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This is the third in a series of accounts of the juicier aspects of my life. Although I hope it stands alone as an erotic narrative, it would probably be preferable for continuity if the first two parts were read first. Your choice though and let me know what you think.
Thanks
Cat
*
The Craig aftermath.
The move went well, but then Richard and his assistant, they are no longer secretaries or even PAs, had planned it and everything they did always went well. I wasn’t that involved, but then I wasn’t needed, after all it was only my fucking house. Actually, that’s not a good definition for no one other than Richard has fucked me there, unlike the house in Richmond where Craig had spectacularly fucked me three times after cumming on my face that night of our last supper.
I did see Craig again for we had to complete that competition, but we both knew it was over. Having him cum on my face, fuck me three times in my house and sleep all night with me had brought closure to our fling, we both knew that. I was tempted a couple of times when I would see his number in my addresses on my phone and he called once and suggested a ‘for old time get together,’ but I didn’t.
Although I hated the house and its location I made the best of it. Over the next couple of years, I had it decorated from top to bottom, completely refurnished it and had a big conservatory built on the back overlooking the large lawn and a wooded area. There was a large, overhanging oak tree in there that as I typed at my desk reminded me of being shagged from behind by Craig; nice memories to have as I edited mainly boring magazine articles and the occasional book.
I got bored. Although he’d promised to travel less, he didn’t, nothing changed. The kids were doing great at school, he was doing great with his job and I was stultifying. I still disliked the house even though I had spent a fortune on it and I hated the boring countryside of Hertfordshire. On top of all that 2006 was here and what was worse it was going very quickly, June was approaching at an alarming rate. And the big event in June 2006? It wasn’t the world cup either it was my fortieth fucking birthday.
Richard well and his crow of an assistant, organised a party at the Dorchester, he took me to the Villa d’Este on Lake Guarda for a week and bought me a big diamond. It was all nice and we had some good sex, but I was depressed. I knew that when all the celebrations were over not much would change, but I would still be over forty, bollocks.
I started golf lessons and quite enjoyed it. Richard arranged for me to be coached by a young pro at his club and, by god, was I tempted? He was good looking, had a lovely personality and was quite bright but did not have the level of intellect necessary for my panties to come off.
On the second day it rained all day, it often does in that region of Northern Italy. The clouds sometimes seem to get caught on the mountains and they just stay there dumping their rain. It’s surprising that when it does rain at a holiday resort, just how little there is to do.
“Why don’t I take some fortieth photos of you, sort of commemorate your birthday?” Richard suggested.
Although it was raining it was still quite warm and we sitting on the balcony of our suite looking out over the lake.
“Richard, being forty isn’t something most women and me particularly do not wish to celebrate.”
“I know that but just a few portraits.”
Richard had always been keen on photography, but didn’t really have the time to spend on it. He had the money, though and was always buying new cameras and other stuff and for Christmas I had bought him a Canon digital SLR, which he had wanted.
I was wearing jeans and a white blouse, nothing special and certainly not clothes to commemorate a really special occasion, but I agreed.
Not smut, but a tad sexy.
He took a number of photos of me from different angles and with me in a variety of poses. I was quite used to posing for him for he was always taking snaps, especially when we were on holiday.
“Open another button,” he said squinting at me through the lens.
“What?”
“Your blouse looks a bit too tight.”
“If I open another button I’ll show a lot of cleavage.”
“So, I can handle that.”
“Yes I know darling you handled it and more last night didn’t you?”
“Well yes, but why so much cleavage?”
“I’m wearing a new bra, one of those I bought in Milan; it’s Italian and on the small side for me.”
“Well why not take it off then?”
“And have you photograph me?”
“Why not, it might be er fun.”
He was right, it was fun. I did undo the extra button, I did show him a deep cleavage, he did photograph it and I did remove my bra.
“Put the blouse back on.”
“Richard what are you up to?”
“Cat this is good, I’m enjoying it. Please.”
I did as he asked. He photographed me with the blouse done up, the thin cotton stretched across my boobs, my nipples, which I realised had hardened, clearly on view.
“You won’t show these to fake hospital hastane anyone will you?” I croaked realising I was getting worked up.
“Of course not, now undo the buttons one by one.”
As I did that looking down and occasionally looking at the camera, Richard took loads of shots of me.
“Undo it and let it hang.”
The edges of the blouse caught on my immensely erect nipples as if that is what they were designed for, they were in the right places and were the right size.
I had never done anything like this and I did feel shy when we had started, but now that had gone and I was enjoying myself.
“Now undo the jeans.”
“No Richard we can’t,” I said, but, and I could hardly believe this, I wanted to.
When I had undone my belt and the zip on my jeans it all kicked off. He shot me topless in my jeans, undoing the jeans and taking them off. He took loads of me in my panties including me lying on my back, him kneeling across me. His erection was very evident as he croaked.
“Now the panties Cat.”
I demurred at first, but eventually they came off and Richard photographed me like that, I was half expecting him to tell me as Craig had, that I had a gorgeous cunt, but Richard is always slow on the compliments. We did though have sex and it was brilliant. Posing for your lover as he photographs you was, I recognised, the perfect foreplay.
A couple of evenings later we were getting ready for dinner at a posh restaurant just round the lake.
“Stay right like that,” he said as he came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel.
I was in my underwear, a black bra and thong and one stocking, and was just pulling the other holdup up my leg.
“I must shoot you like that.”
“We can’t we’ll be late for dinner.”
I watched incredulously as he picked up the phone, called the concierge and told him to cancel the restaurant.
“And send the waiter up in forty five minutes so we can order room service,” He went on getting his camera from the bag. “On the bed Cat I so want to get you in that outfit.”
He snapped away as I, now far less self consciously, rolled around on the bad striking up my own poses and removing my bra with little hesitation when he asked.
He was beside the bed snapping away as I rolled my breasts together and pinched my nipples into even larger lumps than they had become involuntarily. I could see the outline of his erection under the towel, it was so tempting. I gave into it, rolled onto my side, pulled the towel so it fell away from him, grabbed his erectioon and started licking and sucking him. Just what happened to the camera I have no idea.
Back home.
So I was forty, fuck it. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like being ‘early middle aged’ and I didn’t like the prospect of my next big number birthday being my fiftieth. I didn’t like the way my life seemed to be rushing away, the way my husband was never around and the way that my children were drifting from us. Fourteen and sixteen year olds like to show their independence, that’s natural and we had brought ours up to be that way. But with all the other things going on the thought that within five years both would probably be gone and be at university was a chilling prospect.
So I got a job. A proper job, well a part time proper job, one where I had to go to an office to work I mean as opposed to working from home as I had for years. It was in a marketing and promotions agency. They did lots of research both for clients, their own use and for publication. They needed someone to edit the reports, present them in a readable form and create and maintain a database of materials for use in their research.
I’m not sure why I got it, but it seemed a good idea at the time. We didn’t need the money and it was a bit tiresome commuting to Covent Garden from St Albans each day, but it sounded like fun and the work appeared to be interesting. Bear in mind I had never really worked in an office other than as the boss so it was all new to me. And strangely I loved it. I liked the buzz in the place, the camaraderie of being part of a team, meeting new people from walks of life I rarely experienced who I had nothing common with but the job, the office politics, the going out for a drink after work and, of course, the flirtation. PC hadn’t reached such agencies then and so many of the comments were quite ribald; I just loved it. I also loved kitting myself out. I had to buy a range of casual office clothes, jeans, trousers, tops, cardis that sort of stuff and several uniforms for client meetings, power suits in black, blue, red and white; I bought each suit with both trousers and a skirt.
I suppose it was inevitable. Maybe it was what I was looking for? Perhaps I saw work as a means to an end? Possibly deep down I imagined I would meet men in no strings situations? I really don’t know, but it was and I did. But I swear I never looked for it or promoted it, things like Patrick and me just happen, I don’t think they can be planned.
In some ways I guess it was a classic office romance, a fake taxi porno predictable work colleagues’ affair. But to me it was not that. I think Patrick could well have been the true love of my life and I feel I was that to him.
Patrick was one of the directors and he was my boss. He was just a little older than me, forty five and lived in Hadleigh Woods a very upscale North London suburb which was just a few miles from where I lived. He too was married with two children. His wife was known in the office and didn’t seem to be liked. She was heavily into politics and was a local Tory party councillor, but was trying to get adopted for a parliamentary seat in Kent so she was away from home quite a lot. As we got to know each, many other similarities emerged.
I suppose it developed and followed a fairly predictable path.
We worked closely together, probably closer than was really necessary.
We had to attend meetings together, both in the office and at clients’ premises, most of which were in London, but some were round the country; we usually travelled together.
We got to know each, we talked of many things including our personal lives, dangerous.
We started to work late together, we had lunches, sometimes with clients, but more often just the two of us, ostensibly to discuss work.
We had drinks after work, just the two of us, he gave me lifts to the station and then.
“Maybe we could have dinner one night Cat, perhaps when we are both at a loose end having been partner dumped?”
Ok. The intimacy trail or, the road to a fuck.
Staying late at the office, mild flirting, lifts to the station, the odd drinks after work even lunch are all part of work. Yes they may be extensions of it and they may bring the participants closer together, but they can always be viewed as work; they are usually in work time so they can be justified as that. Dinner is different. It’s out of work hours, it isn’t part of the working day, it intrudes on one’s personal time and cannot really be justified. I could no more say to Richard that I was going to dinner with Patrick my boss than Patrick could say to his shrew of a wife that he was taking me out. You can wrap it how you will but dinner, even between work colleagues is a date, it’s as simple as that. But rather than say ‘come on a date’ we use the euphemism ‘let’s have dinner.’ Both know, though, exactly what it is and what’s going on; we certainly did. Patrick was trying to extend our relationship, take it beyond work mould it into friendship or more, he was extending a guarded invitation to me to go out with him. Yes Patrick was inviting me to take another step along the intimacy trail. I strode out with little hesitation on that road to be fucked.
“Yes that would be nice,” was my hesitant reply.
It didn’t go anywhere. We got on well, we chatted easily, we found out lots about each other, but it ended when he dropped me at Kings Cross. I think we were both too nervous and concerned that we would do something to upset the other.
That said, I was feeling differently about him. I looked for him from my cubby hole as he walked round the large open plan office or I glanced into his glass walled office through the vertical blinds as I passed by, which I seemed to do more frequently. I looked forward to our daily meetings and to presenting stuff to him as just the two of us sat in his office with the door closed, sometimes our arms or legs touching. When he touched me, perhaps guiding me through a doorway before him, they were now more than mere touches, they felt like caresses. When he looked at me his stare became more than a glance in my direction it became a look of lust, I felt as if he was undressing me as, increasingly I was mentally doing to him.
We had dinner again. This time when he dropped me at Kings Cross Station he got out of the car, came round opened the door and stood there as I got out. He stared at me, put his hand on my shoulder and said.
“I have really enjoyed tonight Cat, thanks so much.”
He kissed me on my cheek. It was like an electric shock. We both just stood there a moment or two. Involuntarily I touched where he had kissed me with my fingertips, his hand was still resting on my shoulder. I whispered.
“So have I Patrick, thank you.”
And still neither moved. Then I felt his hand on my shoulder as he applied some pressure. Slowly we closed the gap between us. He pressed his body against mine and buried his face in my champagne, blonde coloured hair.
“Maybe Catherine, I have enjoyed it a little too much, if you know what I mean?” he said quietly, his hand running down my arm and resting on my hip.
I felt surprisingly calm. Although my heart was pounding and a heat was oozing through my body from the pit of my tummy to my breasts and nipples, I managed to hold on.
“Yes Patrick I do,” I sighed as his hand found mine and held it.
“So what would Missus Cat say if I gave her a proper kiss goodnight?” He surprisingly, but very welcomingly asked.
I didn’t reply, but instead I inclined my head family stroke porno slightly so we were looking at each other and let the expression in my eyes say what I was thinking as a reply. Well not exactly for right then my reply would have been, ‘Yes kiss me, shove your tongue in my mouth and rip my clothes off.’
Instead I moulded into his arms and we kissed. It was long, loving and wonderful.
That night for the first time it was Patrick who fucked me, well in my mind as I masturbated.
A week later, no less than that, neither of us could have waited a week.
We were in the office and found ourselves alone in the coffee room.
He blurted out. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the other evening Cat.”
“I know,” I quickly replied.
“Was it ok?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t out of order then?”
“No.”
Then someone else came in.
‘We need to talk’ the email from Patrick said.
‘Yes,’ I typed back.
‘Soon.’
‘Yes, I agree.’
‘I’m at meetings all afternoon, sod it.’
‘Hmmmmm”‘ I sent.
‘I’m in the car today, how about I give you a lift home?’
‘It’s so out of your way,’ I replied my heart pumping at the thought of ther best part of an hour or so alone with him.
We talked a lot as we crawled through the North London traffic. St Albans is ten miles or so further out from London past Hadleigh Woods, so I had insisted he drop me a station near his home. In any case he and Marcia, the shrew, were entertaining that evening and Richard was home, so we didn’t have too much time.
Richard had checked the time of the trains and we had twenty minutes to wait at Potters Bar station. He pulled away from the station entrance into the semi darkness of the car park.
“I have never felt like this Cat,” he said half turning towards me and holding my hand. “Do you know what I mean?”
Do I know what he means? He’d only shagged me about six times so far and I had sucked his cock twice.
“Yes,” I replied quietly and demurely.
As Richard rolled on top of me later that evening and I opened my legs, in my mind it was Patrick. As my husband entered me and kissed me it was the memory of Patrick’s lips on mine in the car park that so aroused me. And as my husband fucked me, quite nicely as he always does, it was the recall of Patrick touching my breast that sent me over the top. I have often wondered what might have happened in Potters Bar station car park if my train hadn’t been due just after Patrick stroked and squeezed my breast
We had been to a client meeting and had to return to the office to collect stuff, Patrick for a trip he was making to Dublin the next day, me to collect my laptop.
I was wearing a black, lightweight wool, Donna Karan suit with a skirt. The jacket had four buttons up the front so there was no need to wear anything, other than a bra under it.
We were standing in his office, he pulled me to him. We kissed, very strongly. My mouth was wide open, our lips were squirming together and his tongue was plunging and delving. I was gasping and sighing with pleasure and delight. He found my breast and squeezed it with just the right amount of pressure. Our kissing became more furious. I was ruffling his hair and running my hand up and down his back as he thrust himself at me. He was stunningly hard. One hand was inside my jacket, on my breast, outside my bra, the other was squeezing and cupping my bum. That hand ran up my legs taking the skirt with it. He bunched it round my hips at the back and stroked and rubbed my bum through my black tights. My jacket had come undone and he had eased one of my boobs from my bra. He was slipping his fingers inside my tights at the back, touching the top of my bare bum. I was playing my part. It was very much mutual. His shirt was undone, he’d removed his jacket earlier. As the sensations he was giving me from stroking the bare flesh of my boobs, pinching my nipples and now cupping the naked cheeks of my bum inside my tights, I was pressing, rubbing and holding his erection outside his trousers.
It was the act of him starting to push my tights down that got to me. I broke away.
“No, Patrick.”
“I’m sorry, I went too far.”
“It’s not that?”
“What is it?”
“Not here, not where we work, it’s too, I don’t know, sordid.”
“Yes, yes I understand,” he said cradling me in his arms again.
“It was ok then, I wasn’t out of line.”
“No,” I whispered, adding without really thinking “But somewhere else,” as I pulled my skirt down, and straightened that and the jacket.
“Yes of course, I understand.”
A week or so later, during which time we hadn’t been together hardly at all for Patrick was involved in board meetings and the annual budgets, Richard was home and I was busy with open evenings at the children’s schools, Richard called me into his office.
“RBS need us to go through that image research you recently wrote for them.”
One of my key jobs was to take the information produced by the boffin-like researchers and produce readable reports in relatively understandable English. Sometimes, I would then develop PowerPoint presentations that one of the Account people and occasionally if the client was big enough, Patrick himself, would present to the client. The Royal Bank of Scotland was certainly big enough.
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