting: Six Erotic Fantasies with a Kink in the Tail (12 page)

She was flattered, of course. There were
still at least a half a dozen women in the room who Claire knew were both
available and, she felt, more desirable than her. Lily, who performed PA duties
for both Zoe and Claire, was a prime example. She was young and radiantly cute,
with blonde hair that almost sparkled like silver, big blue eyes, and
incredible translucent skin. Lily had been single for some time, which shocked
Claire, because she was also one of the sweetest, funniest and intelligent
women she had ever met. Secretly, she thought her and Paolo were actually a
very good match.

Yet Paolo didn’t seem interested in Lily,
or any of the other myriad angels in the room. She had seen a few young men
lust after Zoe over the years too, because of her juicy figure and her sexual
confidence, but he wasn’t even looking at her. This young, dynamic man, in his
dapper black Italian suit, crisp white shirt with top button undone and black
tie loosened, looking for all the world like a junior member of the Rat Pack,
was only paying attention to her. He was more than a decade her junior. When
she and Zoe had started the business, he was about to start his GCSEs at
school. Yet she was excited despite herself. She couldn’t remember the last
time a man, apart from her own husband, had engaged her like this, had openly
flirted with her like this. It felt nice.

Of course, it didn’t mean anything. This
was just a bit of harmless fun at the Christmas party. He’d probably go off
clubbing with some of the younger girls later and she’d go home to her warm bed
and her husband would probably follow at about 3am, drunk. Not that she minded:
he was not always out on the lash, but she knew that when he did go out it was
invariably a big one, as if he saved everything up for one big blow-out. His
hangover would be significantly worse than hers in the morning.

More people drifted away from the party
until there were only two groups left: Zoe was in a circle with a couple of
girls from the office and two more from some magazine or other, while Paolo and
Claire continued their private conversation. Zoe, dressed in vivid, Christmassy
red, with a revealing slit up the left thigh of her dress, moved away from her
group and approached them. “Listen, we’re going to go on to a club or something.
Do you two fancy another drink?”

“No, I better be going home, Zo, sorry. I
think I’ve had enough. I can barely balance in these heels!”

“Come on, babe! It’s Christmas! One
more?” Claire was tempted, but in the end she shook her head. The call of her
bed was just too much to resist – the room already seemed like it had
tilted slightly on its axis. “What about you, handsome?” asked Zoe.

“No, I think it’s time for me to go, too.
But you girls have a good time. And don’t get too drunk, okay?”

“Suit yourselves.” A few minutes later,
as she was leaving, Zoe called out to them: “Last chance!” But they both
laughed and waved her on her way.

Claire drained the remnants of her fourth
Royal Plush. “Well, I better be going home. Thanks for introducing me to these
– I’m going to try mixing them myself at home… in a few days, anyway,
after the inevitable hangover has worn off.”

“Experiment with the measures –
that’s always fun. But never, ever, mix Bailey’s and white wine in the same
glass. I did that once in an attempt to invent an incredible new cocktail. It
doesn’t work. Trust me.”

“I’ll remember that! So, where have you
got to get back to again?”

“I’m not far from you, actually. We
could… share a cab? Save a bit of money?”

“I tell you what, you’ve been shouting me
these drinks all night,” Paolo had repeatedly refused her offers of cash to buy
a round. “How about I order us a cab, we’ll drop you off first and I’ll stick
it on expenses?”

“Okay, sounds fine with me… Ah! You know
what? I need to get my suitcase from the office. I didn’t want to bring it
here, but I’m straight out at a meeting on Monday and I need to have it with me
over the weekend. You go alone, I’ll, er, I’ll get my own…”

“Don’t be silly!” she said, a bit too
loudly, perhaps forgetting the room was now empty and the music had stopped
playing. She placed her hand on his forearm. “It’s a five minute walk. Let’s go
get your case. I’ll order the cab to pick us up from there.”

A few minutes and a quick call later,
they were out on the street. There was a freezing wind and a few sharp drops of
icy rain whipped against their faces. “Isn’t this lovely?” commented Claire,
burying her face into her scarf and shoving her hands deeper into her coat
pockets.

“Gorgeous! Sunbathing weather,” he
answered. “Are you warm enough?”

“Not really, but we’re nearly there…
Woah!” she suddenly slipped on her heels and Paolo quickly grabbed her arm to
steady her.

“Are you okay?”

Truth be told, she wasn’t. She knew that
she had stumbled because she was far drunker than she had realised. As soon as
they hit the cold air she had felt her head become light and her feet felt like
they were walking on air. “I’m fine,” she lied. Despite that, Paolo cradled her
body to his, supporting her as they walked. She felt the warmth of his body,
appreciated it, and didn’t argue.

Their offices were small. Although the
company was doing well and was still growing, it was all they could afford. Zoe
and Claire had their own rooms, while the rest of the team worked in a fairly
cramped open plan area. There had been a lot of talk of relocating, but Claire
was worried about the extra expense. She didn’t want them to overstretch, but
Zoe passionately believed that they needed to expand or risk going backwards.
They had reached something of an impasse over this and quite a few other issues
as well. But they’d work them out. They’d find a compromise. They always did.

Paolo retrieved his case and found Claire
in her office, sitting in one of the chairs usually used for visitors to her
room. She was tapping at her phone. “Will the cab be long?” he asked.

“Not too long. They’ve got a bit of a
backlog. You know, last Friday night before Christmas… I might just have a look
outside…” she stood up to go to the window, but Paolo blocked her route. They
stared at each other for seconds on end. Claire cleared her throat. Paolo
dropped his suitcase from his grasp and it thudded on the floor. He put his
hands on her hips and took a step forward. She moved her head, almost
imperceptibly, towards his. Her arms stayed rigid at her side. He moved closer
and everything seemed to go silent so that all she could hear was his light
breathing and, she was certain, the rapid beating of her nervous heart. She
swallowed, closed her eyes and parted her lips slightly. He kissed her, softly,
lovingly. She kissed back, for perhaps a second, but then pulled away. “I… I
can’t. My-my husband…” she whispered, her lips barely more than the thickness
of a credit card away from his. He ignored her and kissed her again. ‘It’s just
a kiss,’ she told herself, ‘it’s just a kiss.’

Five minutes later, it was still just a
kiss. Her phone had rung and a message had been left, probably from the cab
firm saying their car was outside, but they had both ignored it. His kissing
made her head spin, made her dizzy. It was so delicate, so romantic. She
suddenly knew that he had planned the whole thing. He had worked on her all
night. She couldn’t understand why he had gone for her. What about the other
women? Why not Lily? Or even Zoe – she was married too and she was far
sexier than Claire – at least in her opinion.

She kissed his cheek, catching the scent
of his aftershave and kissed his neck. Curiosity got the better of her. “Why
me?” He didn’t answer. “Why me?” she repeated.

He pulled away and held her by her
shoulders. “I’ve been watching you for months. I think you are beautiful. A
real woman. Not like these fake stick insects that I meet all the time. You are
truth. You are a vision. You are strong, independent. You are beautiful. Your
hair, that lovely auburn colour, your body…” he tickled his fingers down the
sides of her breasts, down to her waist, and briefly felt the contours of her
round backside.

“I’m so fat,” she protested.

“What?! Don’t you
ever
say that!
What are you talking about?”

“I’m a size 12. That’s fat.”

“That is rubbish, and you know it. I love
your curves, I love your body. God I have fantasised about getting my hands on
you so many times you wouldn’t believe.”

“Really?” she looked up at him. He didn’t
answer. He just kissed her again, more deeply this time, his tongue teasing her
lips before darting inside her mouth. She slipped her arms inside his suit
jacket and felt the heat of his body under his starched shirt. She felt his
arms drop lower. He felt for the hem of her skirt and then pulled it up,
allowing his hand to manoeuvre underneath. He moved it higher, to the side of
her bum, while his other hand sensitively danced up and down her back. “I
can’t… we can’t…” she murmured, pulling away again. But when she looked into
his eyes she knew that they could, and they would. Her brain was too frazzled
by alcohol – and lust – to resist.

He shrugged his jacket off and removed
his tie. She stood, watching, biting her lip, her whole body telling her to
walk out immediately, to escape, to leave before any real damage was done. Yet
she remained rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes away from him. Her
phone rang again, probably the cab firm once more, but she didn’t even look at
it. Slowly, he undid the buttons on his shirt, folded it in half and placed it
carefully on the back of a chair. She moved towards him and kissed his chest,
taking in his scent, letting her fingers explore his naked upper body, thrilled
that she was getting what so many other women hotly desired.

He pushed her jacket off too, and, while
she scratched lightly at his strong back and kissed his throat, he flipped the
buttons to open her shirt. When she finally felt his hands on her skin, on her
waist and stomach, she gnawed at his neck, unable to control herself any longer.
He didn’t protest or howl in pain. He just chuckled and helped her out of her
bra.

She felt him cup her breasts as they
kissed, his hands hot and tender and she grabbed at his butt, copping a feel as
she knew every woman at the party had wanted to do that evening. She smiled to
herself at this, almost started laughing at the ridiculousness of it.

He ducked lower now and kissed his way
from her neck to her nipple, sensuously circling it with his tongue until it
became rigid. Claire felt her pussy grow hotter, wetter, with each lick and,
knowing there was now no way back, she reached out and unzipped him, fumbled
drunkenly with his belt and then grabbed, with not a huge amount of grace, at
his engorged cock, still held in check by his immaculate white briefs.

He pressed himself up against her,
forcing her to remove her hand, but she could now feel his hardness on her
pelvis and she grabbed at his buttocks again to make him grind harder. “Fuck,”
she whispered. “I need to get out of these tights.” She jerked herself free
from him and sat down. As quickly as she could, she pulled down her tights. She
wished she had worn stockings, but it was so cold out and she wasn’t exactly
expecting something like this. She pulled her knickers off too, flinging them
to the floor without ceremony.

She stood back up and he pushed her back
against the filing cabinet in the corner of the room. She felt the cold metal
against her back and relished the contrast between that freezing shock and the
heat of his body pressed against hers.

He hitched up her skirt as they kissed
and she yanked his trousers and briefs to his ankles. She reached between them
and wrenched at his penis, marvelling at what a perfect size it was, how smooth
it felt, at how stiff she had made him. She bent it a touch and a moment later
he was inside her.

She lifted a thigh to allow him better
access and, with a teasing, leisurely rhythm he slid his cock in as far as he
could and then right out again until she could only feel his tip at her
opening. She bit at his neck again, unable to control her passion. In
retaliation, he raised her arms high above her head and gripped her wrists
together with one hand while the other returned to the underside of her upper
thigh. With her body now stretched, he went to work, pummelling her harder,
crashing against the filing cabinet, making it rumble almost like it was
beating out a rhythm to their sex. Papers, a photo frame with a picture of
Claire and her husband and a couple of pens all spilled joyously to the floor
around them as the intensity increased.

She closed her eyes, her body now in the
throes of ecstasy, and allowed him to pound her. She grimaced, yet she also
relished the feel of the handles and the pointy parts of the cabinet digging
into her back with each thrust. He let go of her wrists and instead placed his
hand behind her head and kissed her. She scratched at his back, nearly drawing
blood, which only seemed to spur him on to stronger, more rapid strokes. She
willed him on, breathing, ‘Yes!’ with every single jolt, and then, ‘I’m
coming!’ which only gave him an even greater impetus – he seemed to grow
another centimetre or two inside her, filling her cunt, encouraging her love
juice to flow ever more freely. He held her jaw with one hand and they stared
at each other as the climax fast approached…