Based on the fantasies shared by women on this site, you men on the make would do well to hang out in bars. Also, you’d do well to forget your name and operate anonymously. There was Sloane’s Fantasy Experiment, then my wife had a quick, anonymous tryst in the bathroom (and then there was that time the fantasy got real – and planted the seed for this dare?). The approving comments from female readers have confirmed that bar fucks are having their moment. This longing for anonymity fascinates me, and not only because it is shared by my wife. This desire for pure sex without the chance of consequences fascinates me, maybe because although I love pure sex as much as the next person, I love the chance of consequences, the human touch, at least as much. I wonder if there are two genres of fantasy, the “romantic” and the “sexual”, and although they often overlap, I wonder if women (in general) more clearly separate the two than men. Is that counterintuitive? Men are often said to compartmentalize their emotions, but I wonder if when it comes to quickies, women are wiser about keeping sex in its place, because they know all too well how quickly a wider mix of emotions can become chaotic. Or maybe these are called “fantasies” for a reason. Further research is required, people. Hot glances need to be exchanged across crowded bars, and the bathrooms must be populated.
I’ll also tell you a secret. My wife’s anonymous stranger was dressed in a way that tends to be my general uniform. I’ll tell you something else: somehow my excitement over her increasingly articulated desires would have been even more powerful if her fantasy object had looked nothing like me. And something else: when she arrived home from the walk on which I’m guessing she spoke aloud her fantasy for Mr. X, I was in my office at my computer. She came in, and without a word she crawled beneath the desk. “I’ve been wanting to do this,” I heard her say. “Just keep working. The thought has been making me wet all day.”
There’s another sort of fantasy, the obvious one, the occupational one, that seem made for jokes or pornography…but when there’s an unseen woman beneath your desk who’s managed to get your cock out with a few quick movements, who’s managed to get her lips around it and has placed it near the back of her throat, the cliché is blown apart and becomes exciting. My sexy secretary! Her hand on my balls, beneath my balls, slowly moving my throbbing dick between firm and puckered lips. I love blowjobs, but as one who generally likes to be in control, the ultimate pleasure is sometimes held off by my powerlessness, and by my friendly need to demonstrate the pleasure it’s giving me. But, “Just keep working,” she repeated, so I did (reading through recent posts on the site, actually, which admittedly made me even stiffer), and it took several minutes to accept her mouth as an anonymous one meant purely for my use, but soon enough I was having my cock sucked by a sexy secretary whose name and face I’d forgot. I didn’t picture another’s face or another’s body. She was just the sensation of lips beneath my desk and a tightening in my balls. And a moaning, too, coming from between my legs. This strange woman was as excited as I was by the moment, and I had a glimpse of why her anonymous fantasy was such a turn on.
After a while I couldn’t take it anymore and pulled her up, bent her over the desk until her face was pressed against the wood, and slipped up into a cunt that was wetter than it had been in weeks. I fucked a perfect, anonymous ass from behind and came quick with a guttural cry.
That night, with a friend over for dinner to whom she likes to talk sex, she couldn’t resist: “I was a sexy secretary this afternoon!”
“On my knees beneath that desk, a blowjob while he read e-mails.”
We laughed – that’s my wife! – and I got hard again for a moment imagining her playing a thousand other anonymous roles in a thousand bathrooms across the city.
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9 thoughts on “Sexy Secretary: the result of The Walking Experiment”
The combination of the gently forced one-way blow job and your knowledge of the trigger that got her into that horny state, without you being able to tell her, is what makes this sexy as hell.
Thanks, FT. That extreme excitement is always the result of a few layers, isn’t it?
Admittedly, in my last undergraduate year, my hottest fantasy involved surprising my favorite English professor under his desk during office hours. A snippet from the short story I wrote about it:
“I notice that his desk is one of those rather tall wooden numbers with a panel in the front. I imagine hiding beneath the desk, surprising him with a lunchtime blowjob. I recall from prior experience with one particularly jaded lover that I could deliver an effective blowjob—to the point where the guy couldn’t remember his own name for a good five minutes or so. Granted, it wouldn’t be romantic, being cramped in that wooden box, knees cold against the hard tile floor, but blowjobs aren’t exactly known for being particularly romantic in the first place. I wonder what his cock would look like, pulled out from the confines of his black slacks through the fly. Would it be long, perhaps a little narrow as it tapered to the head? Or, would it be shorter, but thick enough to strain my jaw as I blew him or stretch me out while fucking?”
This is great, ellariasand. Thanks. Something about those English professors, isn’t there…. And again, there must be something secretarial in the atmosphere.
Admittedly, I’ve never worked as a secretary or personal assistant as I tend to gravitate to more lone-wolf sort of work where I’m more or less left to my own devices. Still, I have to admit there’s something about the dynamic that appeals to me.
I’d love to see the usual sexy secretary dynamic turned around. I’d love to work for a gentleman who, while excellent at whatever important thing he does, can barely function outside the work environment. Of course, part of me would resent that someone as inept as him makes multiple times my annual income in a month. In time, he would come to rely on me to the point where he can’t even remember his middle name or mother’s maiden name the umpteenth time he’s forgotten his password and needs to reset it. I would ghostwrite email correspondence for him, elegant apologies for not being able to make it to some social occasion or gracious thank yous for various favors from his colleagues.
Then, one night, when called across town on yet another emergency errand, I’ll finally snap at him. I’ll refuse to give him whatever it was that he sent me for until he crawls on his hands and knees, acknowledging how helpless he would be without me. In a realistic scenario, I would be fired on the spot, my position readily snapped up by a perky yes-girl. In my fantasy, this would stir something in him, a deep hidden shame combined with fascination.
After his heartfelt, awkward apology, he would go back to his weekly routine of relying on me to have his shit together. However, some of the items he sends me for are… unusual to say the least. That weekend, he invites me over to his place, where he has installed an array of hardware on which I am to provide some recreational discipline.
I start things off light, telling him to remove all of his clothes and get down on all fours followed by a spanking. I work my way down the exciting variety of floggers, crops and paddles telling him how much of a worthless fool he is, how lucky he is to have someone like me around. I relish his skin reddening, flinching at the slightest touch. Meanwhile his cock is painfully restrained in a cage. He whimpers deliciously against a ball gag.
Once I’ve determined he has been punished suitably enough, I decide to reward him for his pain by sitting on his face. I feel his tongue lap greedily along my labia, then fluttering at my clitoris and then eventually daring to probe inside my cunt. His hands are restrained and I watch him writhe and twist at his bonds, occasionally giving his nipples a twist. I let him make me come as many times as I want, never allowing him his own release except by his own hand. I tell him to literally fuck himself, to jerk off with one hand while his other hand fingers his ass. Once he’s finished, I tell him to clean himself off and leave.
I suppose this is also a reversal of the usual fantasy of anonymity here. Then again, there is something to be said about meeting the alternate versions of the people we know.
Fantastic, and wonderfully imagined and written. Reads like an erotic novel in the making.
Isn’t this the truth about a lot of men??? The more successful they are, the more anxiety that they might not deserve it – leads to lots of acting out! (Why do you think Hollywood is such a completely fucked up place?)
All these guys do need someone to keep their day-to-day shit together, but what they really need is someone who knows that, accepts them for it (as opposed to resenting or trying to change them), is super sexual and is always one step (or 20) ahead of them sexually, and then….well…then you make them “work” for it in whatever way does it for you.
Sounds like a winning formula lots of empowered sexual women could take to heart…
I don’t know what it is about men in suits and the whole secretarial fantasy, but it’s always been a big one for me. Having worked in the past in a secretarial position and now in a similar one,I’m definitely aware of how turned on I am when a fit client in a well-made suit walks by and I imagine him pushing me over my desk and having his way.
This is one fantasy that i must act out one day. I dream of crawling under a big wooden desk and giving my boss the best blowjob he’s ever had. Gah!