Two Old Flames (MMF Menage Erotica) (3 page)

He pressed his lips together in a pensive expression, considering his bid. “What figure are you looking at, Alicia?” he asked.

Giving him the onceover made him blush. Oooo, I liked that. “My ideal figure.” I sighed. “Thirty-five would be better.”

“Let's split the difference. Thirty? Plus ample room for bonuses.” He stressed the word “ample” while hungry eyes nearly ate my breasts from across the desk.

I reached for his hand to shake it. His firm grasp made me nearly come right there. Sheer force of will kept me from pulling a Meg Ryan right there. "I'll have what she's having"  -- indeed. Except that what I needed right then was a double-headed dildo that would stretch from pussy to ass, with Mr. Michaels licking my clit until I exploded.

"I'll administer them personally," he assured me, handing me his card. "So you'll start Monday?"

"I'll start Monday, Mr. Michaels."

"Call me Jim, Alicia."

"OK, Jim. See you Monday."

And I had started that Monday and a month later I found myself with that double-headed dildo after all. And Big Jim and Little Jim. Only "Little" Jim was a very, very unfair nickname for the company's second in command.

It was Father's Day, and Jim had been coming on to me for weeks. Most of the guys were fathers and asked for the day off ,so I was covering the entire shift alone, doing the work of four people. Saturday midnights were quiet anyhow, so it was no big deal, but at 2 a.m. Jim showed up, looking half asleep and upset. Even rumpled and sleepy he was gorgeous and made my nipples tingle.

"What's up?" I asked, one hand on the 10-key pad, mindlessly coding and looking at rate bills, wiggling slightly to scratch my clit's new eager itch. We got a bonus for faster processing, and I'd turned out to be the fastest rate analyst on third shift. I needed the extra money, and that 10 percent would mean the difference between making rent or eating protein this month.

"We had a computer malfunction. A bunch of product went to Pittsburgh when it should have gone to Cleveland." He wasn't angry, just frazzled and stressed. This was a different Jim. Normally, he was a jock's jock, a 40-something guy who knew himself and who flirted with a two-by four. Sexual harassment wasn't something you reported at this company. It was something you expected.

A fringe benefit.

With his delicious looks, I didn't mind at all. In fact, I wished he'd asked for more. Especially at night, alone in my studio apartment, just me and my rabbit vibrator. Thoughts of Jim kept me going, the hum of my rabbit stroking my clit, my fingers moving to my tight ass, lubing up and giving myself some pleasure, imagining Jim's face there, Jim's lips there, his big cock pushing gently against my ass, gliding in through the muscle clench and sending me into a frenzy. The rabbit was great, filling me and driving my clit into spasms that stretched through my pussy and anus, but it wasn't the same as Jim.

Big Jim.

Now he was here, and we were almost alone. A few guys and one woman were at the loading docks, smoking and playing cards, waiting for a new shipment. One more hour 'til the new line of trucks came in with some overnight deliveries.

This was my only chance.

I wasn't going to fuck it up.

Well...I was, actually. Going to fuck it, that is.

"You seem tense," I said, walking up to him and caressing his shoulders. "Let me give you a massage." His neck was like granite under silk, the skin so smooth I almost cried with the sheer luxury of being allowed to touch it. Tight cords of muscle slid under the tan skin, and as I kneaded and stroked, he relaxed visibly, then audibly as he exhaled. One [art of him tightened, though. His sweat pants were leaving nothing to the imagination, and as his cock rose I gasped involuntarily. It was
that
big.

Oh, God, my pussy ached for that in me. A small moan escaped through my parted lips, and then I noticed Jim's eyes were watching me as I stared at his crotch....

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Traffic was a bitch on I-95, and I knew I'd be late. Some dark-haired asshole who looked like an FBI-type in a Beemer and Oakley mirror sunglasses tried to cut me off when I was three cars away from the tollbooth as I eased off the turnpike onto the interstate. Came within an inch of my bumper. White hot rage shot through me, along with a flushed, hyper-alert sense. No way. I sat in this fucking line for 20 minutes and now Mr. Entitlement USA thinks he can cut me off?

He waved and shrugged, like he was oh-so-innocently asking for a small favor. I shook my head slowly, glad I was wearing sunglasses, too, because the red-hot death ray would have shot out my eyes and burned him to a gristled little crisp.

He smirked and shot forward, tapping my bumper. Fuck you, buddy. My car is crappier than yours and I am insured. You hit me, you're slumming.

I eased up and turned the wheel slightly to the left. No way I was hitting him. Ever vigilant, I made it so that in this game of chicken, I would win. Move an inch, take an inch. Like sex, I was doing to get what I wanted.

Right now.

He backed off and I moved forward, victorious. BAM! Take that. Someone with less determination than me right behind me let him in. I looked in my rearview mirror and realized he was flipping me off.

So I shot him the bird back. Fuuuuuuuuck you, dude.

And then he proceeded to follow me. Fine. Whatever. We were trapped in gridlock for the cloverleaf onto I-95, so I pulled out my makeup case. I always ran out the door a few minutes late, so I'd learned to prioritize. Powder, blush, mascara, lipstick. Done. I'm sure in a few years I'll need a hell of a lot more makeup, but at 21 the worst I need is a little undereye concealer if I party all night and come into work a little hung over.

Not true today, though. I got what I needed last night. My boyfriend, Darren, finally put out. That man has a tongue that could lick the moon if he really tried. Damn. Too bad he has to drink a six pack before he's willing to go down. My clit appreciated the effort, and it was a nice change from our boring, vanilla sex. I mean, missionary position is nice once in a while – what woman doesn't like to have a broad man's back to grab onto and scratch when she's screaming and coming like a freight train with a full load – but every single time?

If I climbed on top of him and rode his pole he practically yawned. Getting that tongue to flick my pussy took a ton of alcohol. And when I suggested using a strap-on last night, that had, apparently, been the last straw for poor old Darren. His baby blue eyes had bugged out of his head.

“Lindsay, you're nuts!” I'd never seen a person actually spring out of bed, but Darren managed it, naked and loopy from the beer. We hadn't even had intercourse yet; he'd finally gone down on me and I'd been moaning with pleasure just a few seconds ago.

“No – it's just a thought. I figured we could be adventurous.”

“By shoving a plastic dick up my ass?” Now he was scrambling into his jeans. He yelped – catching some pubes in his zipper as he rushed. I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing.

Ah, damn, I wasn't going to get his cock in me now, was I? “Well,” I crooned, climbing across the bed on all fours, letting my breasts dangle and rub against the sheets, sending tendrils of lust down to my increasingly-wet pussy, “everyone has fantasies, you know? I just thought I'd – ”

“No fucking way, Lindsay. I'm done. It's bad enough you want me to – ” he waved vaguely at my crotch – “put my mouth on, on
that.
But now you want to be the man and fuck me with a dildo you wear around your waist? You need to see a shrink.”

Now I was pissed. “If anyone needs a shrink, Darren, it's you. If you have to liquor up in order to, well, lick her up, then you might be gay. Go find a nice bar with men and explore a little. Have a nice life.” I'd been screaming the words as he walked down my apartment hallway and slammed the door just as I said the word “life.”

And that had been my night. The end of a weird 6 weeks with Darren.

So no undereye concealer today. I'd gotten off and ended a relationship. Today was about being reborn, cleansing myself, and just breathing. It was Friday and I had decided at the last minute, before running out the door, that I would go on a little trip, alone, to my parent's cabin in Vermont. Packed up some good erotic romance novels, my sex toy collection, and some Junior Mints, all neatly crammed into my laptop bag. Sitting in a cabin, watching porn and reading some good, raunchy shape-shifter crap was my idea of a cleanse.

This asshole in the Beemer kept following me as I pulled off the interstate and went down the back roads to the office.

And then pulled into my parking lot at work.

He parked in a spot right by the main door. The spot that said “Reserved for the Vice President of Marketing.”

I was the new marketing assistant.

Oh, shit.

The asshole in the Beemer was my boss. Mark.

All I was trying to do was get to work on time. The damn turnpike is always crowded, but there's always someone at the front of the line who will let me in. A $50,000 contract at work was at stake; if I was late and lost the client, I'd lose my job.

I drove up past the 40 or so cars in line and figured I'd edge in. And then I saw Lindsay, the new marketing assistant, in her little red compact car. Damn. It's like the universe read my mind. Just this morning the alarm clock had woken me out of a hot dream, with Lindsay the leading lady. She was only six years younger than me, and that auburn hair drove me wild. Were the silky curls leading to her womanhood auburn, too? Could my tongue blaze a trail through that blazing hair? My cock pushed against the zipper of my pants and I shifted in my seat.

Surely she'd let me in – she knew how important this client meeting was. I eased my dad's Beemer into place and tried to get ahead of her.

No dice. So I stared at her, hoping she'd recognize me. When she finally looked at me, her cool gaze turned me on even more. Rich hair the color of copper pipes, with painted lips so full they could take on my erect cock – and more. Her pert nose rested perfectly under a pair of sunglasses, skin the color of new milk. And I could see a hint of breast in her cleavage under the suit jacket she wore, unbuttoned and hanging under her seat belt. And beneath the steering wheel I knew those long, lean legs were pushing pedals, while my hand wanted to reach down, slide up her calf, over her thigh, and stroke her off.

My hand actually reached for my own damn thigh and nearly unzipped my pants and stroked off right then and there. Instead, I clamped down on my own steering wheel and smiled at her, then shrugged.

She shook her head “no.” Ah, come on! I shot her a nasty look and beeped my horn, a friendly tap. She turned away and grabbed her steering wheel.

So it was going to be like that, huh?

Winning games of “chicken” was my specialty. I tightened up and pushed forward, inches at a time, trying to get her to let me in. She fought back, though, and I tapped her with the BMW's bumper. My parents would kill me if I cracked it, though. I'd have to let Lindsay win.

This time.

She got through and I flipped her off reflexively, not even thinking about it, but she saw me and returned the bird. A flash of anger and arousal filled me like a balloon at a helium tank. Could she piss me off even more?

Could I want to fuck her even more?

We'd settle this at the office. Maybe it was time for a performance review for Ms. Lindsay. A very detailed, intimate performance review. And as long as we took care of things after hours, it would be fine.

Wait – no.
Down, boy
. You're a VP now. Twenty-seven years old and a fucking VP. No piece of ass, no matter how intelligent and hot, would derail that.