After a frosty, failed attempt at marital Monday morning sex, joint company directors Mr. Christian Lawson-Smith and Mrs. Naomi Lawson-Smith sat in swivel chairs in a miserable minimalist office, high up in the sky of London , on the sixteenth floor. They had no words for one another; each had retreated to lick their wounds concerning the misguided experience. Yet work must go on.
Christian Lawson-Smith was 38, tall, broad, olive skinned but a pain in the ass to work for, he had zero patience and was a surly bastard in the mornings. He wore unnecessary spectacles to emanate a higher intelligence. He had dark hair and always, always wore a blue shirt. This would never change. His most ardent admirer, his controlling harridan of a mother, had once told him that he looked handsome in blue.
Naomi Lawson-Smith. 35 could be quite beautiful, if she ever smiled. Instead she seethed bitterness and resentment as the scowl was becoming permanently etched, rewritten into the design of her face. She was petite, with dainty, pixie features, naturally slim, perpetually tanned and had glossy dark brown hair that belonged in an advert for shampoo.
Christian Lawson-Smith had fired their personal assistant for misplacing a file, which had later turned up in his own drawer. Naomi Lawson-Smith had been too incensed to protest, knowing she’d come off as the usual hissing zealot so she didn’t, and let it fester instead. They were in the irritating phase of attempting to find a new assistant. Last week, interviews had gone from bad to worse. They’d seen a blue haired girl who, seemingly, had only applied for the position to sneer at ‘ bureaucracy, man’. Next had been a man whose ancient, stained brown suit had smelled like a dead animal and then a simpering housewife who’d wept both buckets and rivers at the notion of leaving her ‘angels’ to return to full time employment, just a few specimens from the trail of over and under qualified people who just hadn’t done it for them. Their shoulders slumped due to a growing, malignant sexual frustration and the dread of what the silly bitch at the agency had served up this time.
The arrival of the next candidate was an unexpected treat; they simultaneously sat bolt upright, with wide eyes and a newfound enthusiasm for the interviewee. She spoke well, with ease and confidence, although neither of them particularly listened to her words, as they were each locked in their own private worlds.
Christian Lawson-Smith couldn’t take his eyes off her patent black stiletto shoes. We all have our little foibles, high heels were his, the way they toned a leg, accentuated bust and ass, the scrape of a heel across his back. He couldn’t help but cast a furtive glance at the spray tanned leg of his wife and the sad, flat ballet pump plonked at the end of it. When had she stopped wearing heels?
Naomi Lawson-Smith crumbled, faced with her secret vice: an alarmingly attractive young woman, a fact that she had never shared with her husband. She gazed at the girl’s soft red lips that continued to speak unheard words and wondered what it might feel like to kiss them, slowly, seeking her tongue, loving her gently, playing out her eternal fantasy.
They both studied the information on their black clipboards and circled her name. Saskia.
Christian Lawson-Smith pictured himself crying out her name. Sas-ki-a. As she moved to cross her legs, he sighted the irresistible lace stocking top resting on her porcelain thigh, underneath the obligatory secretarial short black skirt; a classic. He enjoyed the fact that her long golden hair was pinned up in a severe, strict bun. He imagined undoing it, her locks cascading, tickling the tops of her lily white breasts which would be popping over a tightly tied corset. Christian Lawson-Smith rearranged his restrictive trousers as his cock sprang to life.
Naomi Lawson-Smith didn’t care what tempting, risqué lingerie Saskia may, or may not, be wearing, nor was she the least bit interested in her choice of footwear or hairstyle. It was very much the thought of what was underneath that left a tell-tale wet patch through the silk of her knickers, through her pencil skirt and glistened on the black leather chair she sat on. It was all about the curves, the swell of her bouncing tits as she made animated hand movements, the cinched womanly waist, the roundness of her ass, the smooth skin of her legs.
Christian Lawson-Smith became lost in a frantic, erotic daydream. Saskia stood at the foot of his bed, a seductive striptease, layers of sheer fabric fell to the floor until all she wore was a suspender belt, fuck-me shoes and a wickedly wayward smile.
Naomi Lawson-Smith had mentally left the building. In her mind, she rolled on crisp white cotton sheets with a naked Saskia, tweaking her pink pearl nipples as their bodies brushed against each other, soft girl bodies that felt the same.
Saskia talked about career opportunities with parted legs, no underwear and a visible, neatly shaved, pussy.
Christian Lawson-Smith covered his bulge with his clipboard and upon spotting the sensual strip of flesh between her legs, set himself free, quietly unzipping his fly. He tried to think about other matters, but he couldn’t quite help himself and before he had the time to mull it over, his hand stroked and pulled at his throbbing cock.
Naomi Lawson-Smith could weep for the love of that pretty pussy under the skirt; she was so full of longing for a taste of the delicious sweet nectar, aching to insert her tongue inside, as far as it would go. Jolts of arousal hit her in the crotch, as her finger secretly rested there, under the clipboard, poised for action.
Saskia spoke of diligence in the workplace and the top button of her scarlet blouse popped open.
Christian Lawson-Smith twitched at the sight of plump breasts and went on to imagine her painted ruby lips around the base of his rock hard cock. He was hurtling towards explosion and knew he should stop, but by this point even his hand hitting the clipboard was turning him on. He couldn’t find his way back.
Naomi Lawson-Smith’s finger pushed into her pussy and slid up and down the length of her. She imagined herself climbing on top of Saskia’s face, forcing her to eat and lap at her starved clitoris; her legs stretched out, her toes curled at the delectable image.
Saskia said something about whatever the hell she was talking about and coyly sucked at her little finger, dimples formed in her rosy cheeks.
Christian Lawson-Smith peaked and shot splurge after splurge over his hand, trousers and clipboard, roaring like a proud lion until the pleasure subsided.
Naomi Lawson-Smith’s knees buckled in her chair and she groaned out loud, at the top of her voice as her crotch shuddered with spasm after spasm, ripple after ripple of an enormously strong climax that seemed to never end.
‘We’ll be in touch,’ they said.
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<a href="https://www.lushstories.com/stories/masturbation/the-interview.aspx">The Interview</a>