A View of Fifth Avenue

"Oh, God," she whimpered as his tongue flirted expertly with her clit. She wanted to bury her fingers in his thick black hair, wanted to grind her pussy shamelessly against his mouth. When she felt him press the flat of his tongue directly against her clit, she smacked the window hard and winced as mild pain flashed up her arm.

He stopped and looked up at her, his lips shiny with her pussy juices. "Behave yourself," he said evenly. Stella nodded and offered him a mute, wide-eyed plea to continue. As he reburied his face in her pussy, his hands reached up to take hold of her breasts. She closed her eyes in gratitude. He groaned lightly as he lapped at her clit. The sound thrilled her to her belly.

"Oliver...Oliver...Oh, God, Oliver...." Moaning his name was, she decided, a pleasure in itself. Sometimes she chanted it quietly to herself as she touched herself in the bathtub. Sometimes she whispered it under her breath after evading her husband's friends' clumsy attempts to flirt with her at cocktail parties. She spoke it as if it were a prayer, and as Oliver gently took her clit between his lips and suckled, it occurred to her that was engaged in his own particular form of worship.

She was mere moments from coming when Oliver released her breasts and halted his attentions with a pert swirl of his tongue. He looked up and seemed almost amused by her stricken expression. "You don't want my cock after all?" He wiped her pussy juices off his chin with the back of his hand. "Do we need to end our session early?"

Stella was wide-eyed with alarm. "Oh, no! No, no, Oliver. Please, no. I—I want your cock." She fought to keep her lips from trembling.

"Take your hands off the window," he replied nonchalantly. As she complied, he rose to his full height, interposing himself between her and the window and leaving her face in shadow. "Bend over." He pointed to the wingchair behind her.

Stella stepped unsteadily toward the chair. Before she could reach it, Oliver's hands locked around her waist; Stella felt a thrill as her feet left the floor, but the thrill turned to brief panic as she found herself hurtling toward the chair. This wasn't the first time Oliver had tossed her across the room. The degree to which she had grown to enjoy it embarrassed and excited her. She caught herself by planting her hands on the cool leather of the chair seat. He immediately seized her wrists and directed her hands to grip the armrest. The expensive fabric of his suit—he had not so much as removed his jacket—against the tender flesh of her back made her feel wonderfully vulnerable.

Stella heard him unzip and bit her lip in sheer anticipation.

"Head down," he instructed before sliding his cock slowly into her. She hissed as he stretched her methodically, filled her thoroughly. This was what she had been waiting for. Dying for. This was the pleasure that felt like a hot combustion of lovemaking and addiction and indulgence and utter submission.

She clawed at the armrest as his cock moved inexorably in and out. Breathy moans escaped her lips as if quite by their own volition. Oliver shushed her several times, but he did not stop moving.

Harder. She needed him to fuck her harder. She clenched her pussy rhythmically around his cock and prayed that it would incite him to move more aggressively.

"Don't you dare come," he barked, gripping her shoulders.

"No, Oliver, I'm not coming, I swear," she breathed, tightening around his hot length again.

"Your pussy...ah, God!...your pussy is disobeying me," he rasped, clutching her shoulders harder. "Jesus," he whispered to himself, "so tight."

Stella's heart stuttered. She feared that he would punish her by withdrawing before either of them could come. She feared that he would send her home with a sopping wet cunt and the desperate conviction that she was about to jump out of her skin.

Instead he tangled his fingers in her slightly sweaty curls and pulled hard. Stella jerked upward with a stifled cry and closed her eyes as he began covering her neck with ravenous kisses. She felt him nip her lightly and wondered whether he would go so far as to leave a mark.

"Are you going to come?" he asked in a lethally quiet voice between kisses.

"Not until you say I can."

"And do you think," he continued, reaching around to pluck at her nipples, "you can control yourself in the meantime?"

Stella groaned as he continued to wreak havoc on her breasts. "Yes," she answered in a cracked voice.

"Are you sure?" He pinched one nipple so hard she gasped.

She wasn't sure at all, actually. The instant he began pounding her in earnest, she was bound to come. She arched her back as he groped her tits.

"Are you sure?" His hands moved down to her hips. "You have such discipline?"

"I—"

"Shall I test you?"

Stella felt his fingers dig into her hips, and then before she could return to gripping the chair arm, he began fucking her hard and deep. She impulsively reached between her legs to rub her swollen clit. Oliver made no move to stop her.

"You can't control yourself," he said thickly, his voice losing its polished monotone as he drove his cock into her. "You want it too goddamned much."

Stella moaned and rubbed herself more vigorously. The savagery in Oliver's voice, in the unrelenting hardness of his body, was quickly driving her to the edge.

"Ah...God, Stella." He shoved her body back hard against his cock. "Come for me."

Her fingers worked feverishly at her clit. She hadn't expected him to capitulate so soon. Her orgasm glimmered tantalizingly before her.

"Come, Stella. Come for me." His fingers were sure to leave small bruises on her hips. "Come, damn it!"

It was actually Oliver's low groan that finally ignited the blast of pleasure that left her limbs feeling heavy and her body thoroughly used. The sound of his body finally surrendering to hers was enough to send her pussy into long, delicious spasms. He clamped his hand over her mouth, and she moaned—hoarse, body-wracking moans.

When she felt again in control of her body, she moved to straighten up. Oliver withdrew carefully, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and helped her clean up with efficient grace. After the wild ferocity of his orgasm, he was again channeling the natural refinement that governed all his movements.

"I want to see you Friday," he said crisply as he zipped up her dress.

She turned and tried to read his inscrutable face. "But I never have an appointment on Fridays."

"Now you do."

Stella opened her mouth to protest further, but he silenced her with his mouth. His tongue slipped past her lips, sending a fresh jolt of pleasure to her core. She could almost have sworn that she tasted herself on his tongue.

He broke the kiss off at last. "Confirm with Lois on your way out, please." He was already moving back to his desk, back to the business of the day. Away from her.

Stella puzzled over Oliver's words as she waited for the doorman to hail a cab for her. He had all but discarded her after bundling her back up in her expensive clothes, but he had insisted on seeing her for the third time in a week. For all she knew, he intended to see her every Friday, and if he intended it, she felt powerless to stop it.

That was the beauty of her time with Oliver: she loved feeling powerless, loved feeling subject to his whims. It was, she mused as she put on her sunglasses and tipped the doorman, the only time she felt in control of her heart.