With Interest Ch. 2

Finally I rolled off her and gathered my clothing. Sitting on the edge of the couch as I pulled my trousers on, I mumbled, "That was the most intense orgasm I think I've ever had. Fantastic!" Penelope just moaned softly. She was just starting to surface in her eyes, not all the way back yet when I went back to my desk.

Pulling up her bonus account, I remarked, "And I believe, you had two orgasms yourself. Well done!" Penelope turned to me and started to say something but I cut her off. "Remember our contract. It's what I believe that counts." I knew she had been about to correct me, because I really knew the 'second' one was just an echo of the first, but what the hell, I was feeling magnanimous.

"That big deal I initially made about you faking orgasms and all, on your bonus schedule, you know – I mean it seemed like a sensible precaution, at the time," I admitted meekly, "but it sounds 'way too silly and trite now, doesn't it?" She just nodded, slowly raising herself to sitting, still on the couch; her smile was, perhaps, a little more conspicuous. She gave her sweaty locks a shake, and wiped her still-damp face before picking herself up and buttoning her blouse. There was a grace in her movement that hadn't been there before. She seemed to glide back to her desk with a barely reined sensuality that was almost too much to watch. I turned back to my screen just as the phone rang.

And that first orgasm sort of opened the flood-gates for Penelope. It wasn't that she had an orgasm every day, but she had them often enough and strong enough – sometimes with staggering intensity – to really change the overall tone of our arrangement. While not exactly egalitarian, it certainly put us on more even terms with regards to pleasure. Furthermore, the concept of a faked orgasm never came up. Not one of her climaxes – not ever – was even slightly suspect. When she had an orgasm it was exactly that – an orgasm. No question about it.

–– o ––

Interestingly enough, as soon as our arrangement became mutually orgasmic, my reluctance to go down on her also seemed rather silly. Given how much I had loved oral sex in the past, it was more a matter of spiting myself just to prove a point – a point that was abundantly obvious in almost every other interaction we had. The point being that I was definitely the dominant partner. Hence, one day, as Penelope sat on the edge of my desk, her short skirt revealing much of her smooth, white thighs, and her crossed legs scarcely hiding her bare snatch, I caught a whiff of her femininity.

It was just too much. I suddenly, mid-sentence, grabbed her knees and wrenched them apart, exposing her tantalizing bush. She had flipped her skirt so that her bare buns rested on my leather-framed blotter. I slid her, atop the blotter, with a peremptory heave, directly in front of me, and in one fluid motion had lowered my face into her crotch. Penelope let out a gasp as my tongue drew up her slit. She put her pad aside, placed her hands flat on the desk behind her and reclined on her locked elbows, head thrown back.

Hooking my hands over her thighs I dug in, rooting with my lips and nose, scrubbing my cheeks with her bush. Why had I waited so long? Inhaling her pungent love perfume, I felt myself get light-headed. Penelope's labia were hot and puffy, and open like a blossom waiting for a bee. I dipped and stroked with my tongue, reaching with my fingertips to spread her lips, to allow further access. It was heaven. I hummed my satisfaction against her warm folds, buzzing – lips, tongue, fingers – all around her clitoris – near, but never on. Presently her bum began to bounce on the desk, her thighs quivered and pulled against my retraining hands. I could hear her breath puffing and gasping, in short hard bursts.

I ran my tongue her entire length, starting at the desk, her bottom rosebud just out of reach, and running up to circumnavigate her erect clit. But after a couple long strokes like that I finally relented, running my lingual tip directly across her nub, causing her moan and buck, trying to retain the clitoral contact. I switched tactics, shaking my head from side to side; slapping my cheeks against her inner thighs I held my tongue stiff. Her nectar was beginning to flow freely, sopping my cheeks – and my desk. (A corner of my mind hoped there was nothing important under her.)

Mewing and sighing, twisting and humping, she continued to respond to my potpourri of stimulation. I flicked my tongue back and forth while nodding my head; drawing zig-zags the length of her genitals. Pulling a hand free of her leg I snaked it, palm up, under her bush, inserting two fingers up and in and onto her G-stop. Her breathing became a hiss and her entire abdomen began to tremble. Penelope was definitely getting close to a climax when I slid the other hand up under her blouse to pinch and tug one of her tits. Smoothly I removed the hand from her vagina and raised it to her other tit. She joined the manipulation by shaking her boobs under my grip. I met her thrusting hips, sucking her mons into my mouth and rapidly flicking her clit until she began to convulse. Pulling myself by her elastic nipples, I jammed my face firmly against her as she stiffened and screamed, clasping her legs tight about my ears. Her effusion, the nectar of goddesses, filled my mouth and nose, until I almost drowned. Still, I was relentless – merciless – bothering her nubbin incessantly until she cried for me to stop. At last she slumped forward, covering my head and trying vainly to still my slowly diminishing tonguing.

Finally I pulled back and look up. She graced me with an exhausted smile. Pulling out my handkerchief to wipe my face, I settled back in the chair. "Now," I announced, with as much false indifference as I could muster, "enough of that. About that letter."

Penelope flipped down her skirt front and picked up her notepad. "Yes, Mr. Jackson?" She knew the game – and we both knew that I would get my rocks off before much too long.

–– o ––

Mike, a deceptively mild-mannered client of ours, sat patiently on the couch sipping his scotch and watching Penelope with an appraising eye. "Finish what your doing," he had said, when I asked her to look after him while I finished up. He waved her off as she began to rise from her chair. "No rush. I'll just fix myself a drink."

Penelope had given me a subtle, questioning look, so I shrugged and nodded back at her computer, thinking, "If he wants to wait, let him." She took my meaning and turned back to her screen. It was interesting surreptitiously watching Mike watch her. He was at once intent and relaxed, appreciative and inquisitive. The situation was not unknown to him as he had received Penelope's favours some months earlier.

"Penelope," he said quietly, "would you undress for me?"

"Of course, Mr. Nashton," she replied, standing immediately and beginning to disrobe as she turned.

"No, no, no." His voice had the low and patient tone of a teacher speaking to a child who had completely misunderstood the instructions. Penelope stopped and looked puzzled. "I mean, strip," he explained, "like a stripper, you know…" He put his hands to his buttons, swiveled his shoulders and hummed a few tuneless bars.

"I – I – I'm not sure…" Penelope stuttered, "I mean, I don't know how."

"Oh, come on," Mike insisted, "You know. Like the 'exotic dancers' in the strip bars." Penelope glanced at me for help, but I didn't know what she needed. I was as perplexed as Mike. "Strip bars?" he went on, "You know, smoke, coloured lights, fire-poles?" He raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Spiky heels? Gaudy costumes? Fuzzy blankets?" He paused a moment to assess the rather lost, frightened confusion on Penelope's face before concluding, "Rubber tits? Shaved beaver?" Shaking his head, he gave a chuckle, "You don't know, do you?"

"I've never actually been in a strip bar before," Penelope admitted. "I'm sorry."

"Put a bit of music on, Jackson," he laughed. "We've got to teach this girl to dance." After I fired up the stereo, I left them to it, Michael giving awful instructions and Penelope desperately to follow them. Of course, she didn't have much to take off, still, from what I saw, it was a rather stilted strip-tease; nevertheless, she was naked in the end, and Mike was eventually satisfied.

She writhed and gyrated a bit against his crotch as she released his rampant prick, then, while his fingers and lips played with her nipples, she glided her naked sex to his erection and settled fully onto it with a satisfied sigh. Pulling his face into her bosom, she squirmed her hips, subtly rising and settling – ever so slightly – up and down, on and off. She slowly increased both amplitude and speed until his glistening pego came almost clear of her bush before she plummeted back onto him – bouncing wildly against his thighs. While it, perhaps, wasn't the most artful lap-dance, it was effective. Their moans of ecstasy crescendoed in unison, leaving them momentarily limp and balanced in precarious embrace.

Later that afternoon, as he was leaving, as Penelope settled herself back at her terminal and resumed her tasks, Mike said to me, conspiratorially, "You need to get her a few exotic dance lessons, my man."

Well, I let the idea bounce around a few weeks, doing a little bit of quiet investigation, until late one Thursday afternoon. "Penelope," I called. We had had a bit of a tumble somewhat earlier, and she had just shut down her desktop for the day. "I'd like to send you off for 'inservice' tomorrow." She looked at me curiously but said nothing. "Wear some fancy lingerie – or," I mused, "perhaps a skimpy bikini, under a nice bright skirt and blouse." She still said nothing. "Oh, and," I continued, "wear your highest heels." I walked to her desk and gave her an appointment card with an address and time on it. "You're already registered, so they're expecting you." She looked at the card, still puzzled. "It's the Paramour Theatre over on West Side," I explained. "They offer stripping – exotic dancing lessons. I want you to take some." A hint of a smile touched her lips as I said rhetorically, "Okay?"

"Certainly, Mr. Jackson. I'll make sure I'm there on time. Is it all day?"

"I believe it is."

"Great," she replied simply. "See you Monday, then." And with that, she was gone.

Friday seemed quiet – almost desolate – as I puttered through alone. I had tried to keep my mind off Penelope's 'inservice', with limited success. The day passed regardless, and, as usual, my weekend vanished into the past without much notice.

Penelope was already seated at her terminal when I arrived Monday morning. She only spared me a moment for her cheery, "Good Mornin'," before turning back to her task. I circled my desk for a bit, like a dog settling into a corner, then sat and logged-on. After a few minutes of silence, broken only by the tapping of keyboards, I asked without looking up, "So, how was it?"

She answered with a studied nonchalance, "Okay. I think I learned a bit."

"Well," I pressed, impatient, yet accepting her reticence as part of the game, "do I get to see something?"

"Oh. Sure," she replied innocently, as if this request was unexpected. Penelope withdrew an envelope from her purse, stood and walked to the stereo. She inserted a CD and set the volume before turning to face me as I spun my chair toward her.

Her face was, once again, unreadable, but there was a touch of sultriness in her – like she was infused with some undefinable energy field. As music rose from the speakers, she began to sway subtly. Her hips undulated like water and her breasts, more pronounced than usual – a push-up bra, I deduced – seemed to draw expanding circles in the air. This was not, apparently, the same woman who undressed to music a few weeks ago, in front of Mike and me. Her movements were slow and liquid – and delicately inviting. Peeling her blouse from her shoulders, ever so languidly, she gazed at me through her lowered lids, her lips, just parted, again suggestive of a lost innocence. Blood coursed hotly into my groin, its heat rising under my suit until I had to slip out of my jacket and loosen my collar.

Once her blouse was off, she stepped out of her skirt without the slightest break in her rhythm. Beneath she was clad in elegantly laced panties and bra shot through with a fine iridescence. I was rapidly becoming mesmerized – not to mention rock hard. Almost unconsciously, I fiddled with my belt and zipper, releasing a bit of pressure.

Penelope's body shimmered like a flower through the summer heat. She had become one with the music, and now the tempo was increasing. The beat a little more demanding, the cadence a little more insistent. Her stockings dropped from her legs like honey, pooling at her feet before being tossed away. With an enigmatic grace, she let the music remove her bra, revealing yet another layer. Filmy silver triangles held in place by silver cords barely covered her areolas, while concealing her nipples, although not their firmness. The music had become almost narcotic in its effect, and my attention was fixed on my amazing assistant, as she all but floated out of her panties, to reveal the tiniest G-string, made of the same material as her string bra. The topology of her genitals was evident through the thin triangle. She had, I decided, trimmed her bush for the occasion. She looked tantalizingly elfin.

With a cat-like stealth, Penelope approached my chair, and reaching behind her neck, she pulled at the bowed strings to finally release her breasts completely. With a sleight-of-hand, her thong fluttered to the floor at my feet, as she sliced inexorably past my knees. She was intoxicating – her smell, her heat, the way she moved, the soft moans that escaped her beautiful lips. She flowed around me like a viscous liquid, glowing like molten lava, radiating a mysteriously lascivious energy. I hardly noticed her hands drop to efficiently release my throbbing from the last of its prison, as her glistening breasts waved teasingly in my face. I was having trouble breathing, yet she went on, turning the music magically into visual and increasingly tactile sensations that were strangely soothing and exciting, sedating and inflaming.

The intensity of her eyes was almost painful, as she seemed to be looking unwaveringly into my very psyche. Without a word she lowered herself onto my cock, still one with the music, sinking fully onto my lap. The slick warmth of her velvet glove was testimony to her complete involvement in this stupendous seduction (not that I needed to be seduced). And still it continued. I don't know how she did it. I don't know how I did it, but I didn't blow my wad right away. She artfully rode me ever closer, continuing to dance on my erection. It was the most erotic strip-tease ever, yet it was almost more than I could bear. Teetering on the edge of consciousness, on the edge of delirium, my head finally fell forward against her breasts.

Instinctively I pointed my tongue and swept it across those wonderful nipples. Her grip on my shoulders tightened as her head was flung back. A high, primitive keening escaped her lips, and her graceful movements disintegrated into violent, frenetic bouncing. Her body writhed as she forced her tits hard against my face. The grasping and pulling of her vagina on my prick was more than any mortal man could take, and I felt the explosion that was my orgasm begin deep in my fundament. The temperature inside her rose frighteningly, as she quietly screamed with the onslaught of her own tremendous orgasm. Salvo after salvo of fiery liquor rose out of me to boil in her quivering quim. Holding each other tightly, we convulsed and quaked in a mutual climax that seemed to go on for ever.

Gradually awareness returned and the tremours running between subsided. The music seemed to have dropped into the background again, and the main sound was that of ragged breath, and heavy, exhausted sighs. Penelope had collapsed against me, her head lying on my shoulder, my face still buried in the softness of her boobs. Slowly she sat up, and whispered mischievously in my ear, "How'd I do?"

My God, but she had learned her lessons well. "Holy shit!" was about all I could say. That was probably the most sensuous, the most erotic lap-dance the world had ever known, but words failed me. I muttered simply, "Ya done good."

Penelope gave me a warm, luscious kiss before hopping off my lap. She quickly and effortlessly cleaned me up and tucked me back in, before recovering her costume and donning some clothes. "Now," she chirped, "back to work."

"That certainly was money well spent," I thought to myself. "The best inservice I've ever benefited from."

–– o ––

Meanwhile, her office efficiency continued to increase. Penelope handled many inquiries, even transactions of smaller accounts, effectively, without my referral. More and more frequently she would be rifling through a filing cabinet with the phone crunched at her shoulder, speaking to a client with a business-like calm. On one particular occasion I could hear her patiently explaining – sorting out a problem with an apparently disgruntled client on the other end, as she fished through the file to find the pertinent documents. The file she wanted was in a lower drawer so that as she bent to retrieve it, her rounded buttocks, riding proud atop alabaster thighs, peeped tantalizingly below her skirt. Why I chose that moment I don't know – but I did.

Rising from my seat, releasing myself as I strode, I moved silently and unseen to her unintentionally proffered backside. Abruptly I spread her cheeks and inserted a few inches of myself into her. There was shocked surprise in her gasp, and an avoidable hesitation in her conversation, as I sawed back and forth a couple of times, precipitating a bit of lubrication, before ramming myself in, balls-deep. Her inhaled pause could have been her dropping a file or aborting a sneeze. I'm sure her client thought nothing of it.

I couldn't believe how hard I was as I began stroking full length, rapidly working up a froth at her lips. I was amused by her indecision. She wanted to hold still or become active or something, but she had, first, to see out her business responsibilities. Nonetheless, I could feel her vaginal muscles slowly join my rhythm – gripping on every out-stroke, her hips pushing subtly back on every in-stroke. Her voice regained its cool with impressive quickness as she attempted to placate the client. But I could detect an edge of raggedness. It inflamed me – pressing me to accelerate my thrusting. In and out, the squishing, slurping sounds became more frenzied as my balls swung repeatedly into her bush, slapping against her clitoris. I could feel my ignition sequence click into action, as my already solid erection seemed to multiply in its dimensions.

I could feel, as well, the heat building up in her, the searing pressure of her woman-flesh, grasping at my root – plunging and retreating. I leaned forward, and with one hand, began fiddling and bothering her clit, in syncopation to my swinging balls. Her clitoris stiffened and twitched, her labia swelled and wept, her hips trembled and shook as the combined stimulation stressed her self-control to its limits. Fighting to keep her voice level, fighting to suppress her arousal, her huffing breath, Penelope strove to remain polite, although she had dropped the folder and was holding on to the cabinet, which was beginning to rattle and shake under our attack. There was something unbelievably exciting about our ludicrous situation, and, clutching her hips with both hands, I could feel my orgasm boiling and roiling up from my scrotum, as she valiantly tried to end the conversation with a modicum of decorum. I don't know if it was serendipity or force of will, but her orgasm – our mutual orgasm – exploded just as she finished, so that her, "Good-bye," was more a "Good-b'-aiiiieeeyah!" stretching into a scream of pleasure as she hung up.