Workplace sex with a pretty brunette

Dissy was (and still is) a pretty brunette with gray eyes, an
appealing, healthy body and an irrepressible sense of fun. She had
just recently finished her dissertation and gotten her degree, and was
working part-time for a trade association while she evaluated her
career options. She was currently mulling over a sales position. Even
if that wasn’t what she had planned to do when she grew up, she was a
natural — everyone who knew her agreed to that.

One night after work several of us met at a neighborhood pub that is
well known for its relaxed policy towards the conduct of its patrons.
It’s possible to get kicked out of the place for fighting or smoking
dope, but otherwise pretty much anything goes. The place was packed,
as usual, and we staked out a territory near the bar. After a few
drinks Dissy got frisky and started pulling her shirt up, flashing her
pretty tits to a friend who was standing a few feet away, much to his
delight. Before long she had treated several other pleased patrons to
more than a few eyefuls; judging by the eraser-like state of her
nipples, she was enjoying it at least as much as they were.

Our party broke up and Dissy and I left the bar to go pick up my car
at the ad agency where I worked, stopping on the way for a six-pack of
beer. By the time we arrived at the agency we were both ready for a
bathroom break. Everyone had gone home, but since all of us who worked
there had keys to the building bathroom access was no problem.

After we relieved ourselves, I showed Dissy around the office a
little. She was mildly interested in the computers and art studios,
but fascinated by the production darkroom. Dominating the darkroom was
a large vertical camera, used to shoot pasted-up art to make
advertising slicks for distribution to print media. It was also used
to shoot photographs to make screened halftones for printing purposes.
At the bottom of the camera was a copyboard that could be raised and
lowered; right above the copyboard was a lens in an adjustable
bellows. At the top was a lid with a vacuum back that held
photosensitive paper while bright quartz lights flooded the art on the
copyboard. After the negative paper was exposed it was mated with a
positive receiver sheet, then run through a processor with a chemical
bath. When the sheets were peeled apart, a sharp black-and-white image
appeared on the receiver sheet. The whole process took maybe three
minutes per shot.

Since she seemed interested, I asked Dissy if she would like to see
how it worked. “Tell you what,” I said, “this camera will shoot 3-D
objects too. Why don’t you lie on the copyboard and I’ll take your
picture?” She tilted her head inquisitively, smiled, then went through
the gyrations necessary to get under the lens, her back on the
copyboard. I cranked the lens up to get as much of her body in the
image as possible, then used the ground glass to bring her into focus.
Then I selected a high-resolution screen and turned out the white
lights, which left everything in the room bathed in the red glow of
the safelights. I took some paper out of the light safe, switched on
the vacuum back and prepared to take my shot. “Try not to move much,”
I said. “This will take about ten seconds.”

I hit the exposure button, and Dissy was immediately bathed in a
brilliant bright light, her eyes closed and a smile on her face. One
arm cushioned her head, while the other rested on her stomach, her
right thumb hooked into the top of her jeans. After the exposure was
completed, I ran it through the processor and showed it to Dissy. It
was a little dark, but she was delighted.

“Cool!” she said. “Can we do another one?”

“Sure,” I responded, “that’ll give the opportunity to dial in the
exposure some more.”

Then a thought occurred to me. “Tell you what,” I said, “why don’t you
flash the camera?”

She laughed, and pulled off her shirt. “Okay, but I’m covering up my
face and this is all you get.” I nodded. And smiled.

Dissy lay on her back on the copyboard again, this time with both her
arms up, with her forearms over her face. The adjustment in the
exposure time made for a better image, but there was still room for
improvement. Would she like to do another? Sure.

This time, I suggested that it would make a more flattering photograph
if she would roll towards one side a little. And it would be more sexy
if she would unbutton her jeans and undo her zipper a little so that a
few more inches of flesh would be visible under her navel. She
immediately complied, and the next shot was much better. “Let’s do
some more!” she said. Fine with me, I thought. I sure hoped nobody
else needed to pop into the office for anything.

Within the space of another two shots, Dissy had shed all the rest of
her clothes along with her inhibitions; her face wasn’t covered
anymore, nor was anything else. She pulled on her nipples and pinched
their tips, something I knew from personal experience drove her wild.
(It made a great shot.) One of her hands traveled down to her pussy,
which had begun to glisten in the bright quartz lights. Then both
hands made the trip south, and she moaned as she clutched at herself,
her sweaty back sliding on the glass copyboard while she writhed
towards the first of several orgasms that she was to have that night.
I handed her a bottle from the six-pack we had carried in, and she
promptly plunged it in, amusing herself with it long enough for me to
make a couple more exposures. And she didn’t stop with the beer
bottle, either — after spotting the camera operator’s collection of
toys, she demanded to see his squeaky rubber crocodile, which I passed
to her. She made it squeak without using her hands. I handed her a
little Bart Simpson doll, and in he went, after she used his spiky
rubber haircut to give an aggressive localized massage to her swollen
clit. What a great shot that was, with a goofily-grinning Bart peeking
out from between her pussy lips. Coooool, Dude!

After an hour or so of this, she padded off to find the bathroom
again. I took the opportunity to mop the sweat and juices off the
copyboard and polish it with glass cleaner, straighten up the
darkroom, put the toys back and hide the used negative paper at the
bottom of a large trash bin. I put all the shots I had made in a
folder, then gathered up Dissy’s clothes and went out to meet her
outside the restroom by the art department. I was ready to go to her
place, my place — any place where I could give her my own
non-rubberized toy. Soon.

As it turned out, I didn’t have far to go. Dissy came out of the
restroom — still naked of course, since I was holding her clothes —
pulling on her nipples, running her tongue around her lips, her
eyelids slightly closed. “Hello there,” she purred. “I’m your new
Kodak representative.”

“Uhh…we use Agfa,” I responded. My slacks betrayed my interest as I
watched her approach.

“Why Agfa?” she breathed, still pulling on her nipples as she stood
toe-to-toe with me. “Why not Kodak?”

“Shorter peel time,” I responded, smiling. I dropped her clothes on
the light table I was leaning on.

“Our peel time isn’t so bad, is it?” she asked. “Besides, buying from
Kodak offers other advantages. Would you like to know about them?”

“Sure,” I said. I’d listen to whatever she had to say at this point.

“Good. Then just relax while I make my presentation.” She started
telling me about the virtues of Kodak service as she unbuttoned my
shirt, her lips brushing my chest as she followed the buttons down.
The transition went smoothly as she got to my belt and zipper; placing
her hands on my hips she slid my pants and underwear off in one fluid
motion. “Shoes, please,” she said, and I dutifully kicked them off
with my toes. Then she gracefully sank to her knees — making sure to
rub her nipples on my stomach on the way down — and took my
still-growing meat into her mouth.

She tongued the end of it. She nibbled up and down the shaft. She
deep-throated me as she lightly squeezed my balls with her right hand
and played with my ass with her left. I leaned against the light
table, my eyes closed, losing whatever concern I had that anyone else
would come in to the office. What the hell. I could always move,
change my name and get another job. But I might never have an
experience like this again.

Suddenly, she stopped. “Does your Agfa rep provide this service?” she
asked, looking up.

“Nooooo,” I answered, “not that I know of.” Our Agfa rep was a
fiftyish male

“Let me acquaint you with some other aspects of our customer
satisfaction program,” she said, pulling me down and pushing my back
onto a soft oriental rug that one of the graphic artists had brought
in. As I settled back I imagined that if Dissy ever did take a sales
job, she would do very, very well. And whatever she sold, I would want
to be a buyer of.

She straddled me while spinning Kodak sales pitches off the top of her
head, pausing only when I entered her. Her eyes closed, and she placed
my hands on her breasts. “Squeeze the very tips,” she whispered.
“Squeeze them as hard as you want.”

I did as I was told, and she put her hands on her thighs and started
to pump up and down, slowly at first and then faster and faster.
Looking up I watched her expressions change as she tossed her hair,
her head tilted back and her mouth open, panting. As she thrust her
pelvis forward slightly more, she lowered her head and opened her eyes
a little. She focused on something, and her rhythm slowed. “If you
have a moment,” she said, still in character, “I’d like to show you
one other Kodak service.”

She had spotted a jar of Vaseline sitting next to an art waxer. It was
there because the graphic artists liked to stir a little in to smooth
out the wax, but Dissy had other ideas. She was up and back in an

“You’re familiar with the plastic cans we ship our film in?” she
asked, applying a generous amount of Vaseline to my still-erect penis.
“You’re about to learn how to pack something in another type of Kodak
can. The Kodak Lady’s can.”
She snapped the lid back on the Vaseline jar, gave me a meaningful
look then got on all fours, her shapely ass facing me.

I mounted her and she worked me in a little at a time until my whole
shaft was inside her. Then I started pumping in and out, slowly and
gently at first, then faster and harder as she began to buck against me.

And buck she did. I thrust for all I was worth, occasionally giving
her nipples a squeeze. She rubbed her pussy and plunged her fingers
deep inside herself, then held her hand up to my mouth so I could
taste her juices. She went from her palms to her elbows, her cheek
pressed against the floor — moaning, panting, screaming, and urging
me on.

Finally, I could feel the internal pressure in my groin beginning to
build. I could tell I was getting harder, and Dissy could tell it too.
She backed up into me and I slammed into her deeper and deeper, her
cries propelling each thrust until I came to and went by the point of
no return, emptying shot after shot of hot semen into her, my moans at
last joining hers until I was spent.

We collapsed on the floor, exhausted. I kissed her neck and back, and
caressed her lips, breasts, belly, hips and thighs. We were quiet
until our breathing returned to normal and I naturally withdrew.
“Thank you for making time for my presentation,” she murmured,
smiling. “Sold!” I responded.

Our legs — our entire bodies — were wobbly from exertion, adrenaline
and excitement. With trembling fingers we got dressed, straightened up
our mess, replaced the Vaseline, and started to head out of the
office. (I made sure I had that folder!) On our way out, I stopped to
put a certain now-warm bottle of beer into the company fridge. Whoever
drank it would surely find it unusually tasty.