Unknown: Office porn Queen

Helen knew Hank Hastings.

And now the fellatrice stood up beside the chair and revealed herself to be quite naked save that she wore long stockings, right up almost into her twat. This was an old whorehouse trick. Long stockings worn with nothing else whatsoever make a naked woman seemed nakeder than naked.

Hank waved a big hand negligently. "Helen. Carlotta."

"Hi."

"'Allo."

"Carlotta's from Buenos Aires. Treat her politely. She uses Wanderlust a lot." Hank said it WanderLUST, and winked.

"I see," said Helen, flushed and unhappy.

"Ah, don't take it so hard," said Hank. "If women didn't finger-fuck themselves now and then, they would drive the men crazy trying to satisfy them. Or the women," he added with an innocent look.

"You heard what that bitch did," cried Helen. "I gave her such a magnificent come and then she walked out and left me hanging!"

"One of the passengers? Well, she would have to be, of course, since she isn't one of the crew. Nothing we can do about it. If we call her a nasty cheating twat, she might take her business to another airline."

Hank Hastings tried not to sound serious, but he felt serious. He knew more about the situation than Helen knew.

At the end of his flying shift, with his hot sucking date with Carlotta all arranged, he had first made sure he had the extra Conference One key that had been made for the convenience of the redecorators.

Then he had strolled out of the cockpit and down the aisle between the rows of passengers, a striking figure in blue with four gold stripes on his sleeve, and his Chief Pilot's hat, heavy with gold braid, at a rakish angle on his nuggety chestnut hair.

He had a big jaw and a big grin, that he used with effect. Strolling among all those people who felt he held their lives in his hands, he cooed to babies and encouraged little boys and girls who wanted to grow up to be airline pilots. Also little and not-so little girls who wanted to become hostesses.

"Always a place for the right young woman on Wanderlust," he said, beaming, judging the promise in young tits.

He also made sure to be cordial to women who looked as though no one had noticed them, save with loathing, for the past forty years. This was good for business.

When he passed vivid little Carlotta, he gave no sign of recognition. But their eyes met and he nodded slightly, then looked significantly down toward Conference One, where she was due to suck him off with great style. Just then he saw another good looker in a window seat. She read the airline's travel magazine, WANDERLUST OR BUST, and paid no attention to the four-striper's promenade.

Hank paused. That woman looked familiar. His memory put her into the skirted Wanderlust hostess uniform. Wanderlust hostesses wore skirts, rather than the more practical slacks, because they were supposed to look as feminine as possible.

Well, if this gal had once been a Wanderlust hostess, she must have nice tits. But she had chosen to hide them beneath a tweedy tailleur.

Hank frowned to himself and kept on walking. Suddenly he recalled having met that woman at the company's HQ in Chicago. Yes, she was Cleo Prentice of Wanderlust Security. She had a special sort of job that kept her flying. She tried to make friends with hostesses of a certain type. And then…

Hank frowned more deeply. His frown cleared when he realized that Carlotta had risen from her seat and was strolling after him as though going somewhere to freshen up. Fact was, she was probably going to get all sopped up with jisum.

A noble hard-on made Captain Hastings limp the rest of the way to the door of the conference room where the hour of blissful sucking was scheduled to take place.

Once Carlotta had slipped into the room to keep him company, Hank had removed his pants and his underpants and had seated himself in the big, inviting armchair that faced the window, its back to the door.

Carlotta had removed everything but her stockings.

He gave her soul kisses and a good all-around feel that reassured him as to the silken, exciting qualities of female skin.

He had on occasion fucked her, but when he had let her know he was simply dying for a good suck, she had readily agreed to take care of the matter.

She kneeled between his thighs and regarded what she saw with admiration. She took it into her hands and stroked it gently.

She turned the stroke to a rub up and down in a circle made of her thumb and forefinger, but did not carry this too far.

She patted it as though it were a puppy.

She licked it as though it were a candy stick.

She tickled it with her hair, smiling as Hank Hastings gasped and said, "Wow!"

She blew air on it to cool it.

She rubbed it again to heat it.

She took it in her hand and counted carefully as drops of precoital fluid appeared at the tiny slit in its business end. One, two, three, four five, in Portuguese.

If you do not know what I mean by "it", you had better go back to school.

I mean prick. But I wonder if you know how many other words refer to the same several inches of meat that make up a man's most prized belonging.

For example:

Baloney, bat, chingus, cock, dick, dingbat, dingus, dofunny, doodle, fag, gadget, meat, pecker, pencil, peenie, ramrod, rod, peter, pud, reamer, wang (or whang if you prefer).

Although prick will always do. So Carlotta, having tickled, stroked, partly masturbated, cooled, heated, licked, and, oh yes, fervently kissed Hank's prick, let alone admired it for the handsome prick it was, settled down to suck it.

She began at the bottom of the shaft and ate her way up to the head. She did not, of course, take anything away from the healthy flesh of the noble pole. Rather, as she ate her way along, it grew achingly bigger. And it throbbed, and Hank, his eyes closed and his big jaw hanging, said, "Ohhhhhh." And, "Ohhhhhh, that's great."

Now Carlotta kept to the underside of the pulsating cock. When she reached the frenum, the nerve center, she tongued hard. Hank almost jumped out of the chair.

Now only the big purplish head remained unexplored by Carlotta's eager lips and tongue. So she went at it.

Somehow she got that huge bump into her small mouth and, closing her lips around it, narrowed her cheeks by applying heavy suction.

"Eee-yah!" moaned Hank in his ecstasy.

That was when the dark hair began to bob between his thighs. Meanwhile Carlotta's clever hand went beneath his balls to tickle. She made the ravening rod slide in deeper, feeling it rest, throbbing, against the back of her throat.

She felt the quivering that meant jisum was on its way. Her tongue flitted about as though it were a tiny squirming animal, and as Hank beat upon the arms of the chair, out of this world with sexual delight, Carlotta caught the first great sticky squirt, then the second, then the third, swallowing madly, never spilling a drop.

Gradually the hard-on faded. When the heavy prick lay limp in her mouth, she sucked on it still to make sure she had not missed any of the salty, delicious come.

Then they had a drink.

Then they snuggled in the big chair and Hank played with her tits and twiddled her cunt and in other ways showed her he had appreciated her attention to his rampant sexual apparatus.

Since they did not have much time, Carlotta took ice cubes from the frig at the bar and rubbed them up and down Hank's limp dick. Then she hotly sucked away the coldness. Then she got her hand in between Hank's muscular ass cheeks and tickled the little hole she found there. Then she scratched with her fingernail in the area just behind the balls, and he muttered, his eyes closed:

"Hey, yeh, do it again."

Gradually the rod stood up, ready for action. She kissed it to congratulate it.

He settled himself, she put a cushion beneath her knees and happily began the second installment.