llate

I’ve always had a bit of a thing about older women. So when I started my first job, I had a string of crushes on senior colleagues. And that’s not the only fetish of mine you’ll find here… see if you can spot them all. I hope you enjoy this fantasy as much as I have, over the years.

‘Don’t you have a home to go to?’

Jesus.

Had she noticed?

‘Just typing up,’ I mumbled, dumbly holding up my pad as evidence. I had flicked my eyes down from her, back to the laptop screen. Guilty.

‘Huh,’ she responded. And now I could tell she was making her way between the conference room tables. To the back. Where I was.

‘That’s very keen,’ she continued levelly.

I lost my nerve and looked up as she approached. I tried a chuckle. It didn’t succeed. ‘Keen newbie,’ I said, like an idiot, and re-focused on the screen in a panic.

And then for God’s sake she was standing next to me. ‘Hmm,’ she said, as though appraising my document. She was wearing a loose-fitting white blouse with a tan tribal pattern, and it brushed the skin of my shoulder as she leaned.

‘No,’ she said, the vowel drawn out by her dry Northern accent. ‘It wasn’t our decision to make the logo flat.’ She was moving again, behind. And then her hand reached around towards the touchpad. But before it got there, my other shoulder had found itself in the folds of her blouse; and I flinched.

She didn’t seem to notice, and stroked the cursor towards the offending text. ‘Personally, I think flat is crap,’ she was saying. ‘It’ll date terribly.’

Then she seemed to sigh, and I could not help but look at her. She was standing so very close. ‘Like me,’ she laughed; and suddenly I knew for certain. She had noticed.

Didn’t mean I knew what to do about it. Luckily, she did. I must have said something, because she responded in a whisper, ‘why thank you,’ and then all I knew was that her lips were on mine and my notes were on the floor and the dimmed spotlight above danced crazily before my eyelids shut it away.

But she withdrew after only a slightly lingering touch, and I was left staring at her eyes, inches from my face, through my fringe. So close. Her face was slightly cratered and lined, but my eyes lingered on the details in rapt acceptance. Her fingers had somehow ended up on the back of my hand where it still rested on the table edge, and I felt them stroke, ever so gently, left to right. She smiled, but I was frozen in sensation.

‘Okay?’ she queried, still whispering.

I don’t know how I coordinated it, but around my gasping breath I must have made a positive sound. And so she leaned in again, and kissed me again, and knocked me into next week, again.

I could hear her breath, and feel it against my cheek; feel her excitement. Her lips were soft, but oh, so insistent. The way their pressure rose and fell away sharply suggested she was holding back, barely. But she had even less control of her body, it seemed: she was looming over me, until my neck strained to keep our kiss aligned.

Then she was just looking down at me again. Grey-green eyes; light hair highlights, severely tied back. My position was painfully awkward; I was gaping; I wanted her to let herself go, to overwhelm me, to merge her essence with mine and so lift us both. She glanced aside; and bizarrely, it felt like the moment might be lost, and I gasped with sudden longing.

But she smiled; picked up the hand she had been touching, and passing it between us, she lifted a leg to interpose herself between me and the table, straddling me between her tightly denim-corseted legs.

Without the remotest ceremony, she took the hand of mine that she still grasped, and planted it onto her side; found the other one, and planted that on her other side. She felt solid and strong, like the trunk of a tree; somehow exactly as I had imagined her.

‘Well after all,’ she explained gently, ‘your notes can wait.’

I gazed at her, still open-mouthed, in abject surrender. She hinged forward from her hips; I arced my back to receive her mouth, but she was far too close, and I felt her lips fall gently onto my hair; her hands were somewhere on my shoulders and neck. Her blouse drifted against my face and with it came the smell of her, musky and real. And with desperate attention, I could not help but glance inside the cut of her collar.

Somehow I knew she was still smiling; and there was a trace of exasperation in the way she plucked at my hands again, and re-positioned them squarely onto her breasts.

How did she know? How did she know so perfectly what I wanted?

Her fingers appeared, inches from my face, to deftly engage with the buttons of her blouse; but sensation was pinballing my consciousness, from that sight, to the heaviness in my hands, to the soft press of her face on my hair, to the pounding in my chest and the furnace at the base of my abdomen.

‘I’ve seen you looking,’ she was saying; and it was not an accusation. ‘Every time, I’ve wanted you to touch me.’

Her wrists were pushing against mine as she worked from button to button. This time, I found the presence of mind to tuck my hands over hers, and then the rough tracery of her bra was warm against my palms. The upper slopes of her breasts seemed almost hollow to my fascinated sight, but there was no denying the erotic weight beneath.

She was leaning even further over me now, so with only a small movement of my neck my face would find that weighty softness. ‘Yes,’ she encouraged, and fingers echoed the word gently on my spine.

But then perhaps she changed her mind; she chuckled; her body lurched a little. She was slipping away the blouse; and then I knew from the play of her muscles that she was seeking the clasp of her bra. I mewled with excitement, still gazing raptly at the constrained flesh that filled my vision.

Then it was only my hands that kept the bra from falling, and with furious force she cradled my head into a tight pocket between her arms, face and breasts.

I could help myself no longer. I flung the bra away, gathered the sudden softness onto my face, kissed forward hungrily.

She allowed it, and I gorged on her smothering warmth, moaning at the inferno in my own body. She was my deity, my universe, and there was nothing but her.

And the orgasm hit me like the break of dawn over my already incandescent lust. We were both shocked; I could see her laughing as she cradled my suddenly arching back, and held my eyes with hers. But I could hear nothing but the rushing of my own blood as the ecstasy exploded through every inch of me, rebounding even into the hands that still pressed upward into softness.

As it faded, her laughter materialised into sound. ‘Well,’ she concluded, ‘I’m flattered.’

‘I…’ I began, but she had lifted a finger to touch my lips.

‘No, I am. Very much.’ And she leaned down, and kissed me. This time there was no inhibition, but instead a lingering, almost satisfied desire; as though she had come too. Her lips were fresh like rainfall; and when her tongue touched mine there was no shock, just the gentle escalation of a welling spring.

How long did we kiss? Minutes; hours. It did not occur to me to do anything else, nor would it ever again. The memory of my orgasm filled my body, a lake of bliss so heavy in me that I could not move from the chair if I wanted to. My arms had relaxed a little, so they no longer held up their beautiful loads, but instead just accepted their shape: long, luxuriant; nipples ever so slightly splayed so that they perfectly tickled my palms.

She was touching my wrist again, then directing my hand away from its tender occupation. I resisted; we both smiled. Her body was pushing forward again; and all at once I realised what she intended. I gasped. Our rhythm was broken. I was looking, disbelieving, down the length of her torso, between the hang of her breasts. Her jeans were widely undone.

Her guidance was expert: I barely had time to feel my fingertips tucked between elastic and skin and hair, before they were rounding into indistinct warm wetness. There they rested, cupped around flesh and bone, yet paralysed by numinous meaning and responsibility.

I glanced up at her face in doubt. How could I pleasure her? How would I know what was right? But her face was too far over my head, and all I saw was the interplay of tendons in her long neck, spreading slightly with the force of her breathing. I wanted to be worthy of her trust, but felt suddenly alone. She was so wet! I could feel nothing.

Then, I knew what I must do; and the force of it made me tremble with anxious passion.

There was nothing for it. I leaned forward myself, awkwardly forcing her backward to the table edge; then, bending to balance myself despite my engaged hands, I took my weight and stood.

She was looking at me in surprise; and for a glorious second, her confident seniority gave way to wide-eyed wonder, because with military precision I had maneuvered both hands to the top of her jeans and pushed them six inches down her legs.

No words were necessary. We collided for a fiery kiss, to tide over the inevitable pause in our passion. She even twisted with our lips still thoroughly engaged, to try and remove one of her boots; we both laughed, and fell to the task together, I dropping to my knees to find leverage on her skin-tight jeans. They fell away, and without ceremony, her knickers too.

Then she was before me, naked, filling my sight. My laughter vanished like a candle snuffed out, to be replaced by a conflagration of desire. Some corner of my mind noticed how muscular she was, how athletically substantial, how overwhelmingly real. My hands found her sides, my forearms pressed onto her hips; I could not stop myself from pushing my body and breasts against her legs, my cheek against the firmness of her lower abdomen.

But I knew my task; and my lips found her skin, to begin their purposeful descent. When they reached hair, my hands, now on either side of my face, suggested, with gentle pressure, the obvious. So as I traced my kisses further, down one side of the tight flesh, I could feel her legs fitfully spreading, growing a cavity to accommodate my chin. She was rising on her toes too, sighing out her craving.

I reached down and around, with my tongue; tucked it upward when it tasted bitter wetness. She jolted, cried out. Her arousal flowed into my mouth. I wanted more, so I strained further, the flat of my tongue now pushing against and between her lips. She had her hands on my head; I could look up and see her dilated eyes, and the glory of her body and breasts.

There was no more doubt. Though I wanted to drink deep from her vagina, I returned the focus of my straining tongue to her clitoris, and used the force of my mouth and my body to push against it, rhythmically, watching her eyes unfocus with every moaning thrust.

She was finally mine. All of her, her shuddering breasts, her powerful frame, her beating heart. Warmth seeped down my chin; I could feel it drip onto my top. It was my own desire, made material; and with the taste of it I knew she desired me no less. We were one carnal being, giving, taking, making love, and with every moan, rising.

The orgasm that she had given me would forever be at the beginning of us, so somehow we were already together, already lovers. And so, I no longer doubted. I could feel the ecstatic contractions in her, which shadowed my every movement, and I knew that I could not lose her, ever again.

Her breath had stopped. Her eyes lost mine, lifted to nowhere; her mouth gaping beneath. I was with her. Perhaps she had known.

I did have a home to go to; it was right here.