Good Vibrations Magazine

I don’t know why; sometimes it just happens. Some fluctuation of my hormones or something that makes me think about you all morning. I’m squirming in my desk, feeling that tingling all over my body that tells me if I don’t satisfy the need building inside me, I’m going to go absolutely crazy.

Normally, I hold it. I mean, I just put it out of my mind, bringing it back out between meetings, when I’m sitting at my desk answering voice mail messages. I sit there and think about you while some lower-level manager is telling me her problems, blathering on about one thing or another. I sit there and get wet thinking about you, but I don’t do anything about it. I don’t rush home and fuck you, no matter how badly I want to.

This time, though, I can’t sit still. I can’t handle it. Sitting in meetings, all I can think about was you: your lips, pressed against mine; your tongue, pressing urgently into my mouth; your chest, thrusting hard against me, teasing my nipples with your soft hair; and, most importantly, your glorious cock, sliding between my lips while I kneel in front of you, or sinking deep into me as you enter me.

I call you on your cell phone. I know you’ll answer, because you’re on a job, in the middle of construction on a half-million dollar home up in the hills.

“Are you free for lunch?” I ask you breathlessly.

“Sure,” you say. “Everyone else is going down to the deli, but I can meet you someplace.”

Our home is more than 20 minutes away, but the construction site is only 10. “No,” I tell you. “Stay right where you are. Give me the address.”

“I’m a little tight on time,” you say. “We’ll have to go somewhere close.”

“I’ll bring something to eat,” I tell you.

“Oh, a picnic,” you say.

“You could say that.”

I call my client’s cell phone and cancel our lunch meeting.

Hit with pangs of guilt, I grab an apple off my desk and stuff it into the pocket of my business suit. I make a quick stop in the restroom, race out the door of my office and hop into my car.

Seven minutes later, I find you sitting on the unfinished wooden steps of the house, reading a paperback.

“Hi,” you smile. “Did you bring food?”

“I brought something to eat,” I tell you, taking your hand. “Is anyone else here?”

“Everyone else is down at the deli,” you say, looking at me suspiciously. “What are you up to?”

I walk into the construction site, seeing you start to say something. You’ve said it before: I’m not on your payroll, so you’re risking serious insurance consequences if you let me on your site. But this time, I’m not taking no for an answer.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” I say, walking through what I suppose will be the entryway. Most of the walls are nothing more than two-by-fours, unfinished plywood nail-gunned up to keep the vagrants out. I walk deeper into the house-in-progress and find the kitchen.

You’re tagging along behind me. I shrug off my blazer and toss it on a sawdust-covered belt sander. I reach up and unclip my hair, letting it fall in a dark curtain all around my shoulders and face as I run my fingers through it.

“Hey,” you say. “You really shouldn’t be hanging out in here…”

I turn around and face you, smiling.

“I don’t intend to hang out anywhere,” I say, and slowly unzip my conservative navy-blue skirt.

It falls in a pool around my feet, and I step out of it.

On my top half, I’m now wearing only my skintight pale yellow camisole, no bra underneath. I’m small enough that I don’t need to wear one — as long as I don’t take off my blazer. Now that it’s off, I can feel the cool air of the dark construction site brushing my nipples, which are standing out, peaked and firm, aching. On my bottom half, I’m wearing only a pair of lace-top white stockings, hitched to my garter belt with thin white garters and businesslike navy pumps with three-inch heels. My pussy, feeling slick and messy with the juice of wanting you, is bare. My panties are tucked in the top drawer of my desk. I removed them before coming over.

“I need a quick fix,” I tell you, reaching between my legs and gently teasing my pussy. “Very quick.”

Glancing around, you see that we’re close to several open areas that passersby might be able to see through. You look from me to the street, then to me again.

I lift my hand to my face, slipping my finger into my mouth. I’ve been playing with my pussy and it tastes like me. And you know it. I lick my finger sensuously, and that’s all it takes. You come for me.

I’m down on my knees before you reach me. I’ve got your filthy, paint-stained work pants open in a split second, and I reach in to pull out your cock. When I take it into my mouth, it’s only half-hard. By the time it reaches the back of my throat, it’s hard all the way.

I feel a quiver go through you as I swallow your cock. You moan softly as I pump it into me, feeling the sawdust and fragments of plasterboard abrading my knees, tearing my stockings. The roughness of the environment turns me on even more, as does the smell of fresh sawdust and the street noise so close to us, making me feel exposed and vulnerable as I suck you. Vulnerable to humiliation, because I know if you get caught you’ll be in big, big trouble. Supervisor or not, you’re not supposed to be doing that. That knowledge sends a surge of excitement through me as your hips began to rock back and forth, pushing your cock deeper into my mouth, deeper into my throat. I caress your balls with my fingers, coaxing you into greater thrusts, fucking me as I kneel in front of you.

You grasp my hair and pull me back gently; my mouth keeps working, inches from your glistening cockhead, my tongue aching to touch you more, my throat open and hungry for your shaft. I look up at you, at your beautiful dark eyes.

“I’m going to come if you don’t stop,” you tell me. “I want you on the counter.”

You gesture toward the skeletal beginnings of a built-in kitchen island. Obediently, I stand up and bend over it, leaning fully on it so my legs leave the ground and my ass hovers in the air, my legs dangling helplessly and my pussy exposed. Now that I’m higher, off the ground, I’m acutely aware of the unfinished windows, bare emptiness facing what will be the back yard, what will be the side. The street noise excites me; almost anyone could look in, if they just walked on to the unprotected site.

“Close your eyes,” you tell me, and I do.

I’m full of surprises; I guess you know that. But I don’t think I gave you enough credit for being the same, because what I feel next sends a shiver through my body.

You’ve grabbed some rope. You wrap it around my wrist and start to tie me to the island.

I hear myself gasping; I feel my whole body tensing as I realize that you’ve pushed this so much further than I intended to go. I feel the sharp pang of fear deep in my body giving rise to a slow pulse of desire as I feel you quickly, expertly knotting the ropes around my wrists, tying me to the skeletal frame of the unfinished kitchen island. I don’t struggle at first; I feel safe with you. Then, when I test the bonds and feel how tight you’ve tied them, I feel a rush of excitement and fear mingling deep in my pussy. It floods wet and I can practically feel it dripping down my inner thighs. When I pull against the bonds, squirming and struggling, you grab firm hold of my leg and that excites me more. Forcing my legs apart, you quickly tie first one ankle, then the other, to the framework of the island.

When I test the bonds, I find myself immobile. I’m helpless, bent over, ass in the air, spread, vulnerable. Anyone could walk in here and have me. And you know it.

As I squirm, I feel my hard nipples rubbing against the rough plywood under me. They hurt a little from the roughness, but strangely I don’t mind it. I want it more. The more I squirm, the more my nipples ache and tingle. Meanwhile, I feel your hand on my ass — and it’s not empty. You’re holding a sander.

You barely press at all as you draw the sandpaper slowly down the backs of my thighs, then over my smooth, slim ass. I catch my breath, overwhelmed with sensation: With the dusty smell of the ropes, the sharp tang of sawdust and plywood, the scent of your sweat-soaked, unwashed body, the sound of the street so close by, the cool breeze through the open framework of the house. The heat of my pussy as you bend close to me and put your mouth against the back of my neck.

“I’ve been wondering how to reward my men for working so hard,” you growl into my hear, and my back stiffens, my pussy flooding with heat as you torment me. I feel one hand grinding the sandpaper very lightly against my ass and thighs, the other hand pressing against my pussy and clit. Two fingers enter me, and I gasp. “A monetary bonus just didn’t seem like it would satisfy them. How kind of you to provide the perfect reward for a hard day’s work.”

The heat rises in my pussy as I push back onto you, your fingers pumping me as your growl intensifies, your breath hot and the smell of your sweat close in my nostrils.

“How about if I just leave you here and let them use you for as long as they like? We wouldn’t get much work done this afternoon, but I’m sure they’d work twice as hard tomorrow.”

I moan softly, writhing in the bonds, pushing back onto you as hard as I can as you fingerfuck me. Your cock still hangs out of your open pants, still moist with my spittle, still hard. When you ease your fingers out of my pussy and toss the sandpaper away, I know what’s coming.

“Think you could handle that?” you ask me. “There are 15 of them.”

That sends a shiver through me as you position yourself behind me, your cock finding the slick furrow between my pussy lips without delay. You enter me in one hard thrust, and I’m so open I take you all, gasping as your cock hits my G-spot. I squirm and try to press back onto you, but your weight bears me down, and the bonds keep me firmly in place. As you start to pound me, my nipples rub raw against the plywood, through the thin silk of my camisole. My hips press into the edge of the wood; I can feel my flesh scraping, but I’m not worrying about splinters. I’m imagining all your workmen fucking me, even as your cock begins to plumb my depths faster and faster with each thrust.

“Come on,” you sigh. “You don’t mind contributing a little extra to the family business, do you, honey?”

Your cock is hitting exactly the right spot; it always does when you fuck me in this position. From behind, I mean — you’ve never fucked me in a construction site while I’m bent over a half-done counter. But you know what angle is the perfect one to shove your cock into me, and your cockhead is rubbing me in just the right place to make me…

Come.

But I don’t, yet, not quite; you seem to sense I’m closing in on it and slow down just enough to keep me hovering on the edge.

“Say you’ll do it, honey,” you say, tormenting me with the slowness of your thrusts. “Say you’ll let my men use you.”

I want to come so bad I would say anything to make you fuck me harder. “Oh God,” I gasp. “Of course I will. Of course I will. Anything you want.”

“All of them?”

“All of them,” I whimper, straining against the bonds and trying to force myself back onto your cock, harder. “Every last one. I’ll fuck them all… oh God –”

You start pounding into me again, the head of your cock striking my G-spot in exactly the way it takes to send me over the edge. You grip my slender thighs and hold me down as you ravage me, your cock pumping deep into my cunt and wrenching my orgasm from me.

“Oh God,” I moan. “I’m going to –”

Then I do, uncontrollably, your cock savaging me with every thrust, invading me, possessing me. I come so hard my eyes go dim, my whole body goes numb except my exploding clit, my pulsing pussy. I moan, helpless, not even caring who on the street can hear me, bound and naked, getting fucked in a kitchen where rich people will make their California Cuisine. Toward the end I hear myself screaming, as the intensity of my orgasm gets to be more than I can handle. And still you pound me, forcing me to handle it, forcing me to take it, forcing me to experience the most intense orgasm of my life. An orgasm so intense I’m afraid, for a moment, I’m going to pass out.

Then I hear you moaning, feel your cock clenching, feel the thick flood of semen that spells your release. I moan softly, savoring the feel of wetness that comes when you fill me. I lay there, immobile, bent over, exposed, bound — your slave. A bonus for your men, or whoever else you want to possess me.

You slip out of my pussy, your cock softening in its post-coital satisfaction. A thin stream of your come starts to leak down my thigh; it makes me shiver to feel it.

You make short work of the knots on my wrists and ankles. You help me down off the counter and hand me my skirt. My arms go around you and you hug me close, kissing the top of my head.

“What,” I say. “No bonus for your men?”

“Nope,” you tell me. “I’m keeping this one all to myself.”