My first ever office job was at an international company. It was at their EU headquarters, just outside London (Staines / Magna Carta / Windsor castle area). It was my first time south and quite an adventure for a young man of twenty-something.

The general staff were nice, but there was a clear divide with the upper floor. The upper floor was where the senior management and executives resided and decreed their orders. Where the regular staff had an easy relaxed vibe, the senior management was quite pompous, serious and distant.

This was made obvious by the CEO himself, who would insist to keep everything to an exacting standard. He also did not like to see regular staff on the eighth floor. Every time a regular staff were “caught” there, the CEO would be heard saying, “The eighth floor is for customers, senior management and executives only. Not the plebs.”

The main reason for this exclusion was that the executives loved to party. Did not matter the reason, someone opened a matchbox, and a party on the eighth floor would follow. These parties fell under the disguise of customer hospitality. Food and wine were delivered, as were women.

The cleaners would gossip about what they would find the next morning. Lots of empty wine bottles, women’s underwear and white powder. Occasionally, working late you could hear the music float down and their upper-class accents shouting obscenities.

Another way the divide was reflected, was in the choice of the P.A.s to the senior management. All ladies. All had to follow a strict dress code. Their work was to perform tasks for the senior management or above only.

The head P.A. was Mrs Jones. Mrs Jones was the P.A. group leader and partially P.A. to the CEO. Mrs Jones had an air of snobbery and not taking fools gladly about her. I was told never to cross her. Staff said she had gotten people fired for crossing her. Regardless of this, I must admit I had a crush on her.

Mrs Jones was at least physically my type, if not character-wise. Mrs Jones, was older than me by approximately fifteen years. She was attractive in the 1980s movie star way. Always immaculately dressed. She was a brunette with dark brown eyes, a huge bust and very full hips which gave her a wiggle. She had a uniform about her style. She always dressed in high heels (from Christian Louboutin), a pencil skirt, a silk blouse (often from the Salvatore Ferragamo collection) and nails in a burgundy hue. All topped off by the strong scent of Chanel No. Five.

During my time at this office, I volunteered in their charity outreach program. One of these programs was to help an after-school sports club. The sports club had a run-down, dangerous even, clubhouse. I say clubhouse - it was more of a hut or a shed. With the office team, we managed to get some funds and materials to fix up their sports club/hut. Alas, there were no funds for labour.

That’s where I met Mrs Peterson.

Mrs Perterson was the in-house office handyperson. She helped and advised a lot on the labour work. Her style was the total opposite of Mrs Jones's. Mrs Perterson wore either demi dungarees with a t-shirt or khaki overalls. Her tops carried a minimum of three pens and a CND badge. Black leather ankle boots. Short hair that had a sweet coconut smell to it. However, they both had the same curvy top heavy body dimension. Similar height. Both have a milky white skin colour. Both brunettes and brown eyes. Both supported huge breasts, although Mrs Perterson never wore a bra. Please note, Mrs Peterson was attractive, she just had a very hippy style about her.

We would work on the clubhouse after work and at some weekends. It was hard work some nights. Thankfully it was made easier when Mrs Peterson would take off the top part of her overhauls and tie them around her waist. This would reveal her tight white t-shirt struggling to hold in her beautiful large breasts. Her nipples are always at attention.

We managed to fix up the sports club. It was no Taj Mahal, but it was ready for the winter, clean, warm, and had working lights, shower heads that did not drip and working locks on the doors. We were quite pleased with ourselves. That is until it was pointed out (innocently) that the old lockers had been accidentally thrown out into the skip. The kids had no safe place to put their valuables.

That’s when Mrs Peterson said, “Leave it to me.”

The next afternoon, I was summoned via email to a meeting with Mrs Peterson and my surprise Mrs Jones. To my horror, the meeting was on the eighth floor. I must have read and re-read that email a hundred times. Was this a joke or a typo in the name? (Hardly, with my unusual Asian name). Mrs Peterson was not answering her phone for me to confirm what the meeting was about. Had we crossed Mrs Jones somehow? Had there been a complaint? Was there money missing from the charity fund?

With great trepidation, I went to the meeting. Mrs Perterson and Mrs Jones were already there. As nervous as I was, I noted that Mrs Jones looked great. Her silk blouse looked tighter than usual and she was wearing at least six-inch stilettos. Her perfume filled the room. Mrs Peterson claimed it was too warm for her and unhooked one side of her dungarees. Though covered by a tight white t-shirt, you could tell the outline of her side boob through her t-shirt. It was hot in that room.

“Mind on the game,” I recall saying to myself. Mrs Jones took the lead in the conversation. She praised our charity work efforts and on behalf of management wanted to thank us. On top of this, she had arranged for new lockers to be sent to the sports club. To show the company's gratitude she was to take Mrs Perterson and me to dinner.

It was at that dinner a friendship blossomed. For some odd reason, Mrs Perterson, Mrs Jones and I hit it off. We made a very odd trio, with the age difference, Mrs Jones's excellent chicness, and Mrs Perterson's down-to-earth manner. Sometimes the waitress would point out the discrepancy, but Mrs Jones explained we were just colleagues. I wished we were more. (Waiter would only ogle at Mrs Jones or try to look down her top.)

You would think I would have learnt more about my new friends, but Mrs Jones and Mrs Perterson were quite private people. I never really got a window into their private life. What I did learn about them was that Mrs Perterson had a great knowledge of art, and Mrs Jones loved to cook.

Insights about the office were more forthcoming. Who had a drug problem? Who is secretly a cross-dresser (nothing wrong with that)? That the company was not doing very well. That during a meeting about budget cuts, the temperature got quite heated. Voices were raised. A reprimand followed but, strangely, only to the one man, the one man of colour.

Time went by, and one late evening working overtime, I received a message from Mrs Jones to meet her and Mrs Perterson on the eighth floor. This time I was much more relaxed. When I got to Mrs Jones’ office, she hurried me to the new extension. This new extension was an exclusive new wing on the eighth floor for the highest executives only. Their own offices each came with ensuite and walk-in closets etc. The extension's grand opening was tonight, and food and wine were being wheeled in. People were gathering in the large open foyer and a large meeting room.

From there, Mrs Jones led me to the new CEO's private office. Where the CEO's large antique desk stood, I found a very panicked Mrs Perterson, bent over the desk and deep in discussion on the phone. Luckily, the CEO’s flight was delayed. He was coming in from Zurich to inspect the new extension and his new office. He would be here in the morning. The issue was a problem with the lighting in the new office. If you turned on the lights they would blink, violently. There was not an electrician available tonight, Mrs Perterson explained. She knew that it must be a faulty relay (as the lights were working before), we just had to find out which one. Looking at the size of the room and the many lights I realized we were in for a long night.

Very soon, a plot was hatched. Mrs Peterson would work on the main control panel and I would check the relays including the ones in the ceiling cavity. Like the three musketeers, we said, “One for all and all for one.”

“Just one snag: it is quite dirty up there. Any overalls for me, please?” I asked. Mrs Perterson left and came back with some work clothes, an old T-shirt and some cargo shorts. She immediately made her way to the control panel. I went to the corner and started to change clothes. Though the ladies were in the room, I changed clothes. I had nothing to be ashamed about. At 5’11 (1,80m), I was in good shape. I had big curly black hair, clean shaven and my brown skin highlighted my average six-pack. With hosting duties, Mrs Jones was very slow to leave the room. I could tell via the noise of her heels made.

I got into the cavity above the ceiling, and reminded myself of the golden rule: only put your body weight on the beams. Do not put your weight on the ceiling plasterboard floor, or you'll go straight through the ceiling.

We started working and everything was going fine. Anyone who has done any DIY knows there is always that one snag, but in this case - none. Below, Mrs Jones would step in and out of the room to check up on us. She had put some music on to help us along and brought some drinks. At one point I was at the top of the ladder and Mrs Jones was below me. I had a great view of her deep cleavage and her brown eyes looking up at me. Slowly it occurred to me that she had a great view of my semi too.

Amazingly we completed the job. We found the culprit: two relays poorly wired. All that was left was to clean up. I went back into the ceiling to collect the tools.

Unfortunately, that's when sod's law struck. The soles of my office shoes slipped, and I went through the ceiling.

Once the dust settled, I noticed my predicament. I was now hanging from the ceiling, my legs swinging freely into the void of the CEO's office. My upper half was in the dark ceiling cavity. I was hanging over the new CEO's desk. The ladies tried to help me. However, the shorts had snagged onto the ceiling beam. The stuck shorts were acting like a harness.

Simply put, I was stuck.

After the shock, there came laughter and the realization that it was a clean break. Once I was out, we'd only need to replace a couple of ceiling panels, and we could yet win the day. Mrs Perterson and Mrs Jones left to get some help and cutting tools and replacement panels.

I could not see beneath me as the hole I had created was almost a perfect fit around my chest. What I could see was the gloomy depths of the ceiling cavity, and I could hear the party next door. After a bit, I heard some people walk into the room. They spoke softly, so I could not hear them clearly over the loud music. As I waited for them to say hi or something, the lights went out. I heard some movement of chairs and what I guessed was someone climbing onto the CEO's new desk. Whoever they were, they were very close by.

“Hello,” I said, but no reply.

“Hi, who’s there please?”

No reply.

That is when I felt a hand stroking my thigh. I froze. It was followed by another hand on the other leg. The hands stroked my muscular hairy thighs.

Soft, feminine strokes.

The hands touched me from my knees to the top of my midriff - everywhere which was revealed by the ceiling. Then the hands cupped my balls. I suddenly realized I was exposing myself. The shorts must have ripped, or opened somehow.

And this stranger was now cupping my shaft. Massaging my cock, encouraging it to get bigger.

“Hey, who is this?” I asked, with no reply.

“Stop that.”

But they did not. To be fair, I didn't sound like I really honestly meant it, either.

When I struggled, somewhat perfunctorily, they stopped or slapped my inner thigh.

As a young man, my cock needed little encouragement. In no time at all, I was hard as ceiling beams. Having one of those standing-to-attention, proud-to-be-hard, vertical cocks meant it was a little painful when it was pulled down to be horizontal, or lowered for this mysterious masseuse to kiss the head. To my amazement upon amazement, I was now receiving a blow job.

Whoever this was, was sucking me hard.

There was a cough, and the blow job stopped. Some rustling then, hands on my bum. Another hand snaked under and massaged my perineum, then my balls. A mouth covered my cock again. It took all of me in at once. I heard gagging noises. I could tell my cock was well-lubricated due to the little friction whilst being wanked. I wondered if they liked my dark cock, or the thick vein that ran along the shaft.

This was all very new. I felt incredibly vulnerable. Odd questions came into my head, like “Why was I consenting to this?” and “This is a woman/women, right?”

I had never been touched like this before, especially having someone slide their tongue over my slit was a new experience.

In the darkness, or not being able to see what was happening to my midriff, my sense of touch was super heightened. Every time a mouth left my cock, I could feel the air around it. Could feel every aspect of the oral pleasures. The rhythm of this strange event continued. The moment I would struggle or speak out, everything suddenly stopped, or I would be spanked. The moment I complied, I would be massaged, wanked, and given a blow job.

Sometimes the blow job was deep, gagging, and their nose twitching my pubes. The other was just the head of my cock being sucked on, sensual kisses on the swollen head. Like having a lover with a split personality.

Now and then, a soft padding would touch my leg, and I realized it was someone’s breasts. Someone’s large breasts, but whose? And was it only one set of breasts or two? This was getting too much for me, and I think they knew. They saw my balls rising. My point of no return was upon me. Do I tell, or will they stop?

They started to suck on my cock. Two mouths kissing or sucking on each side of the shaft. Joining together at the tip. I could feel two tongues lap at my dome. The images in my mind and the pleasure I was receiving were too much.

“I am coming,” I said.

They moved away but carried on wanking me. My heart stopped, and I exploded. A torrent of cum came out of my rock-hard cock. I could tell there were at least three large squirts, followed by an oozing of white cream. A mouth wrapped around my cock to clean me up.

Eventually, my heartbeat returned to normal, and I could tell my visitors were leaving. They gave me soft kisses on my thigh and wrapped a table sheet around my waist. With that, they left.

“Hey, wait,” I said, but to no avail. I was left alone, hanging, in a dark room, with the party in the foyer continuing.

An hour or so later, Jimmy the security guard came in. Explanations of sorts were given about why I was hanging up there. I explained about the light switches.

“What were you? The human hanging the light switch, then?” Jimmy quipped.

With Jimmy’s help, I got down and put on my original clothes.

“Looks like someone has spilt their drink,” Jimmy said, pointing to a long trail of splatter markings from the desk and over the fresh carpet.

I was barely listening, even though I just got off the eighth floor, I was anxious to get off the eighth floor. I played innocent. I was more concerned about the next time I would see Mrs Perteron and Mrs Jones.