Mary Jenkins - Innocent in Chicago Volume One

It came!

"Frankie! Frankie! I'm cumming! Darling, I'm cummmmming!"

Hot flashes of red and yellow exploded in her brain as she felt the whole of her white, quivering belly erupt like a thousand roman candles around the hard driving shaft of flesh skewering up into her humping body. At the same time, she heard a harsh guttural cry beneath her and felt his cock begin pumping like a fire hose hot jets of his thick, warm sperm far up into her cunt. Their intermingling juices poured out the tightly clasped lips of her vagina and ran in thin, pearly rivulets down his still spurting rod and disappeared as it churned into the cold cream covering their genitals below by their still wildly gliding bodies. Its musky scent mingled with the sweet smell of the cream, the flowery fragrance of the powder and perfume and the animal odor of male and female sweat.

During the next few weeks Cynthia had many dates with Frankie, most of them spent making love in her room. And when she thought about him during the day, thought about their lovemaking and his captivating mixture of roughness and tenderness, she wondered if she were falling in love with him. At any rate, she found her emotions and life centering around him more and more.

The mystery as to what he did for a living, and how he spent his time when he wasn't with her, at first made her curious; he wouldn't even tell her where he lived. No matter how much she tried to find out about his life, he always cleverly evaded answering her questions. That he might be engaged in some shady dealings occurred to her, especially when she remembered considerate and nice, at least when he was with her, to do anything outside the law. She was still innocent enough to believe that any sort of lawbreaker must be so abnormal, uncouth and tough, that he would be instantly recognizable to her as though he were wearing a sign saying "Danger – Criminal at Work". Finally, however, she decided that she didn't care what he did for a living, as long as he continued seeing her and making love to her.

At the advertising agency she worked hard and continued dating Bill from time to time. She liked being with him though she hadn't as yet slept with him.

One night she was asked to come back to the office after a quick dinner to work. By now she was doing some of the research and as the deadline for the launching of a new campaign was drawing near, almost everyone connected with it had been working overtime. As it grew late that night, however, everyone left, one by one, until finally she, Bill and Stanley, another copywriter, were left.

"I'm really fagged," Stanley yawned. "Let's close up shop for the night." He got up from his desk and stretched. "Come on, Bill. Let's push off."

"You go on, Stan, I just want to finish this piece." He was seated at his desk, busily writing.

"Do you want anything else, Bill?" Cynthia asked. "If not, I think I'll go. I've finished everything they wanted for tomorrow."

He looked up at her. She was sitting on a corner of his desk, swinging her legs. Her fingers were dirty with carbon, a smudge of ink was on her cheek, her skirt was a mass of wrinkles, but she still looked fresh and lovely. He smiled at her.

"Why don't you wait a minute and I'll drive you home. I'm practically ready to wind up this great piece of literature."

She yawned and stretched her arms over her head. "Okay. I could do with a ride." She slipped off the desk and went toward the door. "I'll find something to read," she said.

"Well, goodnight, kids, I'm off. See you tomorrow," Stanley said and left, whistling.

Cynthia wandered through the offices, picked up a new Playboy from the waiting room and started back to Tom's office. On the way she passed that of Mr. Jackson, the president of the agency. She looked in, switched on the light, saw his big, leather covered chair behind his desk, walked over and sat down. She tilted back the chair and began to read.

"Well I see, we've got a new president," Bill said twenty minutes later. "I must say it's an improvement." He came into the room, carrying a pile of papers.

Cynthia laughed, put her feet up on the desk and said, "And what can I do for you, young man? Are you looking for a job? I'm afraid the only one we can offer only pays $70,000 a year."

"Won't do. Nothing less than $100,000."

He sat on the edge of the desk, laid down the papers and put his hand on her leg.

"On second thought, maybe I'll take that job. With you as boss maybe I can marry the boss instead of his daughter."

"What presumption, Sir," Cynthia said with mock horror. "Do you think I'd marry a mere hireling?"

"In that case, I'll have to be the boss – and one of his privileges is kissing the hired help." Running his hand up her leg, he stood up and scooped her neatly into his arms. She gave a little shriek which turned into a giggle.

"And is this the new position for giving dictation, boss? Or haven't I even been promoted to being your secretary yet?" She wrapped her arms around his neck as he swung her back and forth.

"With you I'd like to promote a lot more."

"Such as?" she said.

He pretended to drop her and then catch her again; she clutched him more tightly around the neck. He swung her around and put her gently on the desk, then leaned over her as she lay on her back amidst the neatly piled papers, her hair spread out against the dark wood, her arms still around him. His face close to hers, he whispered, "Oh Cynthia, Cynthia, you're so beautiful, so beautiful," and put his mouth on her lips. She pulled him closer, revealing her willingness by her eager body and searching lips and tongue, until he swung his hips onto the desk and was lying beside her.

His chest pressed against her blue-sweatered breasts, his hands cradling her head, she moved her body, so that their bellies and thighs rubbed against each other. When she felt his hand searching behind her, she arched her back and felt the sudden unloosening of her brassiere as he unclasped the hook and then the warm pressure of his hand moving beneath the cloth and up over her breast. Sweet longing stirred in her loins as he gently kneaded the pliant mound and stirred the tip to a hard rubbery crest. Breaking their kiss, he helped her take off her sweater. He fell back on top of her, murmuring, "So beautiful, so beautiful," as his lips browsed in the golden hollow of her neck, strayed lightly to her armpit, where he tongued the salty moisture and then licked away, so slowly, so tantalizingly, down her side and up to her breast. She strained against him; her hand rubbed his back and crept under his jacket; bending her knees so her skirt fell back, she wrapped her legs around his, entwining them tightly, their hips moving against each other in a slow dance. Beneath them the papers crackled and slithered to the side. A falling bottle of ink hit the rug with a soft thud.

"What in God's name is going on here!" a voice suddenly bellowed from nowhere.

They became motionless, paralyzed.

"What in the hell are you doing? Get off my desk!"

They turned their heads, eyes wide with surprise and shock. In the doorway stood Mr. Jackson, briefcase in hand, his round face an apoplectic red, his eyes black with anger, his heavy jewels quivering with an uncontrollable rage. One fist clutched around the handle of the briefcase, the knuckles white, he shook the other in the air as he strode toward them, looking as though he wanted to kill them both if he could manage to do so before he had a heart attack.

They quickly jumped off the desk, on the side away from him. Cynthia snatched her sweater from the floor and held it to her naked breasts, one hand grasping the back of the chair to steady her shaking legs. Bill stood beside her, running a hand through his hair, his face puzzled and shocked, as though he still couldn't believe that this was really happening and not a hideous nightmare. They backed away as Mr. Jackson stomped around the desk after them, roaring and cursing like a bellowing bull.