Stripped To The Boner

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By Lauren McAllister

            Some individuals have the extreme good fortune to work for incredibly bright and vibrant forces of nature their entire lives.  They plug away in workplaces where every day is a new adventure and a new challenge to be confronted and overcome. Oh how I envy those lucky motherfuckers.  I personally toiled in torment for a nondescript firm in a nondescript building for a nondescript paycheck. To top it off, I worked for a world-class bitch with a world-class stick up her ass. And it was the only thing she was getting stuck up any of her holes, if you get what I mean. Yes, it wasn’t hard to figure out why this charmless, big-titted harridan remained unmarried.

            Even though Margret was 45 (if she was a fucking day), you’d think she would at least remember what it was like to be young. Perhaps give a nascent employee (such as myself) a soupcon of slack occasionally, when the capricious fates of youth conspired to compromise one’s professional goals and duties. No such luck with this heavily Botoxed ice queen. Let us just say that our working relationship was not all beer and bonbons.

            Over the year and a half that I had been working at Tubman and Associates, we forged an uneasy detente based on mutual distrust and lack of respect. Alas, our malevolent-but-functional Mexican standoff was to be severely compromised when Janine from accounting got engaged. Upon hearing the happy tidings, all the ladies confined to nondescript, life-force-vacuuming cubicles at Tubman and Associates plotted to present the young lass with one last really dirty girls’ night out before her impending nuptials and the stifling prison that is marriage.

            Susie, from advertising, decided that getting shitfaced in front of a bunch of awesomely endowed male strippers was just the kind of celebratory event that was called for. Married or single, all the gals at our firm enthusiastically concurred. In fact, I myself was joyously looking forward to a night of unwise amounts of alcohol and long meaty cocks.

            So, everything was settled for this wicked little groovefest, except for the guest list. Over lunch one day in our nondescript, flavor-vacuuming cafeteria, Debbie from personnel suggested that it might be politic to invite the dreaded Margret along to ruin everyone’s fun. I swear, it takes a special kind of douchebag to drain all the joy out of a girl publicly licking the whipped cream off a stranger’s nutsack!

“But who in their right mind is going to ask the old witch?” I queried.           

Well, wasn’t it just soooo serendipitous that I was her personal assistant and would therefore be the perfect candidate to proffer an invitation to old Miss Vinegar Tits. It was with a sad and grieving heart that I entered her office to inquire whether Little Miss Dreary Guts had anything hot cooking for Friday night.

“Why?” She responded with a withering look that would’ve put Seth Rogan off his beloved bong.

“You’re probably busy,” I smiled and hoped beyond hope. “The girls are just putting together a little celebration for Janine’s engagement.”

“Janine? Who the hell would want to marry her?” She sighed. “Well, I guess it is incumbent upon me as the boss to make an appearance.”

Shit! Shit! Shit!

“Oh, I’m sure everyone would understand. The whole office is well aware of how busy you are and the amount of pressure you’re under.”

“No, I’ll go. What kind of joy-fest are they planning? I hope it’s not painting fucking vases and plates.”

“They’re taking her to a male strip club.”

She arched her eyebrows like a disapproving schoolmarm, “Jesus Christ, what are you people, 12 years old?”

“I don’t believe they allow 12-year-olds in there. You know, things can get a skosh racy and out a hand at these sorts of venues. Considering your station, you might be right to give it a miss.”

“Well, someone has to look out for those ludicrous women that are employed at this company. They’re not going to be able to get much work done if they’re all in jail.”

Oh good, exactly what a bunch of adult women need on a crazy night out…a po-faced chaperone with a cobwebbed cunt.

“My car’s in the shop, so you’ll have to drive me.”

Was there no limit to the depths of this pit of hell that I seem to have fallen in? Now, I was looking forward to this naughty little soirée about as much as having my uterus removed in the middle of a hobo train yard.

On the night of the big blowout, I morosely drove back to the office at 8 o’clock to pick up the old sow. She spent the entire journey criticizing the condition of my car and my driving. It was only when we got to the bar, that things took a dramatic turn…and not for the better. Her ass was barely planted in her chair before she’d ordered up an entire table of Mai Tais and then asked me what I wanted. Hmmm, it appeared that the old turnip liked the odd drinkie!  Luckily, the music was so loud that having to make any kind of pleasant conversation was essentially unnecessary. I’m not quite sure what was more interesting, watching the dancers swinging their lumber around or witnessing my boss guzzle an entire lake of rum and Curacao liqueur.

As the booze went down her mood went up. In fact, as the clubs inebriation level rose in general, the activities therein became evermore spicy. Middle-age women and gals from very refined social strata were engaging in public acts that would cause park statues to blush. Somewhere during this second phase of bacchanalian celebration, Margret grabbed my arm and dragged me off to the ladies room. Upon reaching our watery destination, my boss insisted that we use the same cubicle. Hey, I needed a whiz so what was the harm? As the little swinging door closed behind us, she grabbed my derriere and pulled me tight against her. I could feel her big tits pressing against me, not to mention her fingers halfway up my ass crack.

“This is great!” She enthused, laying a huge wet warm soul kiss upon me. Her tongue roamed around my mouth like it was desperately looking for another Mai Tai. “I’m having such a good time.”

Even though I had enjoyed the odd naked girl’s company in the past (mostly in high school and college) the fairer sex didn’t really float my libidinous boat. But I have to admit, for a crusty old spinster bitch, she was a hell of a kisser. I was somewhat at a loss for what to do or say as her hands roamed freely over my breasts and other regions that usually go untouched in a public toilet. Were we really going to spend the rest of the night eating each other out on top of this filthy bowl? Luckily (perhaps), things took another big unexpected turn.

 Margret suddenly pulled back from trying to suck the face off my skull and exclaimed “Now, let’s get back out there and suck some major cock!”

Well, now at least we had confirmed that she had an actual passing interest in the male of the species.

I spent the next hour-and-a-half on the business end of various oversized man cannons. It actually took the joy out of eating whipped cream. My boss, by this point, had lost her dignity as well as her shirt and was lingually tag-teaming a large pair of African American testicles with our waitress.  Janine had buggered off home by this time, because she was pregnant, and had taken most off the office staff with her.

The next part of my magical evening is a little bit hazy. I remember swallowing some guy’s sperm though, I’m not exactly sure whether he was one of the dancers or just some lucky gentlemen who happened to be passing by. The part that I recall quite vividly however is Margret handing $500 to a naked terpsichorean named “Le Manuel” to get in the back of my car with her. She then proceeded to perform teeth-shattering acts of fellatio upon him while I somehow managed to drive us back to my place.

We decided to sneak our very buff, not to mention in the buff, musical artiste up the back steps of my apartment building. Despite our praiseworthy attempts at stealth, we did run into old Mrs. Fleury on the fourth floor but she just gazed at his dick, looked back at us, smiled and sighed. Once inside my humble but cluttered abode, Margret’s clothes were on the floor before the door swung shut. Le Manuel ended up on the carpet with his savagely sucked boner pointing skyward. She mounted him like Audie Murphy jumping off a saloon roof onto his horse. As I stumbled off to my blessed bed, the dark Queen had his impressive schlong in and amongst her reproductive organs and was noisily riding him to glory. 

And there I drunkenly and peacefully snoozed until there came a tapping upon my shoulder. I opened my reluctant bleary eyes to find Margret staring down on me wearing a sexually satisfied grin (Believe me, it was not a sight for the faint of heart.). “It’s Le Manuel, he says he wants to fuck you!” she excitedly informed me, yanking the top sheet off my naked body.

Shit! Didn’t that thing have an off button?

I was so tired, I decided it would take less time and effort to let him get on with it than it would to get up and throw them both out of my apartment. “Sure,” I mumbled and spread my legs.

Margaret put her hand on my quim and slid her index finger up the length of my slit. “Oh honey, you’re never going to fit Le Manuel’s big fat one up inside this little thing without some serious warm-up exercises.” Before I knew what was happening, the Bride of Frankenstein had climb between my legs and helped herself to a generous helping of my love puddle. Okay, I’ll admit that she certainly knew what she was doing down there. The initial long licks between my labia and outer lips immediately captured my attention. Le Manuel began to suck on my tits while the tip of Margaret’s tongue circled around the opening to my cunt canal. I lifted my head up to check out this unusual view. The site of one’s evil boss greedily burrowing her face into the soft wet flesh of one’s swollen mound was gross, creepy and magnificently arousing all at the same time. In fact, the more she hammered away on my clitoris with her talented tongue and lustful lips the more I grew to like the idea. As my poontag plane approached its ripsnorting runway, I was head-over-heels in love with it. “Eat me! Eat me! You fascist slut fuck!” I requested. Hundreds of interweaving rivulets of orgasmic pleasure rippled and flowed up from my throbbing twat, forming swirling pools of climactic ecstasy throughout my torso. I practically pulled Margaret’s head free from her neck in an attempt to stuff as much of it as possible up into my hoo-haw.

In the ensuing micro-second following my boisterous and rodeo-clown display of sexual release, Le Manuel lowered himself on top of me. Margaret had her fist wrapped around his imposing joystick and was slapping it about my soaking, post-orgasmic pudenda. She expertly pried open my petite girly cave with the massive head of his wang and aided in its breathtaking penetration into the dewy depths of my phallus palace.

Well, in for a penny in for at least a pound-an-a-half. I wrapped my legs around the back of his thighs, sunk my fingernails into his ass cheeks and had every last brain cell in my head fucked out onto the floor during the next hour. Margaret alternated between playing with my nipples and kneading his balls as he repeatedly slammed his didgeridoo-sized dick into my upper reaches. I came four times in eye-popping succession before Manuel grunted like an ass-fucked donkey and filled my shell-shocked innards with oodles of his gooey spunk. Once Mr. dancing man had vacated my premises, Ms. Boss Woman returned to the site of her recent lickage and lapped up the substantial cream pie that was lazily oozing out of my thoroughly spent pussy.

My, wasn’t this going to be a topic for conversation around the water cooler?

But no, I remained the ever loyal employee and refrained from blabbing Madame Ovary’s dirty little secret to all and sundry. Not that I was terribly proud of what had transpired myself.

That next Monday at work was excruciatingly awkward between us until lunchtime. When the very last person had wandered off to the local Arby’s, for a nondescript meat-filled something, Margaret began to apologize and cry. She blamed it on the liquor and her loneliness and the pressures of work and begged me to forgive her (and I’m guessing to keep my goddamn mouth shut).

I looked at her sternly, bordering on reproachful, as I jumped up on her desk. “I don’t want your pathetic apologies,” I snorted.

“Well, what do you want?” She inquired, thinking I was going to demand the world and all of its gold for my silence.

“I want you to sit down in that fucking chair of yours,” I commanded, spreading my legs apart and pulling back the hem of my short skirt, “and lick my cunt until I tell you to stop.”

Margaret’s face turned as red as a communist fire truck but complied with my forceful request.  I grabbed the back of her head and pulled it tight in against my glistening growler.  I rocked my pelvis up and down and soaked her skin with my muff drippings. “That’s it baby. Mama wants to cum all over your nose and cheeks.”  And I did… several times and then licked every last drop of my vadge honey off her dewy countenance. 

Since that time, my workload has lessened somewhat. My boss treats me with a tad more respect within our work environment and outside of office hours she functions as “Mama’s big-titted fuck doll.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a lesbian. I’m not even really bi. But I get to take off all my boss’s clothes and do whatever evil little thing I want to her.  Now be honest, what ordinary working stiff out there wouldn’t enjoy getting to do something like that?

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The End

Copyright Lauren McAllister 2022

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