“I’m coming, I’m coming!” proclaimed the blonde office aide in response to her immediate supervisor’s incessant, relentless demands for her lackey to hurry and finish so she could get what she wanted. Her boss had just instructed her to provide the ‘special treat’ that her subservient underling was duty-bound to come running to offer at a moment’s notice. It didn’t matter when, and it didn’t matter where. When the shrew that signs her paychecks snarled out a degrading command for her to spring to her side and service her with whatever she needed, Gretchen – the newly-minted executive assistant – was expected to graciously follow protocol.
“Look, if you don’t come in the next thirty seconds, I swear to God, Gretchen..” came the bark from around the corner to the kitchenette in which, stood atop the requisite stiletto balancing act that was demanded as part of her ‘business casual,’ Gretchen was doing her damndest to follow orders.
“Oh, I’m cumming alright, bitch,” sneered Gretchen as she shoved the round-bottom glass coffee pot onto the crusted old brown burner that had seen its fair share of coffee stains, but certainly not the brand of ‘espresso shot’ that the devious administrative assistant was eager to pump into the mug of joe.
“I’ve just got to fix that extra ‘turbo shot’ that you like in it, Mrs. Rodriguez!” Gretchen fired this waylaying comment back down the hallway, knowing that would buy her enough time to prep a fresh batch of the ‘secret ingredient’ that her direct superior had grown fond of after hiring her a few months ago. Gretchen slipped her manicured nails in between the mug and the handle and lowered it down past the lower hem of her skin-tight pinstripe pencil skirt – another article of required office garb.
“I remember hearing that ten, twenty years ago, those chauvinist ad men who fucked every desk jockey with a pussy from here to Long Island were the ones who put this skanky dress code in place,” Gretchen recalled hearing from her first cubicle mate during the first day of her on-the-job orientation. That was, of course, before sweet Cecilia got the axe for mispronouncing the name of Felicia Rodriguez, their (at the time) mutual overlord, on the phone with a ‘very important client.’ Gretchen remembered accepting that explanation for the gratuitous, borderline objectifying, threatening-a-harassment-lawsuit costuming expected of a worker bee on the thirty-third floor. After she caught Mrs. Rodriguez side-eyeing the supple curve of her skirt-clad rear end, she knew immediately that a certain someone was getting paid dividends on that ‘skanky dress code’ set in place by ‘chauvinist men.’
Mug in place, Gretchen looked back and forth down the juxtaposed hallways that dead-ended into the kitchenette. Sufficiently comforted that she would be left undisturbed for the next several minutes, she deftly lifted the bottom hem of her skirt and felt the material catch taut on the curve of her voluptuous, and apparently eye-catching, set of assets. Another yank brought them up over her butt, and simultaneously laid bare the whale-tailing scarlet buttfloss thong stretched between her cheeks. In front, however, was something entirely different. Licking her lip with hot anticipation of this next part, the dastardly coffee-fetching drone pulled her panties to the side and let her engorging futa cock flop out from the front of her underwear to hang down between her legs.
“Coffee machine is giving me some trouble, Mrs. Rodriguez!” Gretchen called back the wood panel lined walls of the hallway connecting her voyeuristic masturbatorium and her boss’ office, before quickly blurting out “ – no need to worry, though! I’ve got it taken care of.”
“You had better, Douglas, or it’s you’ll be sorry,” was the cheery response she received.
“Oh, you have no idea how sorry you’ll be if you fire me..” Gretchen muttered snidely under her breath while beginning to massage her stiffening ‘turbo shot’ basting rod. Her rubs graduated into a five-fingered stroke, then into a spit-lubricated one-handed wax after she dribbled a strand of gooey spittle from in between her lips to covertly give herself an time advantage without alerting the boss lady. She probably wouldn’t like it if she heard Gretchen spitting in her go-juice.
Gretchen fought to stifle a moan as she worked her way closer and closer to completion. She had undertaken some real self-starter level motivation to grow adept at this portion of the proceedings – she had to, as it took some coordination to pull off this maneuver. With one hand, she would position the mug of boiling hot java in the splash zone for the nutbutter firing hose that she would simultaneously aim and stroke. She couldn’t afford to so much as get near the rim of the cup; every sticky rope of her spunk had to ‘kerplunk’ right into the steaming hot vat of caffeine – among other things.
A roulette wheel of different thoughts spun round and round as the vengeful secretary came to the conclusion of the ‘coffee brewing’ process. The wheel would land on one of about four different mental images. One image she had grown fond of was seeing Felicia slurping down the potent concoction of caffeinated jizm while Gretchen savored the moment she could, hesitating before departing her office to watch. Another was the thought of, one day, informing Felicia’s well-established laundry list of corporate detractors, enemies, and conspirators that she had sucked down mugfulls of cum on the daily. Third, the transcendent moment of glory that was her boss’ compliment to her the day she first delivered the bean juice cocktail.
“Mm-mh! Wow, Douglas, I didn’t know you were good for something – this is one of the best damn brews I’ve ever had. In fact, better yet, make it part of your routine in the morning to fix me one.” Gretchen would never forget the look on her satisfied customer’s pompous, arrogant face after complimenting her exemplary barista skills.
Today, however, the fantasy that put her over the edge was the thought that, each day, her boss seemed to knock back the ceramic cum-caked container with more and more verve than the day before. It was subtle, but it was there. Yesterday, the distinct sound of a drained coffee mug hitting the mahogany desk pealed out before Gretchen had made it down the hall. With the thought that her superior not only was enjoying the nutty flavor shot that she was using to amplify her routine coffee kick, but also nurturing an addiction to it tantalizing her, Gretchen felt the preamble of a cumshot quake in her nuts.
Each gooey rope splashed against the surface of the dark brown liquid and spiraled in a vanilla-hued swirl of pale milkiness in the drink. Gretchen leaned back and grasped at the wood veneer counter top to keep herself upright as she deposited the byproduct of an uncharacteristically spine-tingling orgasm into the bottom of the drink. Once she had regained her faculties, a one-two shake of her modest-size futanari member cleared off the straggling drops of cum that clung to her cockhead.
“Coming, Mrs. Rodriguez!” Gretchen moaned before starting up the hallway. A few paces in, she remembered to tip-toe back and snatch up a spoon to stir the café (now complete con leche) until it reached a thoroughly emulsified and pale, tan color. En route, Gretchen pulled her business woman’s skirt from around her waistline and over her softening shaft. She entered the room without another word, crossed over to her cum-swilling supervisor’s desk, and set the cup down within Felicia’s arm’s reach.
“Thank you for waiting on me, Mrs. Rodriguez. I hope you like it.” Felicia already had the mug touched to her lips before Gretchen could finish her sentence. The worker drone wasn’t half way back to the doorway before she heard the empty cup clattering to the desk. Gretchen paused her brisk pace and languished in the sounds of the source of her hostile work environment gluttonously smacking her lips to savor Gretchen’s flavor. Felicia’s cum addiction was, to the delight of the one who fostered it in her, utterly reified by how quickly that mug was drained.
“Good as always, Douglas. I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”
Gretchen turned back to face her, and put on her proudest, fakest smile.
“I’ll have to start charging you for it, ma’am.”
