Dare girl goes astray
- 3 years ago
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The Path Which Led Astray free porn video
It has been said that relationships based purely on sexual attraction, are forever defined by it. I see how that could make sense, though I know from experience that even the most lurid sexual relationship can grow and continue to grow as time goes by.
As I write my wife is by my side, reading as I type and she makes breathless little suggestions and additions. She wants to see our story, every shameless detail, laid out bare for all who care to see. Not because it has any particular significance to the world, but simply because it is quite the turn on to share such intimacies.
It is a turn on in the same way that putting very private pictures and video's of her online was a turn on.
That we never showed her face and were very careful we couldn't be identified if a loved one or close friend stumbled across our shamelessly naughty little adventures, did not diminish the thrill of it, but rather, increased it.
It meant there would always be one last taboo, there would always be one last, naughty fantasy, so we made it a rule and one we agreed would never break, no matter how carried away we became. Over time, however, it was a rule would delight in bending almost to breaking point. We would leave little clues, for example. She would wear certain pieces of jewellery which a very eagle eyed viewer who knew us may spot. They would never be sure, of course, but that alone was part of the thrill. They might never be sure it was her. But equally, they could never be sure it was not.
It didn't stop there, of course. This particular rule yearned, begged, almost demanded to be broken. So, over time, we bent it and twisted it almost completely out of shape with almost wild abandon.
That, however, is merely a part of our story and a part we will get to in good time. To understand properly, you need to understand some background. You need to understand that from the moment we met we had embarked upon a journey, constructed very purposely, to lead nowhere but astray. I lead her astray and she delighted in the masquerade of naivete - she was anything but and is even less so now.
All of which is why this document, our story, will be much like our naughty....in fact, downright dirty, little video's. It will be accurate in terms of so many things that, having read it, you find a nagging little voice has you wondering if we could possibly be your neighbours, or your work colleagues, or even friends you have known for years and....you may well be right. You might never know for sure, but you always wonder when next our paths cross.
Something At First Sight
We first met several years ago while working for a county council in Greater Manchester. Looking back, it seems like fate was intervening. I was merely a broke, badly paid temp sent by an agency while she had just been promoted to quite a senior position. She was a thirty five year old career minded woman who had been shattering glass ceilings, effortlessly, wherever she found them.
When she took over the office in which I worked, part of the treasury department, I couldn't help but be impressed - from a purely professional perspective, I mean. She seemed incredibly confident and if she had any misgivings at all, about rising so far and so fast in such a male dominated and self important organisation, she hid them incredibly well.
It wasn't long, however, before I began to understand just how difficult each day was for her. Realisation came on the back of the whispers and quite cruel little jokes. First of all she was married then (though about to seperate) from a much older man in a much more powerful position within the council.
This alone was fertile ground for rumours and speculation. She had, they whispered, fucked her way to the top. She had, they said, whored her way into the job. The male staff members, mainly lazy, low achievers in truth, were peeved that they were being managed by a woman many years their junior. The female staff members were motivated by general bitchiness, or so it seemed.
If she was away from the office for a day or two, when she arrived back they whispered she had taken time off to have a boob job. Whats more, they speculated, her and her management friends, her lovers at the top - of which, they gossiped, there were many - had arranged for it be done on tax payers money. A boob job on expenses or by dint of crooked accounting. After all, wasn't she married to the most senior accountant in the entire organisation. And wasn't she in charge the entire treasurers department? And didn't she have such very, round, heavy boobs bouncing around under the cashmere sweaters she wore to work?
And there it was. Not only was accomplished and professional, hard working and determined, she was also a very sexy blonde with breasts straight from the fantasies of teenage boys. Had she been old and ugly, with a wart on her chin, flat chested and with crooked teeth, she would have likely not suffered the incessant and c***dish rumours.
To her credit, however, she merely smiled and pretended not to hear. She did her job and as she sashayed sexily (through no fault of her own) about the office, she never for a moment even glanced at me, the temp. Why would she. I was nobody. I was broke. She towered above my station.
Nontheless, she would come to notice me. I made sure of that. I was determined, though not because of those incredible breasts, breasts which had me wondering, nightly, what they would look like without the sweater and whether she wore expensive, silk underwear or a sensible bra with lots of support. But, honestly, in the first instance, because I was impressed by her. She was a strong, driven, incredibly capable
woman whose accomplishments should have been celebrated and aspired to, rather than belittled by those who would reduce such an example to little more than appendages.
So, out of sheer admiration, I found any and every excuse to go into her office as often as possible. I would take her files, or ask for files. I would drop faxes off whenever I passed the fax machine and linger overly long when taking her one of the many cups of tea made throughout the day. In this way, little by little, she began to notice me and slowly, gently, we became very fragile, almost friends.
Of course, we could never be friends. Not in any real sense. But little by little and without really being aware, we began to share small confidences. Some days she would sigh and I'd ask what was the matter - even the question could have been seen as unprofessional at that point. But she would answer:
"I'm having a hard time with my ex," she told me on one occasion.
"I moved out last week. Oh, shi...look, for god sake, don't tell anybody in the office. They have enough to gossip about, without giving them anymore. Promise me?"
And, just like that, something shifted. We now shared a secret. A small secret which would no doubt be public knowledge with a week, but just then it was ours and it represented a level of trust. Things began to move more quickly after that. Our brief conversations, carried out with very neutral expressions so as not to appear overly familiar to anybody glancing into her glass walled office, became more and more personal. In turn, I became more and more flirtatious and she seemed to reciprocate.
Amid the melee of little details we each revealed about our lives, shared in two minute snatches of conversation, there were ever more unguarded moments. One day, following another heavy sigh and my once again asking if everything was okay, she replied, while thumbing through a daunting stack of paperwork:
"Yeah, I just get so bloody frustrated at times. Ignore me. It'll pass. But thanks. For asking I mean."
"It's no problem," I said. "After all, we're mates. Even if it is a secret." And we allowed ourselves a tiny little laugh, amsued that we should have become such unlikely coconspirators.
"Look," I said. "It can't be easy running the entire department with everything else you have going on. You're bound to be frustrated. Is there anything I can do to help?" I nodded to the stack over papers she was shuffling.
Quite casually she replied: "Oh, I don't mean with work. I mean at home. The fact is I've gotten used to regular sex. Since I moved out I'm not getting any at all. It's just a bit of a shock to the system." She looked at me laughed.
"Don't look so surprised," she said, "I'm am human, you know."
And with that there came another, almost seismic shift in the parameters of our friendship. I tried to come back with a with a witty and yet casual sounding reply, but looking back it must have was halting and cringworthy, partly because I suddenly felt for all the world that I was staring and that she was all too aware of the fact.
Over the months I'd trained myself to look everywhere but at her very impressive breasts, despite the way they rippled maddeningly with every step she took. At the same time I had become quite adept at looking as though I was trying not to look at them. Professional courtesy was the very least she should expect after all. ~
But, right at that moment, I had never been more aware of them. Of her. Of the sheer womanliness she seemed to exude as I coughed out a reply, along the lines of:
"Well, I'm here if you need me, wink wink. You can tie me up take your frustrations out whenever you like. I'm at your service." All of which was meant to sound breezy and meaningless. But it was stuttered. I lose my nerve as the words began to tumble out. I couldn't shake the feeling she could read my mind and the only thing on it was the thought of her naked and frustrated before me. Despite not staring at her breasts, I felt for all the world as though I was. By so plainly avoiding them, both our attention was drawn to the fact that I was so terribly aware of her. Of them. I felt like a stupid little boy, until...
"That," she replied, without looking up from her work, "is the last thing I'd want."
And suddenly, the spell was broken. I began to apologise, stuttering something about how I was joking and I hope I didn't over step the mark, and it was completely unprofessional of me, etc etc, blather blather blather.
"No, dummy," she interrupted. "What I mean is it would be the other way." And once again she allowed herself a small, slightly suggestive little laugh. I must have looked confused because she felt the need to explain further:
"I mean....do you really think when I get home after a day in this place I want to take charge. God, I spend all day, everyday, giving the orders. When I crawl between the sheets I want...well...I mean..." now it was her turn to become flustered. Not only that, she was suddenly very flushed. A deep pink glow appeared in her cheeks and down, down down, until it disappeared beneath her v neck sweater.
"Oooohhh," I said, grinning. "I see. You prefer to...let go, yes? Relax? Let somebody else give the orders, as it were. Oh my god, you must think I am dense. Forgive me. It's just that I broke up with my girlfriend a few months ago and she liked to be...in charge, in the boudoir, as it were. My head is still in that space I guess. I just assumed...actually, it's probably best I don't finish that sentence. You really don't want details of what I assumed. I'm digging a hole here, aren't I."
"You most certainly are," she said with a smirk. "And you're dragging me down there with you. |So. Go. Get back to work. I need to be thinking about spreadsheets and invoices, not being used as some kind of subservient plaything by a well meaning office temp."
Suddenly full of confidence again, I smiled: "And that's what you were thinking? Being used as a "subservient plaything by a well meaning temp"? Do I know this temp? I thought I was the only te...."
"Go, Now," she said while throwing a piece of scrunched up printer paper at me. In that moment everything seemed very light and easy. We had laughed openly and publicly. We were connected. I knew it and she knew it, though we could hardly imagine how far it would take us.
And so I raised my eyebrows with a smile, and did an about turn. As I left her office my head was spinning, heart racing and blood pumping to parts of the anatomy it had no business being at 2pm on a Friday afternoon while at work in a Greater Manchester council office.
A short time later she came into the main office and asked for volunteers to retrieve some long lost and badly stored files from the town hall basement the next morning. She would fully understand if nobody is available at such short notice on a Saturday, but anybody who can come just let me know later in Bar 38, where I'm buying you all a much deserved drink. At this a small, grudging and hypocritical hurrah went up like a wrinkled balloon.
It goes without saying that I volunteered. It also goes without saying that as people began to drift off to meet other friends and head to other bars, my boss and I slipped away and found ourselves alone, for the first time, not only away from the office but in a social situation and slipping easily from tiddly, to slightly drunk, to quite really quite drunk indeed.
To be continued...
As I write my wife is by my side, reading as I type and she makes breathless little suggestions and additions. She wants to see our story, every shameless detail, laid out bare for all who care to see. Not because it has any particular significance to the world, but simply because it is quite the turn on to share such intimacies.
It is a turn on in the same way that putting very private pictures and video's of her online was a turn on.
That we never showed her face and were very careful we couldn't be identified if a loved one or close friend stumbled across our shamelessly naughty little adventures, did not diminish the thrill of it, but rather, increased it.
It meant there would always be one last taboo, there would always be one last, naughty fantasy, so we made it a rule and one we agreed would never break, no matter how carried away we became. Over time, however, it was a rule would delight in bending almost to breaking point. We would leave little clues, for example. She would wear certain pieces of jewellery which a very eagle eyed viewer who knew us may spot. They would never be sure, of course, but that alone was part of the thrill. They might never be sure it was her. But equally, they could never be sure it was not.
It didn't stop there, of course. This particular rule yearned, begged, almost demanded to be broken. So, over time, we bent it and twisted it almost completely out of shape with almost wild abandon.
That, however, is merely a part of our story and a part we will get to in good time. To understand properly, you need to understand some background. You need to understand that from the moment we met we had embarked upon a journey, constructed very purposely, to lead nowhere but astray. I lead her astray and she delighted in the masquerade of naivete - she was anything but and is even less so now.
All of which is why this document, our story, will be much like our naughty....in fact, downright dirty, little video's. It will be accurate in terms of so many things that, having read it, you find a nagging little voice has you wondering if we could possibly be your neighbours, or your work colleagues, or even friends you have known for years and....you may well be right. You might never know for sure, but you always wonder when next our paths cross.
Something At First Sight
We first met several years ago while working for a county council in Greater Manchester. Looking back, it seems like fate was intervening. I was merely a broke, badly paid temp sent by an agency while she had just been promoted to quite a senior position. She was a thirty five year old career minded woman who had been shattering glass ceilings, effortlessly, wherever she found them.
When she took over the office in which I worked, part of the treasury department, I couldn't help but be impressed - from a purely professional perspective, I mean. She seemed incredibly confident and if she had any misgivings at all, about rising so far and so fast in such a male dominated and self important organisation, she hid them incredibly well.
It wasn't long, however, before I began to understand just how difficult each day was for her. Realisation came on the back of the whispers and quite cruel little jokes. First of all she was married then (though about to seperate) from a much older man in a much more powerful position within the council.
This alone was fertile ground for rumours and speculation. She had, they whispered, fucked her way to the top. She had, they said, whored her way into the job. The male staff members, mainly lazy, low achievers in truth, were peeved that they were being managed by a woman many years their junior. The female staff members were motivated by general bitchiness, or so it seemed.
If she was away from the office for a day or two, when she arrived back they whispered she had taken time off to have a boob job. Whats more, they speculated, her and her management friends, her lovers at the top - of which, they gossiped, there were many - had arranged for it be done on tax payers money. A boob job on expenses or by dint of crooked accounting. After all, wasn't she married to the most senior accountant in the entire organisation. And wasn't she in charge the entire treasurers department? And didn't she have such very, round, heavy boobs bouncing around under the cashmere sweaters she wore to work?
And there it was. Not only was accomplished and professional, hard working and determined, she was also a very sexy blonde with breasts straight from the fantasies of teenage boys. Had she been old and ugly, with a wart on her chin, flat chested and with crooked teeth, she would have likely not suffered the incessant and c***dish rumours.
To her credit, however, she merely smiled and pretended not to hear. She did her job and as she sashayed sexily (through no fault of her own) about the office, she never for a moment even glanced at me, the temp. Why would she. I was nobody. I was broke. She towered above my station.
Nontheless, she would come to notice me. I made sure of that. I was determined, though not because of those incredible breasts, breasts which had me wondering, nightly, what they would look like without the sweater and whether she wore expensive, silk underwear or a sensible bra with lots of support. But, honestly, in the first instance, because I was impressed by her. She was a strong, driven, incredibly capable
woman whose accomplishments should have been celebrated and aspired to, rather than belittled by those who would reduce such an example to little more than appendages.
So, out of sheer admiration, I found any and every excuse to go into her office as often as possible. I would take her files, or ask for files. I would drop faxes off whenever I passed the fax machine and linger overly long when taking her one of the many cups of tea made throughout the day. In this way, little by little, she began to notice me and slowly, gently, we became very fragile, almost friends.
Of course, we could never be friends. Not in any real sense. But little by little and without really being aware, we began to share small confidences. Some days she would sigh and I'd ask what was the matter - even the question could have been seen as unprofessional at that point. But she would answer:
"I'm having a hard time with my ex," she told me on one occasion.
"I moved out last week. Oh, shi...look, for god sake, don't tell anybody in the office. They have enough to gossip about, without giving them anymore. Promise me?"
And, just like that, something shifted. We now shared a secret. A small secret which would no doubt be public knowledge with a week, but just then it was ours and it represented a level of trust. Things began to move more quickly after that. Our brief conversations, carried out with very neutral expressions so as not to appear overly familiar to anybody glancing into her glass walled office, became more and more personal. In turn, I became more and more flirtatious and she seemed to reciprocate.
Amid the melee of little details we each revealed about our lives, shared in two minute snatches of conversation, there were ever more unguarded moments. One day, following another heavy sigh and my once again asking if everything was okay, she replied, while thumbing through a daunting stack of paperwork:
"Yeah, I just get so bloody frustrated at times. Ignore me. It'll pass. But thanks. For asking I mean."
"It's no problem," I said. "After all, we're mates. Even if it is a secret." And we allowed ourselves a tiny little laugh, amsued that we should have become such unlikely coconspirators.
"Look," I said. "It can't be easy running the entire department with everything else you have going on. You're bound to be frustrated. Is there anything I can do to help?" I nodded to the stack over papers she was shuffling.
Quite casually she replied: "Oh, I don't mean with work. I mean at home. The fact is I've gotten used to regular sex. Since I moved out I'm not getting any at all. It's just a bit of a shock to the system." She looked at me laughed.
"Don't look so surprised," she said, "I'm am human, you know."
And with that there came another, almost seismic shift in the parameters of our friendship. I tried to come back with a with a witty and yet casual sounding reply, but looking back it must have was halting and cringworthy, partly because I suddenly felt for all the world that I was staring and that she was all too aware of the fact.
Over the months I'd trained myself to look everywhere but at her very impressive breasts, despite the way they rippled maddeningly with every step she took. At the same time I had become quite adept at looking as though I was trying not to look at them. Professional courtesy was the very least she should expect after all. ~
But, right at that moment, I had never been more aware of them. Of her. Of the sheer womanliness she seemed to exude as I coughed out a reply, along the lines of:
"Well, I'm here if you need me, wink wink. You can tie me up take your frustrations out whenever you like. I'm at your service." All of which was meant to sound breezy and meaningless. But it was stuttered. I lose my nerve as the words began to tumble out. I couldn't shake the feeling she could read my mind and the only thing on it was the thought of her naked and frustrated before me. Despite not staring at her breasts, I felt for all the world as though I was. By so plainly avoiding them, both our attention was drawn to the fact that I was so terribly aware of her. Of them. I felt like a stupid little boy, until...
"That," she replied, without looking up from her work, "is the last thing I'd want."
And suddenly, the spell was broken. I began to apologise, stuttering something about how I was joking and I hope I didn't over step the mark, and it was completely unprofessional of me, etc etc, blather blather blather.
"No, dummy," she interrupted. "What I mean is it would be the other way." And once again she allowed herself a small, slightly suggestive little laugh. I must have looked confused because she felt the need to explain further:
"I mean....do you really think when I get home after a day in this place I want to take charge. God, I spend all day, everyday, giving the orders. When I crawl between the sheets I want...well...I mean..." now it was her turn to become flustered. Not only that, she was suddenly very flushed. A deep pink glow appeared in her cheeks and down, down down, until it disappeared beneath her v neck sweater.
"Oooohhh," I said, grinning. "I see. You prefer to...let go, yes? Relax? Let somebody else give the orders, as it were. Oh my god, you must think I am dense. Forgive me. It's just that I broke up with my girlfriend a few months ago and she liked to be...in charge, in the boudoir, as it were. My head is still in that space I guess. I just assumed...actually, it's probably best I don't finish that sentence. You really don't want details of what I assumed. I'm digging a hole here, aren't I."
"You most certainly are," she said with a smirk. "And you're dragging me down there with you. |So. Go. Get back to work. I need to be thinking about spreadsheets and invoices, not being used as some kind of subservient plaything by a well meaning office temp."
Suddenly full of confidence again, I smiled: "And that's what you were thinking? Being used as a "subservient plaything by a well meaning temp"? Do I know this temp? I thought I was the only te...."
"Go, Now," she said while throwing a piece of scrunched up printer paper at me. In that moment everything seemed very light and easy. We had laughed openly and publicly. We were connected. I knew it and she knew it, though we could hardly imagine how far it would take us.
And so I raised my eyebrows with a smile, and did an about turn. As I left her office my head was spinning, heart racing and blood pumping to parts of the anatomy it had no business being at 2pm on a Friday afternoon while at work in a Greater Manchester council office.
A short time later she came into the main office and asked for volunteers to retrieve some long lost and badly stored files from the town hall basement the next morning. She would fully understand if nobody is available at such short notice on a Saturday, but anybody who can come just let me know later in Bar 38, where I'm buying you all a much deserved drink. At this a small, grudging and hypocritical hurrah went up like a wrinkled balloon.
It goes without saying that I volunteered. It also goes without saying that as people began to drift off to meet other friends and head to other bars, my boss and I slipped away and found ourselves alone, for the first time, not only away from the office but in a social situation and slipping easily from tiddly, to slightly drunk, to quite really quite drunk indeed.
To be continued...
Tamera
- 01.10.2021
- 34
- 0
