Crushed-velvet, crushed pussy: holiday party trouble (f/m)

Company holiday parties are a clichéd, sexual minefield… which is why I didn’t get into trouble ‘til the after party ;)

A bunch of us rolled up to a karaoke bar after the main event on the Thursday the week before Christmas – the younger employees; the single folk; the don’t-stop-until-close partiers. I was in a green, crushed-velvet skater dress, tights, and gold heels. Of course, my thick brown hair was curled and my lips were a bright red – all in all, a more conservative look for a company event.

As some of us were talking, one of the older guys brought me a drink. He’s in his mid-to-late forties, tall and broad (maybe 6’2), with that touch-of-gray hair that I always fall for. He’s still in a suit, albeit, the tie is loosened. Still handsome, but in a weathered way. I know he’s a coworker, but in my drunken state, I struggle to place him. I sipped my drink as we chatted – mostly about what we like to drink and what we do outside of work.

“I do yoga a few times a week,” I said.

“I can tell.” He winked.

I smiled and took a sip. As our conversation continued, I could tell he really wanted to get handsy – we were standing so close, and as we spoke he undressed me with his eyes. Occasionally he’d touch my hand or arm; I’d playfully slap him. He’d get distracted when I’d cross or uncross my legs – I wanted to open them right there… I lost track of the conversation, as I thought about him picking me up and fucking me on the bar. Then we were making eye contact. And just as it became unbearably heart-pounding, he excused himself to get another drink. One of my girlfriends scooted up and grabbed my arm:

“That’s Mr. Smith: he’s one of the new VP’s! What the fuck are you doing?”

“Nothing. YET,” I exaggerated in her face. As much as I hate to shit where I eat, in my horny, drunken state this felt like a risk worth taking. He was big and mature and apparently high up in the company – sounds fucking sexy to me.

“You know he’s married right?” She looked me in the eyes and I just looked confused.

“Is he? I didn’t see a ring.”

“I think he’s separated,” she said. We got into a minor ethical debate, but soon the VP rolled up with a fresh drink. My friend sauntered away. The drunken banter continued with the added caveat that this conversation could be more complicated than it initially appeared. But complicated can be hot sometimes ;) As he downed his drink and ordered up an uber, I put the ball in his court and gave him my number.

“If you ever want to grab a drink sometime.”

He was gone less than 10 minutes when I got the text: how ‘bout that drink? And an address: an apartment downtown.

You can bet I called me an uber immediately. I spent the wait and the ride thinking of how to broach the subject of Mr. Smith being married. But to be honest, the thought of it just made me wetter. I crossed my legs tight in the back seat and tried not to sweat.

I hit the lobby and rode the elevator up, nervously playing with my hair. I knocked on his door. He was delighted to see me. He fixed me a drink as I looked around: a well furnished living room connected to a stainless steel kitchen. I stared out the window at the skyline. Then: a hand on my waist and a drink in my hand. He kissed me lightly. He ran his fingers through my hair, and those fingers rested on my neck. He kissed harder. We moved to the couch as we started to kiss harder and harder, his arms wrapped around me and a hand moving to my breast. I moaned and pulled away, then straddled him. I played with his tie.

“So I hear you’re married?”

He looked at me, very pointedly: “Separated. On my way to a divorce.” He played with my hair. Fine by me; he was clearly into it. And at that point I wasn’t likely to stop for anything.

“Good,” I said, then whispered in his ear: “Because I’d hate to be a home wrecker.” He kissed my neck.

“I doubt that.” He spanked my ass and I yelped. He stood straight up from the couch, holding me. My legs wrapped around him. I giggled as he carried me off to the bedroom. He threw me down on the bed and pushed his hands up my skirt, grabbed my tights at the brim and pulled them, plus my heels, off. I looked up at the ceiling. Then I asked a question.

“Do you have kids?”

“Yup.” He started to kiss my legs, moving up my thighs… very much up my thighs.

“A dad and still married.” Two things I fantasize about. I could feel myself dripping; my clit swelling. His lips explored the very most inside of my legs as his fingers slipped inside my thong, peeling it off.

“Separated,” he said again, now kissing the outer lips of my pussy. “Is it hot that am married?”

My hands gripped his head. “Yes!” I laughed.

But he hesitated. Then he took a long lick of my pussy, up past the inner lips and clit, then got up. I groaned, and started to work my way out of my dress and bra. He had moved over to his dresser, digging around a drawer. He came back over to me, crawling between my legs, and showed me a wedding ring on his finger.

“Oh Mr. Smith, you are a very, very bad man.” I bit my lip and started to take off his shirt. He wasn’t extremely fit – just a big, bear of a man: he had a bit of a gut, and his arms were big but not defined – but he had a hairy chest and broad shoulders, which I love. When his pants came off, they unleashed a raging, uncut semi. He climbed between my legs and started to grind against me as we made out. A rough hand gripped one of my tits as he sucked on another. He pinched one of nipples and I groaned, grinding my pussy against his now-rock hard cock. It was teasing the opening of my dripping vagina.

My hand moved down to his cock, thick and veiny. It was still hovering, just inside the lips of my vagina. I looked him in the eyes and guided him in.

“Oh, your wife wouldn’t like this.”

“Fuck that bitch,” he groaned as he thrust the rest of the way inside me, bare, rubbing directly against the hot, slick walls of my cunt.

“I’m the only bitch you’re fucking.”

He started pumping in and out, slowly – savoring the way I felt against him; breathing in and out, deeply. I dug my nails into his ass.

“I said, fuck me.”

He started to speed up, pounding me rhythmically.

“Oh Mr. Smith… Fill me with your big, fat cock. God. Fuck me, daddy.” I spanked him.

“You dirty little homewrecker… I’m going to split you in half.”

And it felt like he could, with that thick-ass cock driving me into the bed. Then he grabbed my legs and put them on his shoulders, and continued. His pace slowed down, but it felt like he was pile-driving my pussy, holding the headboard for leverage with one hand. The other went down, where he started to play with my clit with his thumb.

“I’m going to make you cum. Because I can.” His thumb moved faster, rotating around my clit and then over it. “God I’m fucking gonna, baby. Fuck.” Well, I hoped I was gonna. Every other time I’ve ridden bareback, the guy came way too quick. I hoped Mr. Smith had the right amount of whiskey dick.

“And then I’m going to cum. All. Over. Your delicious body.” I quivered at that.

“God yes. Mr. Smith. Cum all over my big, slutty tits.” I squeezed my D-cups together, pinching diamond-hard nipples; biting my lip, moaning as I looked into his eyes. He looked down, breathing slow but hard. His thrusts slowed to a crawl, but every one was powerful. I cried out each time, my head deep in the pillow – my curls a mess around me. His thumb picked up its pace, polishing my sloppy, throbbing clit.

Then it happened. I broke. I gripped the sheets and the thick arm that was controlling the hand that was working my clit into a lather as my body spasmed. Every muscle in my body contracted as I came.

“Oh God daddy fuckfuckfuckfu—“ I was incoherent as my vagina gripped his cock. He only picked up speed, now gripping the headboard with both hands, thrusting with renewed vigor. I gripped his sides with all my strength as I continued to cum. I was nearly finished when he pulled out. My legs dropped from his shoulders. He gave his dripping, veiny dick a couple firm strokes. Then he shot thick ropes across my stomach and onto my tits.

“Oh daddy…” I let out a long, low moan as hot, sticky gobs of cum hit me.

Then he collapsed beside me, sweating. He handed me some tissues and I cleaned up. He wrapped his arms around me.

“Well that was a first,” he said. Then sighed.

“Your first time without a condom?” I was surprised. He just laughed.

“I was married 23 years. I haven’t used a condom in decades.”

“I could tell,” I purred, caressing his chest.

“No this is my first time since I’ve been separated – just a couple months ago.”

“Aaaahhh… So I was too good to pass up?”

He mulled it over. “Sure. And you were very, very easy.” I acted shocked, and playfully slapped him. He laughed. “I love you young girls. So in touch you’re your sexuality.” I started to get up.

“Hey, come on.” He thought I was leaving. Instead I took his still wet, still slightly-turgid cock in my hands and played with.

“Maybe I’m just a slut for old men.” I took it in my mouth, cleaning it with my tongue.

He groaned and layed back, wrapping his hands in my hair as I enjoyed his leftovers.

“We’ll figure it out tomorrow. We’re calling in sick, right?”

I giggled through my mouthful and pulled his nearly-flaccid cock out with a wet pop.

“Yes, sir.”

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/3zn790/crushedvelvet_crushed_pussy_holiday_party_trouble