Felix Baron - The Secret Sex Lives of Wanda Mitty

Table of Contents

Title Page The Secret Sex Lives of Wanda Mitty Felix Baron

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

More from Mischief

About Mischief

Copyright

About the Publisher

Commuting by subway can be inspirational. When you drive, you get to see all sorts of interesting people, but just quick glimpses, in passing. On the subway you get to study them, sometimes up close, and your mind is free to wander. Yes, Wanda had been known to pass her stop a few times but that’s better than rear-ending a bus because you’re daydreaming. She knew that from bitter experience.

A businessman got up. Wanda slipped into his spot, next to a little sparrow of a woman whose skinny lap was covered by an enormous macramé bag full of knitting. Her long wooden needles were click-clacking away at a furious speed, as if the only way to prevent some impending disaster was to finish the project she was working on before she got to her station.

The train hissed to a stop. The doors opened. What looked like a full basketball team, no uniforms but carrying bags of balls, crushed its way in. Just about the biggest man that Wanda had ever been so close to ended up standing with his back directly in front of her, blocking her view of the rest of the car.

That was OK. He was black and so tall that his muscular rump was higher than her head. When she inhaled, she sucked in his musk. His incredibly baggy shorts brushed his knees. It could be that he had to wear them like that to contain an enormous dangling length. Could be.

Subways are so inspirational.

Wanda was inspired.

Seated behind that wall of flesh, she was pretty well invisible.

She knew she shouldn’t, but Wanda fantasised.

There was no hair on the paler skin at the backs of his knees. If she were to lift a hand out of her lap and stroke that skin with her knuckles, it’d be hard and smooth and warm. How would he react to her touch? A handsome young giant like him would be used to being fondled by older women. He’d most likely chosen to stand there in front of her because, out of all the women and girls in the carriage, she was the one he’d chosen to be surreptitiously caressed by.

He’d twitch, but that’d be all.

Which side would he be hanging? Wanda had read, sometime, somewhere, that statistically, more men ‘dressed left’ than right. So if she let her fingertips glide up inside the left leg of his baggy shorts, sliding over skin that was so glossy it felt slippery …

Oh my! It couldn’t be! Could it? It was. There was no mistaking the nature of the heavy limpness that lolled against the back of her hand. If his shorts had been just two inches shorter, the head of his cock would have peeked out beneath them. What a monster!

It twitched against her hand. The young man shuffled his feet a little further apart. What more invitation could Wanda ask for? She curled her fingers around his shaft, just above its head. Their tips didn’t touch. What would it feel like to have that monster invade her body? Would she be able to stretch that far?

The cock in her hand thickened and tried to lift. She grasped it firmly. It wouldn’t do to embarrass the lad by allowing his erection to jut out in front of him. But she couldn’t hold it down for him forever. There was only one thing she could do.

Her hand stroked, up, then down, slowly and firmly. Did he grunt? Men did, sometimes, when aroused.

The train hissed to a stop. Her new friend made no move to get out, thank goodness. Wanda pumped him again. Could she feel a pulse? He was certainly getting warmer. Better get on with it, just in case his stop was coming up. Wanda slithered her fingers up and down, sucking the sensations in through their tips. He was so big. He must have outweighed her better than two to one – maybe three to one – but she held him fast by the root of his power. Despite his bulging muscles, she was in control of him. The way she had him now, he’d give anything for her to continue doing what she was doing. When a man’s orgasm approaches, he’s nothing but a ravenous beast. That’s a woman’s power.

His cock was straining up, making it hard for her to hold him down. She pumped harder and faster and harder and –

Ah! There it came. She could feel the pulsing through his shaft.

It’d make a mess on the carriage’s floor, but no one would know what it was, if anyone even noticed. The train stopped again. Her ebony stallion moved away to get off.

Oops! It was her stop as well. Wanda scrambled for the doors and just made it. He was nowhere in sight. It was best that way. If their eyes were to meet, it’d be so embarrassing. Even if she’d only fantasised their encounter, shame would be red in her cheeks. Sometimes she wondered if people could tell her dark secret just by looking at her. That too sent thrills of shame through her.

Even so, she simply had to stop.

The Taylor Building was two blocks north of the subway station. It was a lovely day. Wanda walked it. Therapy Associates was on the twentieth floor. The receptionist had Wanda fill out a long form, though what relevance her childhood diseases had to her current emotional problems was beyond her.

Dr Sullivan would doubtless be small and slim, with a goatee and a Swiss accent. He’d wear a black jacket and pinstriped pants. Perhaps he’d have a pocket watch that she’d be asked to look at while he twirled it until she was ‘under’ and a slave to his perverse will. Would he …?

‘Miss Wanda Mitty? Come on in, please.’

So, he had an English or a Boston accent, she could never tell them apart, and he was well over six foot, built like a going-to-seed ex-quarterback, in a check shirt and expensive jeans. Her imagination wasn’t always a hundred per cent right. The lack of a pocket watch was a bit of a disappointment though.

He sat in a big green leather chair and waved her to a smaller version of the same. His desk was a sheet of glass on spindly chrome legs. It wasn’t at all the sort of desk that a girl would want to be bent over to be buggered. No doubt it was strong enough, but it looked flimsy and the thin glass edges would be hell on her thighs.

There was a file in front of him. He had a file on her already?

He opened it. ‘I see that your mother made your appointment for you, Wanda. Was it against your wishes?’

‘No, not at all. I know that I need help.’

‘Pre-wedding jitters?’ he asked.

‘Does that seem trivial to you?’

‘Getting married is life-changing. Does having concerns about it seem trivial to you, Wanda?’

‘No.’

‘Then it doesn’t to me. Is there anything about your upcoming nuptials that worries you in particular?’

‘Um.’

He waited for her to say more and, when she didn’t, he asked, ‘Tell me about your young man, your fiancé.’

‘He’s big, about your height but not so …?”

‘Bulky as me?’

‘If you like. He’s very good looking, charming, fastidious …”