Grace’s Game

It is a dark stiff padded envelope and addressed to him. Internal post. Eyes Only. The neatly squared letters are in Whitley’s hand. Unfussy, neat. Neat as her belly button, and the  triangle of untrimmed hair below it. He’d called it ‘the prettiest of all the muffs’ and she’d clipped him round the ear for his cheek.
‘Pretty indeed? What am I, some meek schoolgirl? It’s a cunt. My cunt, and I want you to treat it with appropriate zeal’.
And he had. And occasionally still did. Perhaps today was such a time.
    He sat in his cubicle and warily moved and squeezed and shook the thing. There was a box inside, and inside it something shifted and another rolled. Something small and flat slipped easily from side to side. His email pinged.
    An invitation from Whitley. Sort of. A meeting from her diary. Nothing on his pay grade that was damn sure. Just a curt demand to be early. He picked up the packet and tucked it under his elbow. Walked out of the NCA building as if on an errand.
    He found a barely overlooked bit of Thames foreshore and, setting himself on one of the larger tumbled stones from some long abandoned wharf, he opened the packet. It contained a plain cardboard box and removing the lid revealed:
  •     A pair of black knickers
  •     A plastic keycard
  •     A Polaroid photograph of Grace Whitley’s graceful, lovely, cunt.
  •     And a long glass dildo.

It was a passable sculpture of a cock, somewhat steeply ridged in the head, and threaded with blue, but was otherwise crystal clear.

As was her note.

    ‘Get there early and hide yourself. The knickers are mine. If you can make me come in that room, I will let you do anything you like. If you can’t, you owe me.’
    He picked up the knickers. They weren’t quite clean, nor actually filthy. They did smell of her though. Earthy, salty, damp. Slightly sweet. His cock uncurled as he smelled them, thickening and lengthening, hot against his thigh.
    Looking furtively about, he hunch-walked into the shadows of the tumbled warf and freed himself from his trousers. The cool river air felt delightful on his hot skin, though not as good as Grace’s gusset as it slid silky along his hard cock.
    He returned to the office with the package repacked and resealed. Except for the knickers which nestled damply in his hip pocket, his come soaking through the lining.
    The boardroom is on the third floor, a big cathedral of a place, air-conditioned with clerestory windows spilling light onto the great polished mass of the table. It is about thirty feet long and ten wide, huge. The space beneath is wide but cramped for his gangly frame, but he folds himself dutifully beneath it, eager for what must follow.
    Soon, the delegates file in, more than fifteen of them, disembodied shiny shoes and razor creases, bare calves, tights. He recognises Grace by her ankles, still just as pretty as he remembers from the last time, when they were hooked behind his head.
    Soon, she is seated, as are they all, and The Meeting begins, the long drone of neutral talk, all frisson of the subject leached out, washed out by professionalism.
Shoes off, he moves, silently, until he’s facing Grace’s knees. They are pressed together, tight, in a position he recognises for arousal. He knows that far upstream from those pretty silk-clad knees, her thighs are clamped and squeezing on her tingling muff. He feels an answering stir below, the increased weight of him. The stiffness, thickness at his root. He leans down, and blows a thin stream of air along her ankles, and up her calves. Though he is expected, still she jumps and stifles it with a well placed cough.
    With slow and gentle fingers he strokes upward. The hiss of silk seems loud beneath the table. With each inch of height she parts a little, hinging from her tucked together feet, until in the heart shaped opening between leg and bright red skirts he can see bare thigh above her stockings. A hands-breadth, two, before her dark – and, dammit, pretty – muff. 
    For a moment he rests with hands on her knees, gazing. He doesn’t think she truly appreciates how genuinely beautiful she is. In toto, yes, she is spectacular. A living classic sculpture, physically astonishing and quick with wit and smiles and dimples, creases. She turns many heads, not least his own, but it is in the breadth of hip, the sweet geometry from neat navel to the curves of inner thigh that makes him catch his breath with bliss. A sight so fair, he thinks, that it almost isn’t lust at all. Almost. The straining heat of him entrapped and tightly bound by trouser cloth gives this the lie.
    But at least here, unseen and out of reach, he can marvel at the glory of her curves, and creases, the rays of hair, the darker cleft. The low relief of belly climbing out of sight. He can marvel without being scorned.
    As he rests, she opens up beneath his hands. An impatient relaxation of her knees, a rolling out of thigh. Earthy, damp and eager notes atop the faint smell of body lotion from some now distant shower. Thus bidden, he continues with his work.
    Her skirt hem is spread across her knees and so he folds it up. In neat folds of two inches at a time he raises it, and Grace shifts in her chair and pulls it closer. Pulls it in the better to disguise that now the hem is raised as far as it can go, her legs are bare from hip to thigh, a glorious exposure framed in red above and black-barred stocking-cuff below.
    With so much more leg to work with he leans in and whispers up between, his lips barely grazing her pale skin. With face inches from her chair he begins to kiss, and lightly finger, searching upwards. Searching for the silk smooth junction between leg and cunt, that frictionless finger width so bare of hair and rich with taste.
    For a while too long he strokes her, smoothing out the rays of hair, each little tug pulling at her mons and parting, a too slow release of what lies beneath. She shifts again, and jabbing forward finds his fingertips which slip within. The blaze of heat makes his fingers dance and in that sudden eagerness he is reaching, slipping in, and hooking up, squeezing her between his inner pair of fingers and his outer thumb.
    With his free hand fumbling to release his cock, he uses that outer thumb to raise her hood and lift her clit. Lift it to his pressing tongue and teeth.
    His fingers hook and pull her further in, a shuffle, pressing her upper belly to the table and perching her, spread-cunted on the edge of her seat.
    Now stroking himself fast within the silken grasp of her come-damp knickers he nudges her legs wide, wider, until he has her whole soaking hole to work with.
    Long licks from bum to clit, with nibbles here and probing there. He licks and sips at every inch until her folds are full of bright arousal and glossy as an oyster, its pearl round and taut and screaming to be touched. He is moving up to suck it when he hears the droning cadence of the meeting change. Shit he’ll be for it later.
    And with the thrill of what his punishment might be he’s twitching in his own hand, the rush of come filling her knickers once again and spurting through the lace and satin to run down his hands onto the carpet. Face buried in her cunt, he hunches. Six, seven, pulses as she grinds back into his shaking face. He can almost taste her glee. But he has one last torture to perform.
    He reaches stickily for the packet and retrieves the glass toy. With swift fingers he eases it in, watching her parted flesh skip and catch on the ridges and stretch around the glass. He pushes all 8 inches of it in, while Grace’s rigid legs hum like a bass tuning fork, until the wide glass base is snug against her crux. And then he dresses her. Sliding her knickers on, twice-soaked by him, and pulls them up, leaving only little traces on the silk, up over her hips, imprisoning the dildo deep inside.
    Her tremors make him almost think he’s done it, but no. Not quite. Although she totters and needs to rest a hand on the table getting up, she makes it, stands and leaves, seeking no doubt a private corner for release. At the last a post-it falls and sticks to a chair leg on its flutter down.
    ‘The chair cupboard where I blew you last. In one hour. Be naked. Bend over the chair’
    He blushes fiercely and can feel his cock stiffen again, merely at the thought.


Masturbation Monday

4 thoughts on “Grace’s Game

  1. Posy Churchgate says:

    Very sexy – love the achingly slow pace! So great visual phrases.

    On practicality terms I kept worrying his head might bump under the table! Tricky to get the knickers on while she was sitting but I guess she was all cooperation! Even as she’s planning to punish him for the ‘missed goal’!

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *