Even When You Lie
By
Cindy May
A Cotcote Chronicles Story
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Cindy May
Everyone knew Zafira was overweight and when the office ran a cruel sweepstake on who had to screw the fat Asian girl at the Christmas Party, Jerry drew the short straw. Unaware of the sordid joke her workmates were planning at her expense, Zafira did want someone to screw her but not in that heartless way. She was an easy target for Jerry, who found no difficulty in getting inside her panties, but the best laid plans of mice, men and a bunch of assholes can go awry.
******
He had a suspicion that it was the first time she had sucked cock in her life. Probably she didn’t have a clue what to do, so maybe she needed some instruction.
‘Zafira, flick your tongue round the opening at the tip of my cock.’
She ejected his cock from her mouth and stared at him in shock.
‘Where you pee?’
‘Uhuh, it’s very sensitive there.’
Jerry wondered if she would rebel, but she stuck out her tongue tentatively and did place the tip of right against the slit in the end of his cock. He whispered.
‘That’s a good girl.’
She flicked her tongue backwards and forwards, which was even better. Jerry moaned.
‘God, yeah.’
For the next minute, Zafira worked her tongue back and forth round the meatus or orifice, sending exquisite sensations shooting through Jerry’s groins.
‘God, Zafira, that is out of this world.’
******
David’s eyes blinked open. He was staring at a strange ceiling. He was not in his bedroom in the bungalow he had bought in Cotcote. He felt a hand stroking his thigh. This was ridiculous, as you always lost a dream no matter how intense when you woke up.
Instinctively he glanced at his groin and his eyes jerked wide open. Real Lin, or maybe Dream Lin, smiled at him.
‘Hi.’
‘Lin? Is that you?’
The vision who was sucking his cock contemplated that question for a moment or two.
‘Yes, it is definitely me.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m sucking your cock, darling.’
******
‘Uhuh. You want to work here?’
‘I need the money.’
‘Strip then.’
Jacqui had expected that, so she unbuttoned her blouse to the waist, having taken the precaution of popping the first two buttons before she arrived. She slid it off her shoulders and looked round for somewhere to put it.
‘Floor ‘ll do, sweetie.’
Resentfully Jacqui dropped her blouse on the grubby floor.
Copyright 2011 (C)
The Moral Right of the author has been asserted. All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, Characters, Places, and Incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to any businesses, is entirely coincidental. Places such as ‘Hot Babes’ massage parlour are entirely fictitious.
Author's note: Explicit scenes in this work of fiction are confined to characters who are 18 years of age or above.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
A Cotcote Chronicles Story
Even When You Lie
By
Cindy May
Chapter 1
Jacqui Walker glared at the taxi driver as she handed over her fare. She was wearing a beige raincoat that did little to conceal her cleavage, and the driver was studying that cleavage with considerable interest. She snapped at him.
‘Looked all you want now, Love?’
The driver grinned at her.
‘Nice Pair, Love.’
‘Thanks for nothing.’
Jacqui slammed the door on the taxi and looked at the bit of paper in her hand. It said No 43, and the taxi driver had dropped her off outside No 43. She grimaced and walked up the path and rang the doorbell. After a few seconds the door opened and a man stood there. He was in his late forties or early fifties, muscular, but with a beer gut.
‘Hiya, I’m Jacqui.’
‘From Hot Babes?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Come in.’
‘Thanks.’
She stepped into the hall and as she did so the guy put his hand on her bum, squeezing her right bum cheek.
‘Dump your coat on the chair and come to the bathroom.’
Jacqui echoed vacantly.
‘Bathroom?’
‘Yeah, we don’t want it splashing on the carpet do we?’
‘Ohh, sorry yes, of course.’
Jacqui smiled sweetly. That was the perfect fucking start to a perfect fucking day. She dumped her coat, revealing her outfit, which comprised a black sequin stretch tube top and a ruffled sequin micro skirt which was barely eight inches deep from top to bottom. She looked at the guy meaningfully, but he seemed not to want to understand. Finally she spoke.
‘We need to sort out the money first.’
‘We can do it afterwards.’
‘Sorry, we need to do it now.’
Resentfully the guy pulled out a handful of notes from his pocket. She checked it was correct and put it in her handbag and then followed the guy to the bathroom.
She pulled her top off and then dropped her skirt. The guy had said she was not to have any undies, and was to wear the skimpiest costume she had, and the tube and micro skirt had certainly met that requirement.
As she undressed the guy removed his slacks and shirt and motioned her to climb into the bath. He stood in front of her and grasped his cock.
‘Open your mouth.’
Jacqui did as she was told.
A couple of seconds later a jet of piss hit her left cheek, and dripped down on to her tit. The guy quickly corrected his aim, so that the piss arched from his cock to land in her open mouth. Within a few seconds her mouth was full, and piss was overflowing her lower lip and running down her chin.
It was a moment she hated. It meant she had to close her mouth to swallow the piss that was already there, and with her mouth shut, the continuing jet of urine would be splashing on her nose, lips, cheeks and chin, until she had her mouth open to drink more of his golden rain.
Jacqui was an expert on piss and how to drink it, although it was not a subject she had been taught at school, or ever thought she would have to master. The best piss, if you could apply that word to piss, was when the guy had downed copious amounts of water prior to meeting you. Then it was the colour of water and with little taste.
The pale yellow piss was usually not too bad, but if the guy had eaten strong foods and had little to drink, then you might have a liquid that was dark yellow or even orange with a rank bitter taste that burned your throat when you drank it.
The piss she was now drinking was sweet, which suggested the guy might have a diabetic problem, as a sweet taste in urine had once been the way that doctors detected diabetes. Piss was overflowing her lip again, so she closed her mouth and swallowed once more.
Finally the guy had drained his bladder into her stomach or over her face, tits, and groin. He picked up the shower attachment and sprayed his crotch and legs to wash away the piss that had splashed on his body and mumbled.
‘Clean yourself up.’
Jacqui took the faucet and sprayed lukewarm water over her body. With her hurried ablutions over, Jacqui followed the guy to the bedroom.
‘Lie on your belly.’
Jacqui did as she was told and felt the bed subside slightly as the guy climbed on top of her, kneeling with his knees each side of her waist. He reached forward with his hands and started kneading her neck muscles and then her shoulders.
When a guy did that properly, it was a pleasure, but he had little idea of what he was doing, and was squeezing her, rather than massaging her body, but she was not there for any pleasure she might get so she kept silent.
‘You like that, huh?’
‘Yeah, it’s great, thanks.’
His cock was resting in the small of her back, and he eased forward, putting his hands each side of her head so that his belly now rested on her back. He began to slide his body up and down gradually moving closer to her bum crack with each stroke of his cock.
‘Spread yer legs.’
Jacqui parted her legs so that he could slide his cock up and down her bum crack and over her anus.
‘Wider.’
She opened her legs as much as she could, and felt the guy reaching down with his hand to grasp his cock. He found it and then fumbled around searching for her cunt. There it was. His cock head was now poised at the entrance to her cunt, the head actually nestling between her pussy lips.
He pushed forward and she could feel the hard cock sliding between her vulva lips.
‘You’re a wet little slut, aren’t you?’
Jacqui loved being called a wet little slut. It was so romantic. She cooed back.
‘When I have a nice big cock to play with, you bet I am.’
‘Thought so. Most whores are like that.’
Jacqui grimaced, glad the guy could not see her face. Swallowing piss had been a great start to the day, and being told she was a wet little slut had made the day even better. The guy was rock hard and grunting so hopefully he would unload in her cunt soon, and she could go to work, and that thought really thrilled her.
Most girls did not start their day drinking a stranger’s piss and then having some overweight bastard squashing them into the bed as he emptied his balls in their cunts. As a little girl, she had dreams of doctors and nurses, of handsome men sweeping her off her feet, and being treated like a princess. Never once had drinking piss featured in her dreams.
She sighed to herself, ‘princesses don’t drink piss’, and that summed up her life. P for piss rather than P for princess. The guy was cumming in her unprotected cunt, which was a good thing, but why the hell had life been so lousy for her? The town she lived in was nice. Other girls had a great time, but not her.
Cheltenham, with a population a little over 100,000, has been renowned as a Spa Town for two hundred years. It is also the home to the super-secret GCHQ or Government Communications Head Quarters, which spied on the Soviet Union during the cold war. A celebrated race course, which hosts the Cheltenham Gold Cup each March adds to the ambience, and it is not surprising that Cheltenham had been voted the best place to live in the United Kingdom.
It is an elegant town, but the prestige older districts of the town with their houses for the wealthy users of the spa in the long distant past and the smart new housing estates on the outskirts of the town could not wipe away the poorer side, with some rundown Council estates. But that was the same with every town or city, with wealth and poverty, often cheek by jowl.
Jacqui Walker knew all about poverty as she came from the poor side of the town. Her father was a builder, rolling in money in the good times and keen to spend every last penny of it, but hard up when the building trade was in the doldrums, and there were few industries that were more cyclical.
Some girls were born with a silver spoon in their mouths as the saying goes. Anyone who wished to find an apt simile for Jacqui would say that she had been given a fucking big shovel. Her mother had walked out, abandoning her and her kid sister before her fifth birthday. It hurts kids when their dad walks out. It hurts like hell when it is their mom.
Her dad met up with a new “stepmother” who treated her like shit. A half brother, who was the idol of her stepmother’s eyes, made her realise just how unwelcome she was at home. Kicked out of the cramped flat where she lived with her sister, her half brother, her dad and her step mom as she was ‘in the way’, Jacqui often sat on the low wall outside sobbing her eyes out.
Neighbours, aware that her mother had walked out, felt sorry for the child. They would stop to speak to her, and often take the two hungry kids back to their own homes to give them a meal. Other times, there would be a pound or two for them to get something to eat from the shop on the estate.
The people who looked after the sad child did so with the best motives, but without realising that the good they were doing was also doing harm, which was one of the ironies of life. At first grateful for such well-meant and genuine kindness, it was inevitable that Jacqui would learn to turn on the tears to generate sympathy.
By the time she was seven Jacqui was adept at spinning a good sob story. Her china blue eyes and cute expression meant it was hard to resist her. Even though many of the neighbours began to suspect she was playing on their kindness, the underlying truth in what she was saying meant that pity still outweighed scepticism.
So slowly as to be almost imperceptible, attitudes on the estate changed. Women, initially more inclined to stop to comfort the distraught child than men, were the first to put two and two together. Neighbours started comparing notes and took to crossing the road to pass on the opposite side of the road to avoid the kids.
Even before the neighbours started to look the other way Jacqui would knock on the front door of particularly kind neighbours if no passers-by seemed to be interested. With ‘passing sympathy’ eroding, ringing doorbells became more important, but it too became less effective. Neighbours, if they saw the little girl through their spy holes, would not ‘hear’ the bell.
Although there were two or three elderly ladies on the Council Estate where she lived who were good for a meal or a couple of quid, life was undoubtedly getting harder for Jacqui. Although the women on the estate were becoming a harder nut to crack, Jacqui’s tears, sweet smile and woes meant that she could still wrap most men around her little finger if she could get hold of them, of course.
Most kids got some pocket money by the time they were seven or eight, but Jacqui’s step mom had made it clear that would not be the case as there was only enough money for her half brother, Nathan.
Chapter 2
With sympathy drying up, the only answer was a Saturday morning cleaning job, so Jacqui knocked on old Mr Warren’s door. Mr W lived a few doors away from Jacqui. His wife had died two or three years before, and he was in his early seventies. A few times he had invited Jacqui in for some scones and cream or even an ice cream.
As you might expect with a widower, the flat was a bit untidy and in need of dusting. Jacqui announced to Mr W that the flat did need someone to do some dusting, and if he would pay her she would come in once a week.
Mr Warren felt it was a good idea, as the flat was not as it had been when his wife had been alive, and it would help the kid out as well. It also meant that Jacqui was earning money rather than begging or relying on charity and that had to be better for her.
She would arrive just after nine in the morning and clean for an hour. Soon they settled into a routine, as Mr Warren would pop out to the newsagents to get his fags and a paper as soon as she came.
So long as she had moved a bit of dust around, which took at most a couple of minutes, Jacqui soon found she could sit watching TV until she heard Mr Warren fumbling with his key in the door on his return from the shops. It took him at least quarter of an hour to get to the newsagents and back. If he met one of his mates, it might be half an hour.
One day she put the TV on, but the choice bored her. It was either too childish for her or it was current affairs that bored her stiff. She eyed the video recorder, which she could see had a tape in it. She muttered to herself.
‘Wonder if it’s any good?’
She hit the play button, and watched in surprise as a blonde slut with a skirt up round her backside negotiated with a couple of guys about ‘how much’ and then shed her clothes, such as they were, and let them fuck her. Jacqui muttered ‘dirty old bugger’ and was about to turn off, but decided to watch a bit more.
She had heard her dad fucking her step mom in the bedroom, but the door was tight shut. If she peeped through the keyhole, there was no worthwhile view to be had as the bed was out of line with the door. Jacqui had not therefore seen ‘sex’ although she had heard it. She knew that there were girls who ‘sold it’ but had no idea of how to go about it, let alone what you should charge
She watched the film for ten minutes until she heard Mr Warren fumbling with his key in the front door to the flat and switched the tape off and resumed dusting. Mr Warren gave her three pounds for her work, patted her on the head and told her she was an ‘angel’.
Her first few sob stories to Mr Warren when she started cleaning at the flat had netted her a couple of quid over and above her pay, the first one landing a fiver, but after that the old guy seemed impervious to her best efforts.
As her step mom would never buy her any new clothes, the three quid she got for cleaning Mr Warren’s flat and the two or three quid she managed to scrounge from neighbours each week meant Jacqui was always skint.
Over the next week, Jacqui thought about the money changing hands when the girl got fucked on tape. That was a hell of a sight more than a measly three quid. Instead of working for an hour cleaning, even if you could sit watching TV for ten or twenty minutes of that time, the girl just sucked the guy’s pee stick and then let him put it in her.
Jacqui had realised that men liked to look up little girl’s skirts by the time she was five. Maybe, if Mr Warren liked tapes like that one, if she wore her school dress, which finished midway between her knees and thighs, instead of her usual jeans, there was some money to be made?
The following Saturday, Jacqui spent most of the hour bent over dusting away industriously, with her backside pointing towards Mr Warren. For the first time in months, the old boy made no effort to go and get his fags and paper. At the end of the hour, when she said it was time to go, he croaked.
‘What so soon?’
Jacqui offered to stop on for another hour, which passed just as enjoyably for Mr Warren. At the end of the two hours, he told her what a good hard working little girl she had been and how smart she looked in her skirt, and that he hoped she would always come to work like that. Of more practical value, she was given a tenner.
Maths was not Jacqui’s strongpoint, but she could work out that a tenner for two hours was a significant advance on three quid for an hour. Wearing a skirt had definitely been profitable.
It was mid-summer and a couple of weeks later it was boiling hot in the flat. When Jacqui started work, she was soon dripping with sweat. At home if it was hot, she would take her dress off and run around in her blouse and panties. She announced to Mr Warren that it was too hot to wear her dress, and she was gonna take it off. He told her what a clever little girl she was. When she had finished cleaning, she had a tenner and a fiver as well.
Sadly the hot spell broke the following Thursday which was a blow as she had planned to find that it too hot to wear her dress again. Fortunately the flat was even hotter than the previous week. It seemed that Mr Warren had been troubled by the cooler weather so had turned on the central heating.
Once again Jacqui was soon dripping with sweat and was working in just her blouse and panties, and hoping it meant she would leave with fifteen quid for the second week in a row. She did!
The next week the flat was even hotter, so Mr W must be really troubled by the cold. Jacqui shed her dress as usual and thought to herself, ‘when I let the old git see my knickers, I got a tenner, when I dumped my dress it was fifteen. I wonder what it’s worth if I ditch my blouse?’
She announced to Mr Warren that it was so hot that she would be more comfy if she could take her blouse off. He told her what a clever little girl she was. Jacqui was not yet old enough to wear a bra, not that she would have been able to afford one even if she had needed it. That day she went off with a twenty pound note, the first one she had handled in her life.
In a couple of months by being a sensible girl, her pay had risen from a measly three quid, plus what she could scrounge, to twenty quid. In the past, she had felt jealous of the rich bitch kids at school with their nice clothes, which her step mom would never buy for her. Now she would go shopping after she finished work at Mr Warren’s flat and she was the envy of the other kids with a fresh outfit every week.
One week, Mr Warren had to go to the chemist, as he needed some medication, and when he was away Jacqui saw his wallet and wondered how much money a grown up had. Greatly daring, she opened the wallet and saw six twenty pound notes. She knew that one would come to her in two hours time, but her fingers plucked at one note and then a second note and hid them in her little handbag.
With a fortune like that, which must mean he was as rich as the millionaires you heard about on the telly, Mr Warren would never notice the difference. When it was time to go, she pulled on her blouse and dress and smiled at Mr Warren who opened his wallet and was about to take out the note. To her horror, she realised he had noticed.
‘Jacqui, you’ve been interfering with my wallet, haven’t you?’
‘Naaw, Mr Warren.’
‘Don’t lie.’
‘I’m not lyin.’
Mr Warren told her that as she was a little liar and a thief, he couldn’t trust her anymore, so she could never come again. Jacqui’s Saturday morning cleaning job vanished at that moment, as did her wealth and supply of new clothes.
By now she had found that some of the buys at primary school liked to fondle her tits or get her to flash her pussy at them. Fifty pence or a pound was the most the kids could afford for a feel or a quick look, so it was a poor substitute for the Saturday morning job. The odd fiver from the old ladies in the estate helped, but even that was starting to dry up, as Jacqui found that the well of sympathy was not bottomless.
It was fortunate that a couple of months after the loss of her Saturday cleaning job Jacqui moved up from primary school to the local comprehensive. It was the worst school in the district, but took kids from eleven to sixteen. The fifth formers had more money than the primary school kids she had been with before, so a grope of a flash paid better than previously.
Soon Jacqui found out that if you put out for the boys, the return was better. By the time she was thirteen she had been with a string of boys, some of whom had entered and left her pussy and her life so quickly that they were a casual fuck rather than a boyfriend. She had become pregnant a few weeks after her fourteenth birthday, probably by her first ‘long term’ boyfriend, Jason.
You could not be absolutely sure about it being Jason as Jacqui had found that being nice to boys at school could bring in a few quid, and that sometimes meant letting them get close and personal with her.
Jason was six years older than she was, and had his own house. She had been sleeping upstairs, heard laughter from downstairs and to her fury realised that Jason was fucking her best friend, Liz. She started to run down stairs to pull the dirty little bitch off Jason, tripped on a fold in the stair carpet and crashed to the bottom of the stairs.
She had suffered a miscarriage a few hours later. It was traumatic but not perhaps as traumatic as deliberately going for an abortion, but the upshot was a break-up with Jason, not that he had been any great loss.
Gaz came and went as did Henry and Rex. With each boyfriend she thought she had found ‘Mr Right’. Sooner or later it went pear shaped and Jason, Gaz, Henry, Rex and her latest ‘love’ Billy had all knocked her about. It had prompted a comment to her only real friend that she made after she started work that she supposed,
‘It was all right for men to slap women around a bit, but they should not beat them up.’
By the time she left school at sixteen Jacqui knew all about cocks. Having played truant from school as much as she could, she was not as well informed on more conventional knowledge, and whilst she could have passed a GCSE on cocks and what to do with them, there were no such papers in her speciality subject so far as she knew.
To her frustration the education system seemed keen to test you on what you didn’t know or didn’t even want to know, but not to credit you for what you did know. Jacqui had no objection to anyone learning about King John, who it appeared had lived in the 1200s and was a prize bastard, but she had no interest in the guy, as there was nothing he could do for her, as he had been dead 800 years. Her knowledge of cocks was far more useful.
A couple of part time jobs, one on the market, tided Jacqui over for a few months, and then she got a job at a local convenience store, stacking shelves. Part of the reason she got the job was that Mr Aziz, the owner, who was in his fifties, liked to look at her bum and legs as she climbed up the ladder in the stock room in the back to stack or fetch down cartons of food. He would sometimes offer to steady the ladder for her and even put a hand on her bum to steady her.
The job was not well paid, but at least it was a job. She worked for Mr Aziz for almost a year, but one afternoon as the boss was cashing up in the back room, the panic button rang. The other girl who worked at the store was having trouble with a customer and the boss had to intervene. Jacqui heard raised voices but looked at the desk. There must have been three hundred quid on the table.
With old Mr Warren, taking two twenties, when there were only six in his wallet had been too obvious, but with all the money on the table, Aziz would never notice a couple of notes. She pocketed a couple of twenties and went back to work. When it was time to go, she walked into the back room to get her coat, Mr Aziz looked at her.
‘Put it back, Jacqui, every penny of it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘’The money you stole from the desk when I had to see what was up with Sally.’
‘Didn’t steal nuthin.’
Aziz shrugged his shoulders.
‘Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance.’
He reached for the phone.
‘What you gonna do?’
‘Get the police.’
Jacqui left the shop that evening without the £40 she had lifted from the desk, and with no job. Fortunately she did have her pay up to that day in her pocket. She also had a tummy load of cum, which was the price of avoiding a brush with the constabulary.
Understandably, Aziz refused to give her a reference, telling her she was a thief. That was a blow although Jacqui was not at first aware of it. Three weeks later, she had found no one willing to take her on without a reference.
She went back to see Mr Aziz at the shop shortly before closing time. An hour later she emerged with a glowing testimonial and a pussy that was dribbling cum into her panties, but that was no big deal. The shops she had tried when she did not have a reference were still unenthusiastic, despite her glib explanation that it had just been a silly administrative delay.
She saw an ad in one of the local freebies that Catherwood Barrington & Lord, a local firm of accountants in Cheltenham, required a filing clerk/general office girl. The GCSE requirements were not something Jacqui could meet. She phoned up as per the ad. A little white lie over her GCSEs and a mention of her excellent references from Mr Aziz landed an interview.
When she had worked for Aziz, or on the market, jeans and a t-shirt plus work overalls were fine, but for an office job, Jacqui realised she would need to wear a blouse and skirt. She had a lacy white top that was thin but not too thin. At the last moment as she was about to go into the office, she decided that if the top button was undone, it would be unlikely to harm her job prospects. When she was waiting for the interview a second button got undone.
The youngest of the three partners, 34-year-old David Bolton, handled recruitment of unskilled staff, and spent a good part of the interview looking down her cleavage. None of the other girls who applied for the job were as pretty as Jacqui, nor had they the wit to leave the top button of their blouse unfastened. Quite understandably Jacqui got the job.
When he was telling her about the job, Bolton had mentioned that the firm always held a Christmas party, which was a chance for everyone to get to know one another. Jacqui’s reply, that she loved parties, seemed to go down well, so that might also have helped. The fact that she leant forward as she spoke so that her blouse opened up giving David a first class view of her cleavage was not a bad thing either.
Jacqui started at ‘CBL’, as the staff called the place for short in October, a month before her eighteenth birthday. Her ‘coming of age’ was crap. She had no close friends to celebrate with. She had nothing from her dad or her step mom and her sister was even more skint than she was. To expect anything from her little shit of a half brother was like expecting the pavement to turn to gold.
On the day she legally stopped being ‘a child’ Jacqui told herself that life sucks. She did have a boyfriend, who she was living with, and he sucked as well. His name was Billy and he was eleven years older than she was. He had never done an honest day’s work in his life but had an expensive drugs habit.
Chapter 3
Jacqui’s lack of GCSE’s was no real handicap in her job, as she sat at ‘Reception’ for much of the day, sharing the job with another girl who was a couple of years older than she was. Her job was to smile at clients when they came in, ask their names and whom they wished to see.
Her most demanding task was fetching and carrying files that needed to be extracted from the filing cabinets at the back of the general office or returned in the correct alphabetical order. Smiling was not a GCSE subject and a reasonably bright ten year old would know her alphabet.
Every so often there would be a summons from upstairs to bring tea of coffee to one of the partners or for a client he was seeing, and a twice-daily round for the rest of the staff. Once again it was not rocket science. Within two or three weeks of starting at CBL, whichever of the partners wanted coffee would usually buzz down to ask Jacqui to make it, ‘as she knew how to make it just right’.
The fact that the miserable cow she worked with in the general office, an Asian girl called Zafira, had legs like tree trunks and thankfully wore a skirt to well below her knees to hide that distressing fact, whereas Jacqui’s skirt was half way to her bum, was of course a pure coincidence.
Putting up the Christmas decorations offered similar coincidences. Zafira had done it the previous year when she was the office junior. She did not have a head for heights and hated climbing ladders. She said flatly that it was Jacqui’s turn this time. As the office had once been a posh family home in a nice part of Cheltenham, the ceilings were high, so Jacqui needed to stand on the top step of the ladder.
It meant she needed someone to steady the ladder. When she buzzed up to the audit office for help, no one was available until Jacqui mentioned that she wanted someone to steady the ladder for her, as she would be going up the ladder. Within a couple of minutes, three of the guys from the audit office had arrived to hold the ladder.
They were most solicitous of her welfare, often steadying her ankles as she stood on the ladder and looking up intently to see how the decorations were progressing all the time. It was very gratifying. Later on, David Bolton told her to decorate his office, and spent the whole time at the bottom of the ladder holding it for her. He even handed decorations up to her, but it was a pure coincidence that his hand brushed her bum a couple of times.
She also had to decorate the senior partner’s office, and he too felt it his duty to steady the ladder for the teen as she stood on the top of the ladder. It was very encouraging that so many people were so concerned about her safety.
The office shut to the public a couple of days before Christmas at 2.30 by which time the caterers and wine merchants had delivered a supply of cartons to the general office. There was a well-established routine at CBL. They guys carted the booze and food upstairs to the audit office on the third floor, laying it out on the work surfaces which had been cleared of client’s papers beforehand.
Whilst they were attending to that mundane but necessary chore, the girls were engaged on a far more crucial task, donning their warpaint and party outfits. It was a distribution of labour the girls thought was perfectly fair, as it took them longer to get ready to party than the guys. The girls also pointed out that the guys benefited from the care they took sorting out their make up and outfits.
This was undeniable, so the boys did not object, not that it would have made any difference to the girls. By 4.00pm, all the necessary preparations had been completed and everyone was waiting for the partners to come upstairs. The guys were jockeying round, looking over the field, and sussing out which of the girls were likely to be the best lay.
There were a few ‘no-hopers’ such as Zafira. You would only take her if every other available talent had been snapped up and you were desperate. Vikki, an acidic tempered little bitch who worked as a secretary was better looking, but her miserable disposition and nature meant you would be hard put to decide who was the least appealing screw.
Jacqui, on the other hand, with a neat figure and a pleasant smile and a first timer at the office party as well, was high up on the target list of most every guy at CBL. She was wearing a black party dress that finished about eight inches above her knee and had a plunging neckline.
George Daley, one of the more senior trainee accountants, and who expected to qualify the following summer, wandered over. Most of the girls regarded him as an arrogant prick who thought they were peasants and that he was something special. Jacqui did not really know what a male chauvinist pig was, but was sure that George Daley was one.
‘Hi, lookin’ forward to your first party here, luv?’
‘Yeah.’
She noticed he was clutching some popcorn his left hand.
‘Arthur will be up soon and give us the usual spiel about how we are a team all working to a common goal, and then after he shuts his mouth, we can party.’
Jacqui knew that ‘Arthur’ was the nickname that was used behind his back for the senior partner, Arthur William Lord, ‘His Lordship’ or ‘God’ being less reverent titles if you were really pissed.
As to Catherwood in the firm’s name, the illustrious Mr Catherwood had been the founder of the firm a century previously and had been born when Queen Victoria was on the throne whilst Barrington had apparently been ‘God’s’ predecessor as senior partner. If he was not dead, he was certainly not to be seen.
At some stage in the future, when ‘God’ was ready to retire, Barrington’s name would vanish and the firm would become Catherwood, ‘God’ and whoever the next senior partner was going to be.
Daley positioned a popcorn between his left thumb and index finger, and after a moment or two flicked it so that it dropped between her cleavage. Jacqui snapped at him.
‘Don’t fucking do that.’
‘Don’t yap, luv, it’s a tradition here. Look around.’
As Jacqui glanced around she noticed one of the other guys flick a popcorn at another of the girls, but without the sure aim that Daley had displayed it fell to the carpet. The ‘target’ did not seem to notice or care, but she had been there for a couple of years so was presumably inured to being bombarded with popcorn.
As she took this in, Jacqui felt another popcorn flick against her cleavage and drop inside.
‘I told you not to fuckin’ do that, you asshole.’
Daley leered at her.
‘Sorry luv. It’s an old tradition. Look over there.’
Instinctively Jacqui looked over there, and wished she hadn’t. Zafira, her work colleague downstairs, had discarded her usual skirt that finished between her knees and ankles for a skirt that finished six inches above her knees. The result was not good, but perhaps Zafira hoped that a display of flesh would increase her chances of getting laid.
As she looked she saw a tall accounts trainee called Jerry flick a popcorn between Zafira’s cleavage. Almost simultaneously she realised that Daley had played the same trick on her. She snarled at him.
‘Fuck off, you asshole.’
George Daley wandered off, and as he did so, Roger Norton smiled at her.
‘Looking forward to the party Jacqui?’
‘Yeah, if these bastards would stop flicking popcorn down my front.’
‘Old tradition luv.’
‘Fuckin lousy one! How would you like it if I stuffed popcorn around your cock?’
‘Sounds cool. You can put your hand round my cock any time, sweetie.’
Norton was not bad really. He was good-natured and treated her as if she was a human being and not a piece of dog shit. As Jacqui was wondering what to say, the door opened and ‘God’ walked in, accompanied by the other two partners, James Holland and David Bolton. Holland was the middle partner of the three, so when God did retire the firm would presumably become Catherwood, Lord & Holland, not that Jacqui really gave a shit.
‘God’ glanced round.
‘I’m glad to see everyone is ready to party, and I’m sure we are all going to have a great time this afternoon. One of the nice things about working in a relatively small business such as ours is that everyone knows everyone else and there is real teamwork where we are all united.’
Naturally there was a chorus of ‘hear hears’, the closer to the front of the audience you were standing, or the more senior you were, the more fervent they were. As far as the guys were concerned, every one of them shared the sentiment of being united, so long as it was with one of the better-looking women.
With ‘God’s’ speech over, the serious partying could begin with a ‘help yourself’ bar counter at one end of the room and a disco at the other end of the audit office where the lights were lower. To Jacqui’s surprise, ‘God’ walked over to her holding two wine glasses.
‘Jacqui, as this is your first party at CBL, do let me get you a drink.’
‘Ohh, thank you so much Mr Lord.’
Arthur Lord was 6ft 2ins tall so towered over Jacqui, which meant he had to look down when he spoke to her. It also meant that as he was standing close to her he had a perfect view down her cleavage. As the back of her dress was low cut, there was no way that you could wear a bra with it, and ‘God’ clearly enjoyed the view his elevated vantage point offered.
‘I hope you like working here, Jacqui.’
‘Ohh, I do Sir.’
‘I see you have finished your drink. I’ll get you another one. You stay here.’
As ‘God’ headed towards the drinks counter, Tom Rice, who was one of the audit staff, sauntered over. He was one of several guys who had been keeping an eye on Jacqui, hoping to pounce when ‘God’ had finished speaking to her.
You had to be a fool to try to cut out the boss, but if ‘God’ had finished talking to her, then it was a free for all and Tom had moved first. It was clear to Jacqui that Tom’s interest in her was to get inside her knickers, but she replied noncommittally. If she went with him, well she went with him and a fuck would be more fun than just standing around.
To Tom’s obvious chagrin, he had exchanged no more than a couple of sentences with Jacqui when ‘God’ returned with a fresh glass of wine.
‘Here you are, Jacqui. Glad you’ve been looking after Jacqui whilst I was getting her a fresh drink, Tom. The first party at a new firm can be a bit lonely.’
Tom took the hint that he was not wanted and wandered off. ‘God’ smiled down at her cleavage.
‘I must congratulate you on your outfit. Several of our young ladies look stunning this evening, but I am sure you outshine them all Jacqui.’
Jacqui looked up appreciatively, wondering when the randy old bugger would make his move.
‘I have been very impressed with how hard working and responsible you have been since you joined us, and I am thinking that we may well promote you shortly, but I would need to discuss that with you of course.’
‘Of course, Sir.’
‘It is up to you, and it would take us away from the party for a few minutes, but if you would like to, I could spare a few minutes now.’
‘Whatever is convenient to you, Mr Lord.’
‘This would seem as a good a time as any. Shall we go?’
‘God’ ushered Jacqui into his office, inviting her to sit on the sofa and sitting down next to her.
‘Do finish your drink my dear.’
Jacqui noticed that rather than a glass of wine, ‘God’ had brought her a very large measure of vodka, but she thought ‘what the hell’ and downed it. If ‘God’ wanted to screw her, she would be a fool to argue about it, and who knows, promotion might even be on the cards. Getting laid by the boss was hardly likely to harm her prospects.
Arthur Lord knew what part of town she was from, and had seen the revealing skirts she had worn from the day she started work at CBL. He had greatly enjoyed looking up her skirt when she had been fixing the decorations in his room. It was a shame the stupid little slut wore panties on that occasion, but … !
Given her mediocre writing skills and lack of any ability as a typist, Arthur Lord knew there was no way Jacqui could become his secretary, so talked to her about the post of ‘Liaison Assistant’ who would work in his office and in the general office as required.
As he explained her potential new duties, he used his hands to emphasise various points, his left hand finishing just above her right knee. He left it there and Jacqui made no effort to remove it, of course. He ran his hand a short distance perhaps half an inch up and down her leg two or three times, finishing on an up stroke. He caressed her leg with his fingertips moving them back and forth gently.
He resumed stroking her leg, moving his hand up and down perhaps a couple of inches now and studied her face intently. Jacqui smiled back. Instead of resting the palm of his hand on the upper surface of the limb, ‘God’ edged his palm further round so that his fingertips were in ‘the nine o clock’ position. He began gently caressing the inside of her thigh with them.
As Jacqui did not make any protest he eased his hand further up her thigh so that his wrist was brushing the hem of her skirt and his palm was cupping the inside of her leg. Jacqui gave him an encouraging smile. Arthur Lord was proud of his seduction skills, and had laid a different female member of staff at every Christmas party for the past fifteen years.
Not once had his technique let him down and every one of the girls, a couple of whom were married, had gone home with a pussy load of his cum in them. One had subsequently knocked on his door to say she was in the family way, but there were places that could solve that irritating problem. Arthur Lord made sure she did not have to go on a waiting list.
His hand was now in the valley between Jacqui’s legs and he noticed that she obligingly parted them to make things easier. His fingers crept further up her leg to touch the elastic of her panties and then to glide over the material. His index finger moved delicately over the slight protuberance of her panty clad cunt lips to nestle in the valley beyond.
Clearly the girl was going to be sensible, as she had not made the least protest, and had eased her legs open. He ran his fingers up and down her cunt lips through the material of her panties. Jacqui separated her legs more widely and slid her bum down the seat, causing her skirt to ride up so that her panties were now on show.
Without needing to be told, she reached out with her right hand to cup his genitals through his trousers, kneading them gently. After two or three seconds, she let go, her questing forefinger and thumb searching for his zip. She found it and eased it down with an assurance that suggested it was not the first time she had performed such a task for a man.
When she knew about the party, Jacqui had assumed she would have cock up her, for what else was a party for but to give guys the chance to get their rocks off? Who fucked her was not all that important, but the more likely the guy was to be useful to her, the better. ‘God’ was likely to be a hell of a sight more useful to her than that dickhead George Daley who had been flicking popcorn down her cleavage a few minutes before.
Jacqui reached inside ‘God’s’ flies and eased his cock out. At least it was a reasonable size not some shrivelled up little worm. She took the foreskin between her thumb and finger and deftly rolled it back to reveal the helmet-like glans, purple and slightly moist even before full arousal.
She ran her thumb and finger around it and her hand up and down the shaft. Arthur Lord grunted with pleasure. The cheap little slut clearly knew how to play with a man’s cock. The previous year, after he had fucked his secretary Donna, who was good looking and sexy, he had decided to have Zafira for the fun of it, but she was hard work.
She had kept her legs clamped tightly together, even when it was hinted that there might be a promotion in it. There was so much fat on her thighs that you could knead them like putty, which made it slightly easier to force a passage between her legs, but in the end he had been obliged to hiss at her to spread her legs. She had done so only to reveal a pair of panties that could have done duty on an elephant.
Zafira had made no effort to unzip him, let alone to play with his cock, and in the end he had been forced to sit up, open his own flies and tell her to go down on him. She had stuck his cock in her mouth and clamped her lips around it as if she was sucking a dummy but with less passion.
Jacqui was a far better proposition, and within a minute of her starting playing with his cock, Arthur Lord knew he was close to cumming. He muttered.
‘Christ.’
Jacqui got the message and sat up. She bent forward, flicking her tongue so that it touched the meatus or slit at the end of his cock where he came and where he pissed. Arthur Lord always went to the loo just before the start of the party and held the foreskin tight shut when he started peeing so that the whole of the glans was bathed in piss.
It always turned him on that some slut’s first taste of her boss was of his piss. Zafira, as you might expect, had been crap. After holding his cock inert in her mouth for the best part of a minute, he had ordered her to suck him properly. Resentfully she had done so, but without making any effort to ease the foreskin back with her tongue, as any competent cocksucker would do.
Finally he ordered Zafira to pull the foreskin back which she had done with her hand, and none too gently either. At that stage, she had gotten the full benefit of his piss flavoured glans. The stupid bitch had tried to pull away. He had physically had to hold Zafira’s head in place and order her to suck him.
As he thought back twelve months, he realised that without her needing to be told, Jacqui was seeking out the sensitive skin, the so-called fraenulum on the underside of his cock that connected the glans to the shaft. Coated in stale piss or not, Jacqui flicked her tongue over the most sensitive parts of his anatomy.
For the second time in minutes, Arthur Lord realised that the girl had brought him close to climaxing. Whilst it would be a pleasure to unload in her mouth, there were better places to empty his balls into. It was time to take things to the next stage.
Chapter 4
Upstairs the party was developing nicely. Two or three couples had already paired off and headed downstairs to find some privacy although it was understood that ‘God’s’ office was out-of-bounds to anyone but ‘God’ himself. The popcorn flicking George Daley had teamed up with God’s secretary, the good looking Donna, and already had his cock buried in her cunt as she sat on her swivel chair in the typing pool, or secretary’s office as the girls termed it.
One of the tax girls, Linda was taking it doggy fashion in the boardroom, which was downstairs facing the general office, Tom Rice being the lucky guy. Jerry Duncan, who had been flicking popcorns down Zafira’s frontage was already having a deep snog, but was by no means sure if he was ‘a lucky guy’. There had been a sweepstake upstairs at lunchtime, with each of the guys contributing a tenner, so the pot came to almost £200.
The winner had to seduce Zafira and bring her panties in when the office reopened after the Christmas holidays. If he was successful, he scooped the pot. If not, he had to pay each participant a tenner. Jerry had been the winner, if ‘winner’ was the right term.
Zafira had been with the firm for a little over two years, so this was the third Christmas party she had attended. Zafira was overweight and at her first party she had been the wallflower, ignored by everyone the whole evening. Shy and resentful at the way people treated her, Zafira retired into her shell, making her isolation even more complete.
Even if she had made friends with any of the office staff, she could not have taken them home, as her parents did not approve of any close association with Caucasians. When Zafira married, it would be within her own race and to a husband of their choosing.
Having been born and brought up in England, Zafira regarded herself as being English and resented her parents’ attitude and also the veiled racism that sometimes existed at CBL. The girls she had been at school with had boyfriends and got laid. Except that she was Asian and a bit overweight, she was no different, but life sucked and she knew it.
Zafira was blissfully unaware of the office sweepstake or Jerry’s motives in chatting her up. When Jerry, who had a reputation as the lady’s man in CBL, showed interest she was over the moon. Maybe for once she could be a normal girl and have a guy between her legs, but a cruel awakening to sex when she was sixteen and disappointment had made her wary of guys despite her yearnings.
Jerry pushed his tongue between Zafira’s lips to give her a sloppy tongue kiss, hoping against hope that he could get the cow sufficiently aroused to make her a good fuck. He had his left hand round her back holding her head in place whilst his right hand was between her legs.
Judging by the amount of flesh on show with her short skirt, the stupid cow really did want to get laid and he was not altogether surprised. It must be depressing to see the guys clustering around every other girl in the office apart from that streak of misery, Vikki, and know that they could have as much cock as their slutty little heart’s desired.
Who, in their right mind would willingly try to slide between Zafira’s thighs other than a masochist, or as he added to himself, the ‘lucky’ winner of a sweepstake like himself. With no help from Zafira, Jerry finally managed to get his hand inside her knickers and start to play with her pussy lips.
At least they were reasonably wet, so when he got to fuck her it would not be too bad. Until he had slid his index finger into the stupid bitch up to the knuckle her kissing had been mechanical. No one would call it a class performance. Jerry had now managed to get two fingers into her cunt. As he was jabbing them up and down, he noticed that she was starting to move in unison, as if she actually liked being finger fucked.
Suddenly he felt her lips purse and she kissed him, sticking her tongue out at the same moment, the first time that there had been any signs of life since he had invaded her mouth. Zafira’s arms came round him and pulled him tight to her more than ample bosom. Given their dimensions, it was a shame her tits sagged, but with so much flab it was hardly surprising.
To his complete astonishment, he felt Zafira’s hand slide round his waist and search for his fastener and then his flies. The fat cow was actually trying to pretend she was a woman. Zafira yanked his trousers and boxer shorts down and then broke her kiss. She gazed at him for a second or two, her round olive face flushed and her eyes staring.
As she dropped to her knees, she reached out for his cock and teased the foreskin back to reveal the glans. It was not very well done, but the fact that the frigid cow had been daring enough to touch his cock without being forced into it was in itself a shock. She held his cock as if it would leap across the gap between them and bite her.
Just as Jerry was about to tell her to get on with it and suck him, she stuffed the whole of his cock in her mouth. It was not elegantly or well done. A quality fellatrice would have flicked her tongue around his orifice, and then licked the glans but at least she was sucking cock and had taken most of it into her mouth in one go.