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Title: The Doodad
Author: Tullius &lt;tullius@cantshootfs.cjb.net&gt;
Summary: Mysterious objects start showing up in our hero's life, with sexy results.
Part: 4 of 7
Keywords: MF mc oral preg



                                   The Doodad

   Tullius
   &lt;tullius@cantshootfs.cjb.net&gt;

   Author's Note
   This story was inspired by the MC Forum's Arena event for February
   2011, for which the theme was Object Domination. As always, feedback is
   love, concrit is how I learn and flames are garbage.

   Copyright
   Copyright in this work lies with the author, who can be contacted at
   the email address above. This story is licensed under a [1]Creative
   Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

   *

   You know how sometimes, when you're looking for something, you'll find
   the thing you were looking for last time? I guess it happens to
   everyone, but once upon a time it happened to me every day for a week,
   and it was the strangest week of my life...
     __________________________________________________________________

Thursday

   When I awoke, I was not alone, and I suppose I've jumped the gun,
   because there's actually still a bit of Wednesday to dispose of, being
   as how when I fell asleep, it was of course only about seven o'clock.

   I awoke just before midnight, in that hot, uncomfortable, drooling
   state I think we all tend to find ourselves in when we sleep outside
   our normal rhythms. I found a number of things: firstly, my ass did not
   in fact hurt too badly; second, I still didn't know the name of the
   woman who'd endangered it, and probably wouldn't find it out any time
   soon, since she was in bed next to me and, to my amusement, snoring
   away like a trooper. I got up, and the findings continued: my clothes
   were scattered around, but I managed to catch them all; there was also
   a room service cart with the remains of my companion's dinner. I
   dressed quietly and left. It seemed the thing to do.

   As it turned out, the parking garage at my office was indeed locked for
   the night, so I took a cab home, showered and went to bed.

   *

   Thursday morning at work was almost... restful, in a funny way. Nothing
   had been left hanging: Jenny had gracefully made it clear to me that,
   no hard feelings, neither she nor Tammy wanted another ride on the
   Tonycoaster, and the mystery woman whose guest I had been the night
   before would be leaving town today. There were also no inexplicable
   objects threatening to lead me into bad ways. I was ready to write off
   the last three days as a combination of misunderstanding, serendipity
   and there being nowt so queer as folk.

   I worked placidly amid the feeling that everything was back to normal
   until about ten thirty, when I found myself with a bunch of papers that
   needed to be held together. I looked around, and found that there was a
   stapler right in front of my keyboard.

   This was getting beyond a joke. I knew it hadn't been there very long:
   if it had been, it would have gotten in the way of my typing. I tried
   very hard to believe that I'd put it there and forgotten, or something,
   and picked it up.

   As it turned out, it was empty. My regular stapler, and the refills I
   keep for it, were also conspicuous by their absence from my desk
   drawer.

   *

   As I silently eased open the door to the stationery cupboard, and
   discovered that there was nobody in there, I meditated on the fact that
   there had to be some peculiar sort of intelligence at work in my life:
   after all, strap-on dildos are not naturally occurring. It struck me
   that I seemed to have incontrovertible evidence that there is in fact a
   God, and he is apparently a teenaged boy who thinks almost entirely in
   clichés.

   These epistemological and ontological operations occupied my forebrain
   while I tried the various sizes of staple available in the mystery
   piece of office equipment, only to discover that none of them would
   fit. All of which distracted me enough that I didn't notice that
   somebody else was in the room until I heard a small, polite cough
   behind me. I turned around, saw that it was only Jessica Rabbit, nodded
   courteously and went back to what I was doing.

   Shortly thereafter, I turned around again.

   Her name, I later found out, wasn't actually Jessica Rabbit, of course,
   but it might as well have been. She was red-headed, about five-eight
   and curved to a degree that can only be described as "sumptuous". At my
   second glance I discovered that she wasn't actually wearing a red
   evening gown, but a red skirtsuit simultaneously hugged her hourglass
   figure and made me want to.

   "Hi," I said, mindful that the second look I'd just taken could justly
   be described as a once-over. "I'm Tony."

   By this time she had come close and was looking through the assortment
   of pencils on the next set of shelves over. She was standing so close,
   in fact, that I found myself thinking Hmm, sandalwood conditioner is
   usually marketed as `for men', isn't it? She looked up and smiled at
   me.

   "Yolanda," she said. "I work in HR up on sixth."

   As I was mid-way through nodding my acknowledgment of this information
   and reciprocating with "I work for Marcus White here on third," she
   suddenly broke eye contact and looked down at the stapler. I felt like
   I was on a rollercoaster that had just finished climbing and paused.

   "Aah," she said, and pursed her lips flirtatiously, "the Swingline
   Classic. Good choice."

   "Yes," I replied, wondering how she'd imbued such a sentence with so
   much salacious mischief, and trying hopelessly to respond in kind. "I'm
   sure whoever it belongs to will be very annoyed when he catches me."

   She gave a husky-polite half-giggle which seemed to me like the epitome
   of generosity, then thrust her sinfully plump and provocatively
   carmined lips out and said "Kiss me."

   I jumped like I'd just been tapped on the back of the head. I'd been
   expecting something, but not exactly that. For all that I'd noticed a
   pattern developing in my life, I still wasn't sure of my ground, so I
   tried to play it off:

   "Is this some sort of sexual harrassment sting operation?"

   She grinned. Just to be helpful, so did I.

   "You'll find out if you kiss me."

   I found myself incapable of paying too much attention to this highly
   equivocal response. I was swaying back and forth slightly with shock
   and sexiness intoxication anyway, so, all things considered, it seemed
   easiest to just sway a bit further forward and let my lips land on
   hers.

   Almost immediately her hands came snaking up my arms and interlaced
   themselves behind my neck. She pulled me down in a manner that was
   passionate to the point of being rough and we smooched like teenagers
   for a while.

   When we were done she smiled at the sight of me and let her hands drop,
   bringing one thumb up to rub the worst of the lipstick off me. This
   turned out to be a pretty intense experience in itself, so it took me a
   while to notice that she was loosening my belt with her other hand. By
   the time it registered, she'd brought both hands to bear on the task
   and dropped my drawers.

   If there was one thing I had learned by this point, it was that the
   Teenaged God wasn't keen on letting me get a word in edgewise, and all
   things considered it was best to go with the flow. Resolving to do as
   much wasn't hard in this particular instance: on the one hand, yeah, I
   might have gotten caught, but on the other, Yolanda had just taken her
   top off. She wasn't wearing a bra.

   I found myself being quite uncharitable in my head -- the sight of her
   bare breasts was so reminiscent of a dead heat in a blimp race that I
   couldn't help thinking they had to be implants. As she pressed them
   against me and sank to her knees I decided that if they were, they must
   have cost top dollar.

   Why is it that the prospect of getting a blowjob from a woman with full
   lips is more exciting than that of getting one from a thin-lipped
   lovely? The sight of Yolanda's mouth encircling my shaft is one I can
   still call to mind in high-def whenever I'm in the mood, so I know from
   experience that most of the time, most of the available lip real-estate
   isn't, um, actively engaged. If I were blindfolded, say, and asked to
   tell whether it was Yolanda or, say, Jenny, giving me a hummer, it
   wouldn't be by lip size that I'd be able to make the call.

   Technique, on the other hand, might well turn out to be the deciding
   factor. Jenny had been all enthusiasm and energy, bouncing her whole
   face up and down on me, but Yolanda was much more deliberate and
   teasing, now planting slow kisses (and more lipstick marks) up and down
   my length, now tickling my frenum with the very tip of her tongue, now
   backing off and just blowing a thin jet of air over it. When she
   finally took the head into her mouth proper, I was so wound up that I
   could only endure the bare minimum of tongue action before I shot my
   bolt.

   She didn't seem to mind. She stood up, swallowed, got herself dressed,
   grinned at my temporary inability to stand and handed me a card.

   "There now," she said, "wasn't that fun? If you want some more, give me
   a call, or just stop by my office."

   I took the card, and hesitated between reading it, pulling my pants up
   and saying something. In the end, I only managed the first two, because
   while I was hesitating she sashayed away. The card read "Yolanda S.
   Bridges. Vice President of Human Resources." Her home number was
   already written on the back.

   As I was putting my pants back on, I noticed that the stapler was gone.

   *

   Things stayed eerily normal after that until about two hours after
   lunch, when my boss stuck his head around his office door.

   "Uh-oh, Tony," he said with a grin. "What did you do?"

   Fortunately, it didn't occur to me to feel guilty until I'd spent a
   good two seconds looking exactly as nonplussed as he was expecting.
   After all, from my point of view, I didn't do anything. It was all
   Yolanda. Just as it began to occur to me that the higher-ups probably
   wouldn't see it that way, especially since she was one of them, Marcus
   let me off the hook.

   "The head of HR wants to see you. Right away, apparently. Her PA didn't
   say why."

   "Oh." I said, still not sure if this was good news or bad, on so many
   levels.

   "Better not keep Mrs. Bridges waiting, hmm?"

   "Right, right."

   *

   "Ah, Tony!" Yolanda was all smiles as she met me at the door to her
   corner office. "Thanks for coming so quickly; I need your help with
   something. Come on in and shut the door."

   I did as bidden. Customarily, the boss in this situation says "have a
   seat." What Yolanda in fact said was "I want your baby."

   I stood and gaped at her as she sat in her chair: leather, of course,
   and half again as big as she was. The immense black blockiness of it
   only emphasized her scarlet-clad hourglass figure. When my gaze
   travelled back up to her equally scarlet lips I found them obviously
   amused, either at my reaction or at the gratuitous eye-fucking, I
   couldn't tell. She carried on in tones which betrayed no amusement,
   however:

   "My darling hubby is too proud to admit he's shooting blanks. We've
   been trying for months. Anyway, tonight I want him to think he's
   getting yet another chance, but actually I'll already be knocked up.
   How about it?"

   "This is, um, kind of sudden, isn't it?"

   "I guess so. If you want to take some time to think about it, I
   understand. In the meantime," she purred, "I'll just be taking all my
   clothes off and bending over the desk if you need me."

   She was as good as her words.

   "You saw where Kate's desk is? Right opposite the door. If you want to
   leave, go ahead. Maybe she's gone to make copies or whatever. Maybe."

   By the time Yolanda finished this taunt she was down to her panties and
   I was rooted to the spot, getting my second good look of the day at her
   enormous boobs. They were the same shape out of the bra as in it, the
   forward-thrusting, go-getting mammaries of the modern female executive.

   She turned around and slid the wispy, lacy nothing covering her pudenda
   down her toned gams, keeping her knees locked all the while. She put
   both hands on the desk in front of her and I drank in the sight of her
   generously-upholstered rump. Her hips had a sizeable flare to them, but
   she hadn't a trace of cellulite. Her body may have been built for
   comfort, not speed, but it was still a high-end model.

   By this time she was looking back over her shoulder at me, and she
   wiggled her caboose impatiently. I found myself noting the fact that
   the carpet did indeed match the drapes as I stepped forward, my hands
   not sure whether to undo my belt or reach forward. I tried both at
   once, exploring one buttock and discovering it was as firm as it looked
   with one hand and fumbling at my pants with the other. This, of course,
   turned out to be the least satisfying choice I could have made. I
   dedicated both hands briefly to the task of dropping trou, after which
   both were free to continue the voyage of discovery.

   So little time had elapsed between my entering the room and Yolanda
   getting nekkid that I still needed a little more time to, well, rise to
   the occasion. I bought it by caressing more of her body, beginning by
   putting my hands around her trim waist and seeing how close my fingers
   came to touching, then running them up and down her flanks, a little
   higher each time until I reached her boobs, on which I felt it
   necessary to spend quite a bit of time.

   Leaning forward as I was brought my groin into contact with her rear,
   and the combination of the increasingly dewy feel of her nether regions
   on mine with the liquid-like weight of her breasts in my hands brought
   me in short order to full mast. In fact my erection seemed to grow
   straight into her, and she gave a throaty gasp of satisfaction as she
   was penetrated without either of us having decided to do a thing.

   I brought my hands down to the very top of the curve of her hips, and
   set up a rhythm, thrusting at a low tempo at first, but very deeply.
   The large office filled with our mingled grunts and cries, and, in
   search of ever more intense sensation, I began to speed up.

   Yolanda's soft moans got shorter and higher-pitched alarmingly quickly,
   and before so very long she was positively yelping. As she reached her
   peak, she shifted a hand and put it down on a sheet of paper, which
   slipped, and she fell forward, nearly headbutting her computer monitor.
   I fell with her, and as we landed I bottomed right out inside her and
   her pussy went into spasm. I was close too, so I grabbed the edge of
   the desk, came up onto the balls of my feet and started snapping my
   hips forward in sharp, jerky bursts until I finally arched my back and
   shot my load inside her.

   I staggered backwards and fell into a convenient chair. For a moment
   neither of us moved, and I couldn't help but enjoy the sight of her
   naked body collapsed on her own desk.

   Presently she recovered her equilibrium, got up, grinned at me and
   started to get dressed. I followed her lead, pleased that I didn't have
   as much to do, which meant I could watch her wrestling her boobs back
   into their confinement, then shimmying into her skirt. She saw the
   appreciative scrutiny she was getting and blew me a kiss.

   She sat down behind the desk and, for an instant, we both glanced at
   the mess on it, then grinned at each other like naughty teenagers. She
   giggled, and then her eyebrows shot up.

   "Oh, I nearly forgot! This is for you. Congratulations."

   She pulled a slab of Lucite out of a drawer and handed it to me. I read
   what was etched into it and didn't know whether to laugh or rave.

   "Employee of the Year!?"
     __________________________________________________________________

References

   1. http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/