by Kyoko Church
Imagine
an average guy with a wife, a job, average house, average car, average sex
life… Well, not exactly. He has a secret he finds so embarrassing that he never
talks to anyone about it. And then one day he meets her…
An
architect chairs the newly formed Sexual Harassment in the Workplace Committee.
When the consultant he hires to help him organize the new committee turns out
to be a red haired bombshell, he tries to rein in his untoward thoughts.
But
when she uncovers his embarrassing little secrets, this married man ends up in
a relationship that’s so wrong on every level of his carefully put together
life.
How
long will he let his burning carnal desires threaten everything he’s worked so
hard for?
From the book -
When he got back to his
office she was stretched out on the leather sofa beneath the large picture
window that looked out high over the city. Her feet were up, Kate Spade heels
on the floor. Again, those red toenails.
He shut the door behind him.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I made myself
comfortable while I was waiting. Been on my feet all day.’ The look she gave
him then could only be described as imploring. Imploring in a way that sucked
his gaze back to those gorgeous feet. An inexplicably helpless feeling bloomed
in his chest.
‘Have a seat,’ she said, indicating the sofa beside her.
He settled uncomfortably at the other end, not knowing
where to look or how to position his body. She chuckled. ‘A little closer,
silly,’ she said, lifting her foot up, offering it to him as he moved closer.
He blushed but took it, gently. Her foot was surprisingly small and slender,
the skin pale so the red toenails stood out sharply.
His mind raced. Raced. Everything in his brain
screamed how wrong this was, how they were the two people in the entire
building most aware of the wrongness, charged as they were with informing the
entire company on the intricacies of how wrong everything about a man touching
a woman’s foot in a work setting was.
Especially when
said man was pitching a tent in his pants.
But he
absolutely could not stop. His dick screamed back at his brain to shut the fuck
up, just shut up for once and let me have this one.
Well, what harm
would a little consensual foot rub do? That was the key word, right?
Consensual. He began to massage slowly.
‘Wait a second.’ He looked up. ‘Turn to me a little,’ she
said. ‘That’s right. Now lift your knee up onto the couch.’ He did so and
jumped as she placed her other foot gently but firmly against his crotch. ‘Keep
rubbing,’ she commanded, gesturing at the foot in his hand. ‘I just want to
make sure you’re not getting excited.’ Fire exploded in his face. He looked
away from her, at her foot, then looked away from that.
She laughed.
‘It’s OK,’ she cooed. ‘I know you like my feet. And I do need a foot rub right
now. So you rub my foot.’ He hesitated. ‘Do it,’ she said, not laughing now.
‘But I just need to make sure, you know, for legal reasons, that you’re not being a disgusting pervert and
getting all excited about my pretty feet. I need to make sure this foot rub is
just about you doing something I’ve asked you to do for me. Alright? For
massage therapy purposes.’
How could he be
so confused and at the same time his dick be growing? Did she mean it? Of
course she didn’t, but he couldn’t be sure.
He rubbed,
obediently trying to clear his mind, trying to think of anything but her slim
foot in his hands. But there was also the pressure of her other foot against
him. And then she started making little noises. Little whimpers, groans of
pleasure. ‘Mmm, that’s right,’ she purred. ‘Ooo, right there, that feels so
good.’ He was helpless. He sat
helplessly rubbing her sexy foot while his cock grew with a mind of its own.
‘Oh my god,
what is going on?’ She looked at him. ‘I can feel you, you know,’ she said,
wiggling her toes against his stiffness, only worsening matters. ‘God, what
horny little thoughts are going through your head? Was it the noises I was
making?’ she chided. ‘I was only enjoying the foot rub! You weren’t thinking
that’s what I sound like when I fuck, were you?’ Oh! To hear that word. To hear
that word come out of her mouth. It hung in the air, like a spark, like an
echo. A mere half hour ago she had been standing in the conference room
lecturing on what constituted inappropriate language in the workplace! But he
could not deny that he had never heard that word sound so fucking sexy ever
before. A hard slap of a word and when she said it he immediately wanted
nothing more than to do it. With her. Now.
He stared into
his lap, unable to respond. ‘Well, if you are going to act like a horny, little
dog, then that’s how I’m going to have to treat you.’
This is how it
was that the chair of the sexual harassment committee of X Architects found
himself on all fours on the floor in front of this goddess, pants around his
knees, praying, hoping against hope that no one opened the door to his office
that he didn’t think to lock, while he humped his straining shaft against her
foot like some kind of human lap dog.
It was sheer
and utter madness. And he was powerless against it.
Even though she
didn’t make it easy for him, did things like swing her foot away, complain that
he was going too fast, laugh, force him to keep all four limbs on the ground,
to not use his hands, even still his little problem reared its ugly head.
He spurted,
hips helplessly bucking, after two minutes.
Oh no.
Here it comes.
He knelt in
front of her and braced himself. He steeled himself against the familiar
onslaught of feeling – frustration, anger, shame – that always raged through
him like a firestorm, burning through everything in its path. But instead of
the usual reactions of disappointment, pity, anger or worse, the yawning
silence, pregnant with judgments and unspoken resentment, there was something
different.
Giggling. Like
tinsel. Like glasses chinking together, crystal laughter.
‘My, my, my, we
are the eager little beaver, aren’t we?’
Heat rose, he
could hear the blood pump through the vessels in his head.
‘That’s OK,
sweetie,’ she said and she leaned over, put her lips right next to his ear, so
he could feel her breath on his skin. ‘Mistress has all sorts of ways of
dealing with a horny little puppy like you,’ she whispered.
Oh fuck.
‘Starting
with,’ she said, dipping her finger in the creamy mess on her foot, ‘rubbing
your nose in it.’ She swiped her finger across the space between his nose and
his upper lip. A moustache of his own shame. The sharp, acrid odour immediately
brought a fresh jolt of humiliation. ‘You may not rub or wash that off,’ she
announced. She took his chin with her fingers, stared right into his eyes. His
heart pounded in terror. ‘You will wear your disgusting mess on your face. It
will be there for all of the rest of your meetings today.’ Oh god. ‘And when
you go home and kiss your wife.’ Oh god! ‘And when you put your head on your
pillow tonight.’ She sighed then, closed those gorgeous eyes and smiled. ‘When you have your shower tomorrow morning
you may wash it off then.’ He realized then he wasn’t breathing and took in a
gasping breath.
And suddenly he
realized something else. Something astounding.
He was hard
again. Harder than he had been the first time.
There was
shame. But no anger. There was humiliation. But no frustration.
Pure
humiliation. Not blazing, like the white hot heat of the firestorm of his
secret torment, but rolling in slowly, like molasses, covering him, turning his
insides liquid, enveloping him in a mass of humility, shrinking him down,
making him want to place his hard, needy little cock before her in an act of
complete submission.
And what she
did then made it throb and ache even more.
She leaned in
and placed the smallest little kiss with her full, soft, pouty red lips right
on the tip of his nose. Like the period at the end of a sentence.
There it was.
Just like that. Turned a hair to the left. His torment died.
His kink was
born.
Kyoko Church discovered the power of
the written erotic word when she was 16 years old and penned a very explicit
missive to her boyfriend detailing all the naughty things she wanted to do to
him. When he received it, boyfriend was impressed. When he found it, father was
not. For the next 18 years she hid her naughty thoughts in shame. Until she
found a community where they were once again appreciated for the well-imagined
smut they are. Her short stories have been published in anthologies by Black
Lace, Xcite Books, HarperCollins Mischief Books soon with Sweetmeats Press. Book One, Nymphomania,
and Book Two, Sapphic Secrets, in her
Draper Estate Trilogy were published by Xcite in 2012. For Her Pleasure was published by HarperCollins Mischief in
February 2013.
A
Canuck by birth, she has recently made Australia her home. She is currently
learning to drive on the left and say G’day convincingly.
Kyoko Church's books can be found on the following pages:
http://www.amazon.com/For-Pleasure-Mischief-Books-ebook/dp/B009UL1U5O/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1361161166&sr=1-5
