Loading...She met me at the airport.
‘My boss, Mr Li,’ (she pronounced it “Lee,”) ‘is very sorry he is not here to meet you personally. Something came up. He apologises, and hopes my coming in his place does not cause offence.’ Large eyes dropped to the floor of the Arrivals Hall, as many of the other eyes, nearby, were on her, the cutie who was giving me the message. I couldn’t imagine what she meant. If I had to choose between Li, a rather sneaky-looking rodent of a man I never really knew if I could trust, and this lovely little innocent, Miss Cheng … I knew which one I’d take! (I didn’t let her know this, of course.)
The trip from the airport to the hotel had her trying manfully, if someone who looked so obviously feminine as she could ever be described in that way, to keep the conversation going as I, at every opportunity, looked out the window at Taiwan, flitting past, as if the lack of her boss was an insult I could hardly be expected to accept. When we reached the hotel she followed with the porter, and my bags. Reception came too — so that I might sign the register in the comfort of my suite, rather than down amongst the common folk. I meant a lot to Mr Li, so he made sure I had the best suite in the best hotel in town, and all the attention that went with it. I am a buyer for Wal-Mart. Mr Li is a manufacturer of clothing, mainly lingerie. We take all his output. You could say he depends on us!
‘I’m very disappointed,’ I said, once the crowd had left. Miss Cheng stood on the carpet at the end of my bed looking downcast. I was lying on the bed. My Emperor Nero pose, though where I got it from I cannot think!
‘Please,’ the pretty Miss Cheng gasped at the carpet. ‘I must make a good impression.’
‘Who said?’ I snapped.
‘My boss,’ she replied, her eyes downcast.
‘Are you his secretary?’ I asked, guessing that she may have been.
She shook her head.
‘What then?’
‘An assistant,’ she responded.
‘An Assistant!’ I spluttered, affronted that anyone as important as me should be met by a mere … assistant. (That was the intention, at least.) Miss Cheng broke down, suddenly, in tears. I got up from the bed and did my, ‘There! There! That’s alright,’ routine, which involved my putting my arms around the cute little thing, and pulling her to me. I don’t think she liked that very much, me pulling her against me like this, but she clearly decided — I’m guessing here — that my showing her sympathy, albeit in a physically invasive manner, was better than my being annoyed with her. She rested her head on my shoulder.
I patted her back … then shoulder … then back to her back … then lower.
Her buttocks were pleasantly pert, and youthfully firm. She sniffed. I stroked her buttocks. She sniffed again and stiffened, slightly.
‘So what are you assistant of?’ I asked, keeping my arms around her. Keeping her pressed pretty close.
‘I’m a clerical assistant,’ she whispered, is if ashamed to be anything so lowly.
But it has to be said, as clerical assistants go, she was a very well put together clerical assistant. Her plump bulge of breasts, even now, gave a lush softness to the feel of her pressed against me. I thought I had figured it out, so surmised, ‘But as you are pretty,’ I let that sink in, to let her know I’d noticed, ‘Mr Li thought I would not mind being met by you instead of him. Is that it?’
I felt her head against my shoulder, nod.
‘I can’t hear you,’ I said, making my voice sound hard.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, confirming my guess.
I stopped stroking her lovely behind. I gave it a pat instead. ‘That must be punished,’ I whispered into her ear. Her hair was soft as silk. She sniffed again. ‘What would you tell Mr Li if I decided you should be punished for this?’ I asked, my nose nuzzling the side of her head.
‘Punished?’ she asked, voice soft, demeanour cautious.
‘Punished,’ I repeated, voice hard, demeanour light as air.
‘Nothing,’ she whispered, presumably deciding that is what I wanted her to say. I thought about this: this … situation we had here. Her body was relaxed in my embrace. As if she was resigned to it . And, after all, having this big important white man hold her body close was hardly the worst thing that could happen to her. Or something. I stroked her buttocks again. No reaction. I nuzzled my nose even further into her hair. Stuck my tongue out and touched a tiny stud earring in the lobe of her ear. And still I got no reaction. So …
I whispered to her, ‘I am going to smack your bottom for the insult your company has made by sending someone so junior to meet me at the airport.’ I felt her stiffen in my arms. (No matter.) ‘And I may tell you that had you not been such a pleasant young lady I would do much, much worse. Cancel our orders for Fall, for example.’ This certainly got her attention! The jolt that shot through her was strong. Stronger than the reaction I’d got when I’d first put my hand on her cute little buttock.
‘Smack?’ she asked, alarmed.
‘On your buttocks,’ I confirmed, then added. ‘Is this going to be a problem?’ I felt her head against my shoulder, shake. No, it would not be a problem. Good! I relinquished my hold on the girl and let her step back, but before she could react I added, authoritatively, ‘Take off your panties.’ And blow me …
She did!
Although only after a widening of the eyes, and a look of utter amazement. Then she brought herself under control, closed her mouth, averted her eyes, turned away demurely and, reaching up under her neatly cut skirt, pulled her panties down. White Sluggies. After she had stepped out of them she held them for a moment wondering what to do with them. I nodded at the dressing table. She went and placed them there, on the blotter, then turned back to me.
‘Come here,’ I ordered, sitting on the end of the bed.
She came.
‘Bend over my knees,’ I instructed.
She did!
I briefly contemplated what I had here. A delectable Chinese young lady dressed in a neat charcoal suit, her shapely stockinged legs hanging down one side of my ample lap, her shoulders and pretty head hanging down the other. Her fingers and toes were touching the floor either side. The cheeks of her sumptuous-looking butt was sticking invitingly up in the air. The feel of her breasts on my left leg was almost as intriguing as the sight of the upturned, girly butt.
My fingers went to the tight-stretched hem of her skirt. ‘Lift,’ I snapped. She did. Her lap rose up from mine — pushed there athletically (I noted) by her, by way of toes and fingertips. With a quick determined jerk I lifted the hem of her skirt to her waist. She settled back down. Delectable buttocks bared.
What a beautiful sight it was. Creamy and plump yet smooth and taught. She held her buttocks clenched, the cleft as closed as she could make it. But her muscles were too young to do more but enhance the cleft. I laid a hand atop her. One buttock filled my palm. ‘So your instructions are to make sure I am not displeased, am I right?’ I said. She nodded — afraid, perhaps, to speak; or too ashamed, lying as she was, backside bared, on the lap of this overweight stranger. I let my fingers trace the line of the cleft of her buttocks (felt them clench even more) then gave her a wallop with the flat of my hand.
‘Yeow!’ she yelped, surprised.
The imprint of my hand came up on her buttock in whites and reds.
Fascinating! I walloped her again. No cry this time, but she jumped. The imprint was more red this time than last. I walloped her a third time!
‘Please,’ she gasped.
‘Please?’ I repeated, as if confused. ‘How many strokes do you think your company’s insult warrants?’ I asked. ‘Six … a dozen … twenty?’ How would she handle that, I wondered, laying my hand softly on the bright red stain on her buttocks. I felt her relax, very slightly, then she sniffled, and said,
‘Do I really need to be … smacked?’
‘How else is this gross insult to be assuaged?’ I demanded, wondering if she knew what that meant.
She seemed to. ‘How can I make it right?” she asked, balefully.
‘Take your punishment like a man, for a start,’ I retorted, sharply, and whopped her a fourth stinging smack. She held her little cry to herself. So I whopped her again … and again … and again. Muffled cries followed each slap. She was biting her lip. Then she plucked up courage, and asked, between slaps — more a squawk than a cry, in fact, ‘How many smacks am I getting?’
I stopped the beating of the poor girl — though in truth the smacks were pretty lightweight affairs. I think it was the loss of face more than anything else that was getting to her. I settled both hands on her buttocks. I was giving her notice that as long as my hands were touching her buttocks, they were not hovering above, about to descend and hurt her little tail. She seemed to figure that out pretty quickly. I felt her legs relax. I started softly to stroke the places which were reddest.
‘How many smacks would you like?’ I asked.
‘No more,’ she answered, with more guts than I thought girls as pretty as she were likely to have — shows how much I know about very pretty girls. ‘In that case we shall just have to think of other ways of punishing you,’ I said, ominously.
‘That don’t hurt so much?’ she suggested, softly, showing considerable spunk. Smart cookie! I let my hands run over her buttocks. Shapely little globes of girlishness! My fingers slithered down the slope of a firm female buttock and into the cleft between … mmh. Not a whisper from the delectable Miss Cheng. I did it again. Her legs seemed to re-adjust, though whether to close her buttocks more or leave me more room to roam I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t noted the details of the change, just that there was one.
‘How long have you worked for Mt Li?’ I asked, as I slipped my fingertips into the cleft of her buttocks and sought her little ass-hole.
‘Eight months,’ she replied, as I found it.
I let a fingertip gently circle my discovery, then seat itself intrusively into the puckered dimple. Would I push it further? I sensed she wondered this herself. But before she could put the thought into words, I asked, ‘Are you the prettiest girl in his office staff?’
‘There are a lot of pretty girls,’ she responded, ducking my question.
‘As pretty as you?’ I pressed. Which embarrassed her, I think, for she didn’t respond. So, as if by way of compensation, I moved my exploring fingers on down the cleft, from anus and buttocks to all the other sweet morsels we both knew lay further in. Her buttocks tensed. Her legs straightened. Her ankles sought each other.
‘Do I tell Mr Li how displeased I am at the manner of my being met?’ I asked. Which caused her back to arch, her head to strain around, one hand to go to the carpet for purchase, to help her turn her head to mine, and she gasped, ‘Oh please. Please don’t do that. I’d lose my job. He’d be furious!’ So I replied, very softly,
‘Then, Miss Cheng, I suggest you stop clutching your ankles together.’
They disengaged. Her legs drifted marginally apart. Her eyes went back to the carpet. My fingertips trekked resolutely south!
‘So you do not want me to tell Mr Li about my displeasure?’ I said.
She shook her head, hair cascading down around her face, finger-tips on the carpet. Her mind, I guessed, was partly on the reaction of her boss, the fearsome Mr Li, and partly on what my fingers were doing in her nether regions. I could see there might be conflict. A light covering of soft hair surrounded her labia lips. I stroked the hair. Her buttocks twitched. ‘You have a boyfriend?” I asked, changing the subject, as my spare hand ran from the cleft of her buttocks up to her waist, and around her waistband …
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘Had a few?’ I said next, leaving the meaning vague, as I found the zipper to her skirt, the catch at the top. I loosed the catch.
‘Boyfriends?” she asked, wondering first, I suspect, what I meant by ‘few’. And secondly, perhaps, what the loosening of the catch on the waistband of her skirt portended. Or maybe the other way around.
‘I mean,’ I said, unzipping her skirt as if I was sharpening a pencil, or squaring a paper clip neatly on my desk, ‘have you had many boyfriends?’
‘Some,’ she answered.
‘Lift!” I instructed.
After only the briefest hesitation, her fingertips went to the carpet one side of my shoes, her toes the same the other, and she lifted her thigh from mine. She lost her skirt the way her Sluggies had gone. Her hips settled back on my thigh. She accommodatingly raised her feet towards the ceiling, knees demurely bent, so that I might lift her neat skirt off her feet. I laid it on the bed as I admired the contrast of milky skin against the pale charcoal of jacket. Then I put my hand between her legs. She jolted. ‘Please … excuse me,’ she stammered, getting perky again, showing her spunk. Lively little vixen.
‘Do you know the size of the orders we had last year with Mt Li’s company, Miss Cheng?’ I asked, being pretty sure she didn’t, curtailing her own line of thought. Her body relaxed. The legs that had closed on my invasive hand backed off … and spread. Leaving the way clear. I curled a fingertip in and onto her pubis, and was rewarded by it kicking downwards, suddenly and firmly, into my lap.
‘No,’ she whispered in response. I rewarded her with another touch to her sensitive pubis. Another downward jerk was the result.
‘Are you sensitive there?’ I asked.
She nodded. Didn’t speak.
‘Well I’ll tell you,’ I said. ‘Fifty-three million US dollars.’
I felt, rather than heard, her gasp at that figure. That was a lot of money. In fact it was ten times the business we HAD done, (but I didn’t believe she would know that). ‘A lot of money,’ I said, generating another thrust of her hips at my hand when my fingers stroked and probed the little sweetie’s clearly sensitive pubis. ‘You were telling me about your boyfriends,’ I said, running my left hand under the waist-band of the little box jacket of her neat charcoal suit. She had one of these lovely furrowed backs, I had discovered. Muscle neat and tidily running up either side of the backbone. Spine seated neatly in between. I felt her back arch, slightly.
‘Ticklish?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she said quickly. Too quickly. Then, as my fingers continued upwards, ‘Perhaps just a little,’ she amended.
‘Never mind,’ I said, as I let my fingers slip off her back, roam round her waist. I die for neat trim waists, and this was as trim and neat a waist as I had felt for … maybe ever. (This sort of opportunity doesn’t come along often. My dear wife, Doris, is as fat as a warthog.) ‘I asked about boyfriends,’ I reminded her, as my right forefinger did a quick light pass of the secretive hood where her clitoris lived. Another jolt resulted.
‘One or two,’ she whispered, keeping her buttocks as still as she could.
‘Come, come, Miss Cheng,’ I chided, ‘A beautiful girl like you.’ I ran my fingers down the centre line of her labia and found it was moistening nicely. ‘Must have had more than one or two.’ I pressed. The labia opened to my fingertips. Inside was warmly sticky. ‘Are you aroused?’ I asked the poor Miss Cheng.
She didn’t say.
‘Come, come,’ I said, liking the double entendre, two fingertips deep in the lubricated folds of her labia lips. ‘You are very damp.’ She hung her head. I used my other hand to help her jacket slip down her back towards the floor (and her breasts). ‘I asked,’ I hardened my tone, (too much Mr Nice guy and they start to take advantage,) ‘are you aroused?’ Her lower back and shapely waist were bared and very pretty. ‘You are moist, and a moistness as extensive as this,’ my fingers, teasing her, were starting to make a slurping sound, ‘clearly comes from arousal. So, and I won’t ask you again, are you aroused?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered to the carpet. And just as she did her legs came together and momentarily trapped my fingers then, as suddenly as her bringing them together was, she gently eased then apart.
‘Why are you aroused?’ I asked as my fingers resumed their attentions to her person. She sighed. I had found the stubby tip of an interested clitoris peeking beyond its secretive hood, so I gave it a gentle tweak. ‘Ngraah!’ she mewed. So sweetly, I did it again. ‘Ngraah!’ she mewed, again. ‘Why?’ I repeated, ‘are you aroused?’ She said it in a rush as if to get it over with, ‘I am easily aroused if a man does that to me.’ (There, she had said it! — and it was nice to know.) Her legs were encased in rather stylish stockings, self supporting, a ring of dark chrysanthemums round the part that hugged her thighs. One of her black high-heals shoes was on, the other had fallen to the floor.
I took my fingers from her labia, and clitoris — and all the other little secretive crannies and nooks — and ran them down her legs. Which stopped them twitching. With my other hand I snaked around the front of her jacket, looking for the buttons. I found them. Started to undo them. She brought her hands to mine. Intent: to stop the undoing. But I patted her fingers away. ‘Unless you wish your punishment to comprise a few more well-chosen strokes of my hard hand to your soft buttocks, I would suggest you desist from resisting.’ I said. Her hands went back to the carpet.
‘Desist from resisting,’ it had a nice ring to it, that.
I loosed all her buttons, opened her jacket, slipped it off her unresisting arms. ‘Undo your bra,’ I ordered. Hesitation. ‘Or shall we resume the beating?’ I asked. Her slender fingers went tentatively to the back fastening of her white bra — on her creamy smooth back — and she opened the catch, two hands, and then held it, and pleaded, ‘Please. This is very embarrassing.’
‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ I cooed. ‘I shall not tell Mt Li about any of this so long as you don’t annoy me.’ After a further very brief hesitation, she drew off her bra. Lay limp.
‘Come up, and sit astride me,’ I told her next.
Not a move.
‘I will not ask again,’ I said, some steel in my voice.
She lifted herself off my lap — tip-toes and fingertips, neat as a cat — and stood before me. Her breasts were simply beautiful. The nipples small and neat and dark. Their fall was firm and plump and lusciously round. The shape as gentle as a pear. I reached out and stroked one side on one. It moved. I let it go. It settled gently back. She dropped her eyelids and stared past the breasts with which I was toying, to her feet, on the carpet. Both now shorn of shoes.
‘My lap,’ I said again.
She stepped compliantly towards me, put a stockinged foot to the side of my scuffed brown shoe, another neatly on the other side of my other shoe, spread her knees wide, and lowered herself onto my trousered lap. I reached for her hips and drew her close. What a feeling! ‘Kiss me,’ I said, and held my breath as her eyes closed and her lips — they were thick and full and plump and pouting nicely — came towards my own. With the gentleness of a particularly succulent butterfly, they came on mine.
I let them sit like that, hugely fat and warm just touching mine (excited, even trembling). I ran my hands up the smooth sides of her torso. Her neck was arched forward, her chin thrust up, her lips held obediently … just so … but her breasts hung off me. I ran my hands gently over her breasts. I let them fill my palms. I used my hands to softly change their shape. Her mouth moved on mine. Her soft lips slack.
I opened my lips against hers. They softened even more and then, as if she was following my lead, her lips too came open. I ran my tongue inside her mouth. The tip an exploratory point, wondering what I’d find … Her nervous little tongue, for one thing! Trying to hide (I think). I eased it from its hiding place and made it dance a step or two. The inside of her mouth tasted of meadow flowers. Mine, I suspect, tasted of a railway siding. Or something close. I ran the tip of my old stale tongue under her fresher, younger model. Flattened it out so that hers lay flat against it. Then rolled my tongue around hers, flattened still, making the most of the contact.
This time hers moved too.
I pushed far into her mouth and felt her think about gagging. Then her own tongue wrestled with mine — partly in self defence, I imagine. But her wrestling had soon become intimately wild. I let our tongues intertwine, and push, and rub, caress. I pulled my tongue back into my mouth, and was rewarded by a foray of her own. Chasing my flighty thick tongue with the stenches of travel from her fragrant young mouth into mine, and back, then back again. I started to play with her luscious breasts as intimately as I did with her tongue. Her back arched, her shoulders climbed, her torso pushed into my hands. Thrusting her soft breasts into the source of their torment. The girl was warming up.
I took her hands from her sides. (Both were clenched like little fists.) I showed them where my shirt buttons were. Like an obedient child she started to undo them as her breasts and her mouth continued to receive my undivided attention. When a lovely young lady pushes your shirt from your shoulders, and crushes her lips against yours, and squirms her breasts against your warmly seeking hands, it causes an erection. It did with me, at least. So, my shirt off my shoulders, her arms round my neck, her breath coming hard and loud and fast, I reached behind my neck and grabbed her hand, and took it to my belt. Work to be done, young hussy, I thought.
Her fingers sat on my belt as if unsure what it was — she certainly made no attempt to unfasten the thing. So I grabbed her other hand from the back of my neck, which it now clutched tight, and put that, too, on my belt. I angled my mouth against hers, and rammed my tongue down her throat. This seemed to ignite some sort of short fuse, for as soon as I did, something inside her erupted. Her tongue came at mine like a hawk at a dove. She drove it in circles around the sweet cavern of her mouth. She breathed hot and fast, rasping at times like a gale, then her tongue — passion inflamed — dove feverishly into my mouth and probed deep.
Her fingers ripped at my belt. Unclipped the catch. Pulled down the zip. I lifted her hips, and mine, off the bed. Helped her push my trousers, and yesterday’s Y-fronts, down to my knees. I kicked at my shoes, then the trousered confusion that bound my calves. I rolled her onto her back. One of my shoes hit the floor. Then a second. A leg came loose. As I rolled on top of this sweet young morsel of loveliness, bugger me if slim and eager fingers didn’t slip between my legs, find my rampant John, and show it where to go!
The heat and the honey at the entrance to the girl was like confection and arousal gone mad! I slipped into her like a butter-covered piston ramming home. ‘Ngaaaarr,’ she groaned as her legs coiled round my back and her ankles locked tightly on my butt. Then our pelvises found a rhythm we could both get off on … and boy, did my little cutie start to get off! I am not a small man. Anywhere. I am hung pretty well, even though I do say so myself … and boy, was this new to her. She was Tight! But making room! And … Boom!
I revelled in the pace, and fire, and enthusiastic effort she was now putting into this high powered game of ours. The fevered clench and squirm of muscle. The eager thrust and hump of thighs. The rasping gasps for breath. The glazed dazed eyes. The wide open mouth. The roll of the backbone and pelvis as she sought to drive me ever deeper inside herself. Then she was suddenly frantic.
Wildly bucking, crying, mewing. Her fingernails started to scratch and claw. Bloody hell! What had I loosed here. A panther? She wasn’t small, but nor was she huge, but suddenly she was all raw, unbridled, fighting power. Feline power. Into my mouth, clamped tight over hers, came a deep down guttural groan. It didn’t sound like her. This was something new. Then it built, with the thrust of her hips and the clutch of her legs and the pull of her arms it built, to a mew, then a cry, then a high keening howl … ‘Ngreeeeee …hhh!’ She came over the top like a line of cavalry, sabres drawn, thighs locked hard on their mounts.
I didn’t even try to keep up. She was miles ahead. I’d wait till she came down. Then we’d go up hand in hand. She slowed. My prick was encased in a hot honeyed warmth that was rippling and nuzzling all round me. Her mouth had slipped from mine. Still open, it gasped. We held each other like that, cheek to cheek. She was gasping like a runner from a very long race. One of my hands was on her buttocks, feeling the feel of the thing. The other was tight round her waist, keeping the sweetie atop me. For that’s where she was. Atop me. Somehow in the frenzy of her coming she’d whipped me over on my back. What a lovely weight she was, though.
My hands wandered over her back. A finger went to her ass, and she let it in — no bother! I let it sink in. Softly. Nice and warm. I could feel the pressure on my prick, deep in and hard in her front hole. I amused my way like this for a minute. Maybe two. Then she lifted her head. Her hair was matted to her face. Her skin with a lively glow. Her eyes were filled with embarrassment. She shook her head.
‘This is,’ she started to say, bringing her hands to my shoulders, trying to push herself off. ‘Wrong,’ she groaned, making a face. ‘Wrong,’ she repeated, trying to push herself off me. Which is what made her aware of my hardened shaft of best US beef which was currently sunk in her pussy. Her eyes and the shape of her mouth seemed to grow. I gave the slightest of thrusts. Her neck, quite suddenly, leapt and stretched and her focus dimmed. I thrust some more, then let it drift slightly out, then pushed it in again. Her eyes had drifted closed. My hands now on her butt. Her butt now slowly rolling. The thrust, withdraw, and thrust, a joint sort of thing we got going. And her open mouth dropped down on mine. The second round!
Pretty soon I’d found her dark panther again. It was as well the cute thing was so young. The energy expended was alarming. Again the guttural growl, and then the mounting speed. We rolled her on her back and I thrust in deep. We rolled onto mine, and she shafted me every bit as hard as I shafted her. The growl climbed up. Became a cry. The kiss a thrust. The squeeze a grab. The stroke a scratch. And Bang! Back we were at the top of the hill, slipped from the bed to the floor, her ankles round my back, locking me tight. Locking her tight. Locking us tight, as my prick sought a deepness and heat that I sense was new to us both. As it swelled even bigger, thrust even harder, received more hungrily than it had been before … both of us surfed the rainbow. And I pumped, and pumped, and pumped. Then we did it again.
Twice.
Miss Cheng stayed the night. We did it again in the morning. Twice more. But then a funny thing happened. Once we were dressed and ready to leave we exchanged business cards, as everyone does in Taiwan. It was then that I discovered my supplier, Lo Yeung Manufacturing, of which Mr Li was the boss, was in the North of Taipei, whereas Miss Cheng’s Low Young Manufacturing, (of which a ‘Mr Lee’ was the boss?) was on the other side of town. Miss Cheng, lifting her eyes from my card with a look of confusion on her face, asked in a small voice, ‘K-Mart is Bloomingdale’s, yes?’
‘Well actually no,’ I replied.