CEO-Good

PART I

Plumping the pillows to prop myself up, I hear the shower and hope he won't be long. Then I hope he'll take a long time. I'm nervous. It's been a while, and he is far too young. He is the perfect age. 

I peer down to look at myself. Not bad, all considered. My tummy is still pretty flat, my legs are still long, tits are still shapely, but after two kids, maybe not as firm as they were, which is probably why I've left my bra on. And my knickers. Or maybe I want him to take them off me like he did my dress, confident and slow. Anyway, I'm glad I chose matching black lace for the evening. When I dressed, I had nothing in mind other than wanting to feel and look good. Expensive lingerie always does it for me, but now, lying here, I must confess I wish I'd packed stockings, too.

I spotted him on the conference's opening day; he was taking photographs of the delegates and speakers, including me. He introduced himself, Conor O'Brien, and asked if I was staying for the whole conference. I said yes, that I wasn't leaving until Friday. "Good," he had said, "I might see you around." Was he flirting with me? His eyes were very twinkly; I couldn't really tell, but he was pretty, that was for sure.

My closing address had been well received and had resonated with the audience, and I was pleased and relieved, having a quiet celebratory drink at the bar before heading out for dinner. He walked in just then, looking around, clearly searching for someone, then headed straight for me.

I take a deep breath. The last 3 years begin to slide off me: his first affair, yet another affair, the drinking, the coke, the humiliation, the anger, the lawyers. I hate myself for ever letting him close, then the years of cleaving to my Mistake, denial, hoping for what? that he wasn't a mistake? But that's what he was, The Mistake. Although my two children aren't a mistake, whatever else, he can't take them from me; in fact, he never even tried. 

In this anonymous conference hotel room, for at least a couple of hours, I wonder if there might be a new start. Not that this handsome, twinkly-eyed, rather obvious, and ridiculously young photographer guy is the start of anything; I am sure of that. But it may be the start of a new me, a new future self. That would be enough for now.

The shower stops—I think briefly how best to look when he emerges and decide to lie on my front, legs apart to tense my buttocks. I like my bum, I think to myself, resting my chin on my linked hands. Quizzical and expectant, but available: perfect.

"That's much better. Sorry, I've been in the studio all day, feeling a bit gross," he emerges, drying his hair with a towel around his waist. 

Good hair, wavy. Nice body, but not gym-pumped. I am so glad of that, I immediately feel more confident in my own body, which has never seen a gym. He's slim, wiry, muscular, good legs. Young. Smooth chest, a dark line of hair disappearing into the towel. I want to lick that line, follow it with my tongue to where it ends. I feel myself becoming wet. 

Far too young. How old did he say he was in the bar before that fatal third Mezcal? 30? 25 more like. Perfect. Too young. Presumptuous of me. Of him, too. Flattering. Slightly scary. 

"That's okay," I lie. I had thought to tell him not to bother showering because I liked his smell, but I was too shy to say it.

Instead: "Tell me something, why did you come to my room."

He stops drying his hair and looks at me, slightly puzzled.

"Er, you invited me?"

I smile.

"I didn't invite you as such, Conor, you followed me into the lift, and as I recall you kissed me without invitation and slid my dress over my hips and grabbed my ass. Not that I minded, and I suppose my tongue in your mouth was an invitation of sorts."

He had tasted good, sweet liquor, his tongue tentatively exploring mine, close to passion but a little uncertain, ready to pull back if I had protested, which I didn't. Respectful, I liked that. 

I had pressed myself against him, encouraging, running my hand through his hair, feeling his hardening cock against my pubis—then I felt my dress slip over my hips and his hand cup my ass cheek, fingers sliding under the edge of my briefs. I was instantly wet.

"Yes, I remember that, bold of me. I also find you attractive, and you make me laugh. Oh, and that other thing."

I raise an eyebrow; quizzical is definitely a good look.

"What other thing?"

"Well, you said your job is telling people what to do and that if I worked for you, you could see you would have your hands full ordering me around all day."

I did recall saying that after he had bought me a second drink, he touched my knee and smiled as he handed it to me. Twinkly eyes, pretty mouth, soft brown hair, well-cut. Stop it. I had been deliberately vague about my job but had felt butterflies in my stomach. Maybe the game was on, about bloody time.

"So, Conor, let me get this straight, the real reason you're here is because you like being told what to do?"

I am amused by this turn of events. I've never really taken control in the bedroom before, but Conor seems to be as intrigued as I am, and I indeed earn a living—a very good living—basically telling people what to do. Well, the official line is 'leading a team, inspiring people, leading them where they didn't know they wanted to go.' I am very good at it—CEO good—and I wonder whether I might just be able to lead and inspire Conor inside me this evening.

He smiles.

"I'm here because I want to fuck you and would welcome as much direction and guidance as you wish to give."

"And will I have my hands full?"

He laughs.

"That's what I mean, you make me laugh. I think you could be a very bad girl. But before we start, I need to tell you…"

"There's a pack in the minibar rack, with the nuts, they even supply lube these days!" I interrupt him. "Unhook my bra," I order.

Conor does as he is told, one-handed, impressive.

I sit up, one arm crossed over my breasts and look up at him.

"Kiss me," I demand.

He grins, wicked and angelic at the same time.

"Where? Your instructions need to be more specific," he answers.

I laugh.

"On my mouth to start, and when I say so, you can move lower," I said expectantly.

Conor holds my face in both hands, then teases my lips with the tip of his tongue. Oh dear, I'm lost now; he shouldn't have held me so gently. My tongue engages with his, dancing, teeth clicking; I bite his lower lip lightly but want to bite harder, bite away the shit of the last 3 years, draw blood, suck on his blood, his essence, and cleanse myself with this stranger.

Breathing as one, moist, my hand holds the back of his head, and I press him in harder, wanting to bruise his lips, my lips, my mouth opening wider, letting him in deeper, parting my thighs around his legs, wanting to be open there as well, suddenly aware of liquid flowing, breathless, pulling away. 

I had forgotten how much I love deep kissing; it is all I want, to drown in a man's mouth, for him to drown in mine. When I was younger, I had even orgasmed once, just kissing. But that was with Mike, and he could make me come just by winking at me. The Mistake didn't like kissing; he didn't like much apart from fucking. Oh, and blow jobs. Funny that. But now I want more.

PART II

"Take your towel off, now." 

Conor drops his towel. His cock is perfect, not huge, but thick enough, long enough, I'm in no mood for comparisons—and already hard. And uncircumcised. I slide my hand around to grip his butt and lower my mouth towards his tip. He smells of soap and shampoo but is also male.

I laugh and look at him, "I knew I would have my hands full."

I pull Conor's foreskin back. His glans were already moist; I licked him up and down his shaft, then gripped it, moving my tongue up to circle his glans before taking him deep into my throat, his taste quite musky and, again, very male. 

I begin to fuck him slowly with my mouth, licking his tight balls and breathing in the sweat and soap of his pubes as he goes deep, then I pull back to circle his cock head again as I hold him between my lips, pre-cum oozing from his slit at each stroke, salty-sweet. I like his taste very much.

Conor moans and then gasps; his thighs begin to tremble, and I feel his shaft thickening between my lips. It feels strangely familiar, although it has been long since I last felt that sensation. I love this moment when I can stop a man from coming or fire him into immediate ecstasy, play with him, keep him on the edge for as long as I want, or pleasure him totally and at once. It has always made me feel very powerful, very in control. 

He grips my hair and tries to bury himself in my mouth. Now I am torn—should I carry on? I want to feel him explode in my mouth, taste his hot essence on my lips and tongue, and swallow his thick stream. I want his cum, like his blood, to cleanse me, but my pussy is aching, crying out for attention, to be filled. Conor's hands tighten in my hair, and he pulls my head fiercely so that I gag on his cock. Any second now.

I pull away, his cock popping wetly between my lips, and squeeze his balls firmly.

"Who said you could come? Put your hands behind your back; they'll be out of the way there," I say.

I am certain that if I did make him come, I could get him hard again in minutes, but I'm enjoying the tease.

"Shit, Amy, I was so close," he says, breathless, but he does as he's told. 

I grab a condom, rip the top off the foil with my teeth, and roll the sheath down his erection, fumbling a bit, lack of practice. Shit, I used to be able to put one on with my mouth, but that was years ago, a different life, before.

"Do you want help with that?"

"Shut up, Conor, or I'll have to gag you too."

"I want you to fuck me from behind, just for a while, and then we can continue kissing," I say. "You understand? You don't come, I don't come, I just get to have your cock inside me for a while. And you don't say a word. Silence. Okay?" 

PART III

I slip out of my knickers, noticing how wet they are, and kneel on the bed on all fours. I reach back and grab Conor's cock with my hand, sliding him between my lips and to the edge of my cunt. I am really wet, and the condom is slippery; it's tricky to keep his cock still. It keeps sliding down to flick against my clit, sending arrows into my nipples. Suddenly, he is in me, one perfect sliding invasion, making me collapse on the bed and driving all of the breath from me.

"Oh! Oh god, I've so missed this. Don't move, please don't move! Let me just feel you."

I clench his shaft and head in drenched velvet, milking him rhythmically, aware of rivulets of moisture running down my thighs and onto the sheets but too turned on to care. I push back further into him, taking him deeper and deeper until he can go no further, and then slowly, very slowly, I slide him out, fucking him with tiny movements on the edge of his cock, feeling my pussy lips slide around his glans, tugging it softly. 

My breasts swing lightly against the sheets, making my nipples throb and sing. My whole body feels alive and electric. I spread my legs wider, feeling myself tighten around his width, and push my arms out, spread-eagled and pinioned on a stranger's hard cock, a stranger who is suddenly breathing harder and groaning.

I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on the moment, the spasms deep inside me, the heat—I feel so fucking hot—my cunt, my breasts, my face. I want him to come in me, to feel his cum flood me.

"Conor, don't you dare come; you can start to move if you promise not to come. I want this to last; otherwise, just stay still."

"Okay, give me a moment. Can I use my hands? I want to hold you," he pleads.

Conor grips my hips and starts to fuck me, slowly at first, agonizingly slowly, clearly fighting the urge, and then more quickly. As he leaves me, I feel empty—a space where his cock should be—and push back; as he fills me again, I push back harder, feeling his balls swinging against my thighs, wanting him deeper, wanting him to drive into my cervix, aware that I am making us both wetter and wetter, fighting him as he withdraws, groaning as he enters again, slight squelching sounds. Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, I am there so quick.

"Conor, I'm… shit, fuck oh! Oh! …. Christ, I'm going to come, don't stop!" I scream. 

He speeds up, pulling me onto him, pushing me off, his rhythm cascading me towards my climax, and then, he stops deep inside and very, very slowly begins to pull out. My mind goes into meltdown mode, 'Oh please, please deeper,' as the tip of his thumb finds the tight bud of my anus, slippery with my arousal, and slips inside. I cry out, tipped over the edge by this second exquisite invasion, and slam myself onto his cock repeatedly as my orgasm overwhelms me.

I collapse sideways onto my back, the last tremors shaking my body, and start to sob.

"Fuck, I didn't expect that so quickly. That was incredible."

I reach out for Conor's cock and find him still hard, wiping tears with my other hand.

Conor leans over me.

"Hey, are you okay? Why are you crying?"

I laugh, "Sorry, sometimes when I come really hard, I start crying, can't help it, embarrassing really, but it's been a long time. Did you not come?" I ask him.

"No, I didn't. You told me not to, and I generally obey orders unless left unsupervised. Anyway, it's not embarrassing—in fact, it's quite flattering," he tells me. "You look very beautiful, Amy. I'd like to take photos of you."

I laugh out loud.

"Conor, do you have any idea who I am? There is no way in hell I would let you take photos of me, particularly not when I'm naked, and I've just come," I exclaim.

"No, not naked; I meant portraits," he corrects me. "You can go sexy if you want, but no more than that. I don't do nude or at least not anymore," Conor says. "Look—I googled you after we met the other day, and I listened to your speech today, so, yes, I do know who you are and who I have the privilege of being in bed with, and I'm sorry if I upset you," he rambles.

"Good, I'm glad we've got that straight," I respond. "Now take that stupid condom off and lie back, I want you to come in my mouth, and then we can start again."

PART IV

Conor creeps out of bed to use the bathroom, and I peer groggily at the clock: 3.30 a.m. But no hangover, the bastard was right; drink Mezcal neat, and you won't regret it. 

I roll onto my back and smile to myself. We have fucked, off and on, for 4 hours. I put a hand on my pubes and slide a finger between my lips, wet, sticky, and sucking. I tentatively touch my clit, still unsheathed and hard, flick my head, and sigh. My breasts have dried cum on them. Actually, so does my stomach, my pubes, my thighs, and my bum cheeks. I decide not to feel my hair. 

Earlier, when I went down on Conor, I was sure he would come immediately, that he had been holding back until I gave permission. That wasn't the case— I knelt between his splayed legs and played with him for ages. He kept him on the edge, licking his balls and then further down where there was darkness, hair, sweat, smooth, tense skin, and a dark puckered flower that tasted of earth and truffle. 

Switching between his cock and his nipples—catching a nipple, then his glans, then a nipple, between my teeth, driving him insane until he was groaning, pleading mess, and finally, fucking him long and slow with my hot, wet mouth until he came and came and came. His orgasm had slightly overwhelmed me, filling my mouth faster than I could swallow and overflowing down his cock, onto his balls and the sheets, then down my chin, onto my breasts. 

I shift awkwardly in the bed; it's actually pretty impossible to find a place where there isn't a wet patch, most of it mine, I suspect. I can't remember ever being so wet or coming so copiously; the patches are only semi-dry and still sticky. I like the messiness; it feels very intimate. I feel very intimate, very open. 

Oh, oh, slow down, this isn't romance, it's sex, remember that. One night, new start, getting it no-strings-attached, just a shag, zipless fuck, girl. But I'm not a zipless fuck girl, never have been, and always found that difficult despite my best (worst) intentions; once someone has been inside me, I always end up feeling a bit bonded somehow, at least for a while.

More from earlier in the night flashes through my mind. We had ordered room service, burgers, and caramel ice cream. I covered Conor's cock in ice cream, him protesting madly, silly boy, and ate it off him messily, ice cream and cum and the musk of sex, and of me.

Then he had gone down on me. I ordered him to, but it was pretty obvious he wanted to. He was slow, skilled, and delicate. Then not so delicate and then not at all delicate, fingers, one and then two, inside me, beckoning me towards him so my hips followed. He was turning my insides to jelly with his tongue lapping my clit. I kept getting wetter and wetter, his finger fucking me harder (we could hear how wet I was), then three fingers! That had hurt a bit, but he kept my clit between his lips—it was enough and too much, and not nearly enough, and then I had suddenly wanted to piss, to empty my bladder on his fingers and his face. Before I could, his cock arrived inside me.

I didn't know or care how, just that it was there and full and moving and deep and his body was on me. He pressed down on me and my legs, wide apart, drawn up, and then splayed again. He was above me, looking down at me, and he said, "Kiss me as you come," and that was it; that was enough. I drew his face to me, opened my mouth and my cunt and my womb and my past and my future, and kissed him deeper than I had ever kissed anyone before. I came in crashing, bucking waves, and burst into tears again. He held me, coming deep inside me as I spasmed and sobbed and collapsed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Conor slides back into bed, afraid to wake me.

"Hello, I'm awake; you're a fantastic lover, did you know that?" I surprise him.

"Well, thank you, but it takes two to tango. I think WE are fantastic lovers."

I roll into him and reach down to find him; he is soft and small. I cup his tight sack in my palm and sleepily lick his nipple, making his balls instantly tense.

"Would you like to come again? Nothing too athletic; I'm a bit sore. I was thinking perhaps an early morning hand job?"

Conor nestles his head into my neck and breasts, softly taking a nipple into his mouth and flicking it with his tongue.

"An offer I probably shouldn't refuse, although I'm not sure I can, honestly."

"Well, let's see, you came in my mouth, that's one, and then inside me, that's two, and then on my tits and face, that's three—I liked that, by the way. Yes, I can see how a man of your advancing years might find four orgasms in a night difficult; clearly, I need to find a younger stud." I laugh.

"Are you challenging me?"

I sit up.

"I bet you £20 I can make you come again in ten minutes," I state.

"No way, with a mouth like yours, that's just a stupid bet, but what about we make each other come, whoever comes first loses. Your mouth, my hands. Fair?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I lay back and swallow the last of Conor, licking the overspill off my lips. Every time, I'm surprised at how much he comes. He won, but only just. With him kneeling beside me, I had taken his rapidly hardening cock in my hand and leaned over to take him in my mouth, opening my legs to allow him access to me. But he had pushed me back and gently held my head in one hand, presenting himself to my mouth, and I eagerly took his length.

I started to suck while his other hand pushed my legs further apart and found my clit. He began slowly, softly stroking the head of my clit, slipping down to my opening, circling it, and then moving back to focus on the bud. At the same time, he pushed my head closer and closer to him, his cock almost in my throat. The realization that I was unable to move my head, that he was controlling the depth and rhythm, brought me to the edge and then unstoppably over it. 

I wrapped my arm around him and pulled him deeper so that my mouth and nose were buried in the base of his cock. My throat was full of him, and I came silently, unable to breathe, filled with our scent, choking on him and then, as my orgasm subsided, on hot streams of his cum. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The grey light of dawn creeps across the bed, revealing two exhausted, spent bodies. The start of a new day, an inevitable parting, and my return to Paris.

"Amy, I'd like to see you again; this was too good for it just to be the once," he says.

I sigh. This is the question I have been dreading and also hoping for. And I don't know what to do. It's just a shag, Amy; get you back on your feet, back in the game. I mean, he probably plays computer games, for god's sake.

"Conor, do you play computer games?" I ask.