The Dreams of the Succubii Page 13

  We practised sex, of the kindest type, where due consideration was given at all times to the satisfaction of one's partner, and the only consolation was the occasional wild, ecstatic, guilty wank when they had gone back to their mothers for the weekend, leaving me to my books, computer, and the odd bit of 'nasty' streaming porn that exists everywhere on the net. In fact, if it had not been for the internet, I would never have known there were 'dirty' girls whose sole existence in life seemed to be as a sort of sacrificial offering on the altar of young, middle class males' unnatural lusts.

  The amount of nubile eastern Europeans I have seen messily grinning as they are swallowing come, or having their arseholes expanded by surly, tattooed, slightly yellow louts with shaved cocks, would fill a small hotel. But of course, that's just the internet. Real life is slightly more 'nice'.

  Or at least it was.

  I had been working for a fairly major independent software and communications group for nearly two years as a systems analyst, at a great salary, in a great location near Liverpool street station. My last 'nice' girlfriend had been lost over the horizon for over a year, and so there was nothing to interrupt my career, my sleep, or my social life, except everything I enjoy. Beer, Friday curries with the guys, short skiing breaks, Lord of the Rings weekends, marathon Call of Duty matches. Everything a young geek loves. Life, apart from the lack of regular sex with someone else, was almost frigging perfect. And then, one Monday morning, I am called in by my supervisor, George, and he tells me that he is moving on, but not to worry, they have a bit of a superstar coming in to replace him.

  Estelle Verne,who for a while we all called super-arse, but who didn't take long in showing us that it was actually the other orifice she more closely resembled, was that superstar.

  I'd like to say that her superiority was a façade and that her accent was forced, and her facility with machine code a myth, but unfortunately, that would not be true. She was, and is, a highly intelligent woman whose approach to work is utterly professional, and who has no weak spots in either her resume, or her upbringing.

  She did ride a pony in Gymkhana, she did swim 100 metres at national level times in secondary school and she did come out of Imperial college with a first, yes, ..with distinction.

  Add to that a figure that was exactly, and I do mean exactly, like that of a certain Czechoslovakian soft porn star whose first name usually begins with S and whose last name is usually Spears, and a face like that of Vivian Leigh if she ever had a slut-day, and it seemed like we had our office Goddess.

  We were, to a man, ready to fall at her feet and worship her, for just the hint of a smile, the merest condescension to enquire into our home lives. The slightest polite question as the whereabouts of our birth, or the circumstances of our parents would have ensured a scrambling to please that would have put the early Thatcher cabinet to shame.

  Not a chance. It appeared that they had to take out all natural human feeling so they could fit the cleverness in. She was truly a cold and hateful bitch.

  Surely not, you cry, for she has the face of the Vivian slut, and the bottom that is fit for more than one purpose.

  Okay, I'll admit, she didn't get around to me for three days after first settling her pert butt into the boss's chair, but when she did, it stung enough to make the sight of her swaying down the aisle between the screens that marked out the work pods a little less enticing than it had been an hour earlier. Basically, making it simple for the non-technical people out there, I had done some programming short-cuts to our new in-house software, and had neglected to post a record of what I had done to what we call the progress log. I had done the notes. I just hadn't posted them where everyone else could see them. I would have got round to it, but strictly speaking I was in the wrong, and like any red-blooded Englishman, I was willing to make an abject apology as soon as it was pointed out. So when she finally did get around to coming to my pod, there were three other programmers junior to me ready to lap up the sight of their senior officer getting a mild roasting. I hadn't heard too much about her at that stage, so I was totally unprepared, and was so distracted by what can only be described as her sheer hotness that I missed the cold look in her glittery green eyes. She was wearing a full fitted suit, with a tapered cut to the skirt, that was exactly how the secretary is always portrayed in a situation comedy, The jacket was short, with the slightly flared wings over the hips which accentuate the slimness of a woman's waist. The skirt, though it wasn't overly tight, contrived to cling deliciously to the muscular curves of her upper thighs, and the perfectly shaped apple of her bottom.

  I couldn't stop myself from flicking my eyes down to her patent, black shoes, and the stockinged shins that she kept rigidly in parallel, like a soldier toeing the line. As my eyes travelled up her curvaceous upper thighs, they lingered on a flat area of the expensive fabric where her skirt clung to the gap below her lower abdomen. It drew my focus, that flat plain of material rolling in from her upper thighs and hips, that I presumed covered a tight pair of panties, and my mind speculated as I allowed my eyes to roll up along the buttons of her crisp, white, fitted shirt. Up to the first glimpse of tanned throat where she had left a button undone, and the little silver pendant that hung on a short chain, and nestled in that lean hollow. Up rolled my gaze, fearless, to the firm line of her chin, the tight line of her full mouth, the thin nose, with its slightly fleshy tip, the glacial green eyes...

  Fuck! The glacial green eyes that were staring right back into mine with what can only be described as scrotum crawling contempt. I felt like someone had pressed a cold spoon against my neck, and jerked back in my wheeled seat like a bird noticing a cat at the bottom of the bird bath.

  'You,” she said, and paused for effect, “would be Martin Godfrey, I presume?'

  I smiled, like only the truly neutered can smile, and replied, 'Indeed, I am. And you are Estelle, I take it?'

  I felt the smile grow stale, unanswered, as she continued staring at me, while raising a sheet of paper from which she proceeded to reel off all of the changes I had made to our program, and had not recorded. The silence into which her clear, clipped delivery dropped seemed to fester in seconds into an almost physical thing. If you could bottle and record excruciating embarrassment, and play it back, it would sound and smell exactly like the atmosphere in that pod. Unfortunately, it was not my embarrassment I could sense. It was that of the three other guys in the pod. That's what started the blood pounding in my ears. I couldn't hear properly, though I could feel the heat pulse across my forehead as I flushed. Afterwards, I could rationalise it all into adrenaline reaction, but at the time, I couldn't even form a response. I was restraining myself from acting out the sudden urge I felt to stand up and just push her, like a three year old would. Just stand up and shove her backwards out of the pod.

  Instead, I sat twisting around on my wheeled chair like, well, like a three year old being told off. My inner Genghis Khan was screaming for blood and subjugation, and yet I sat there like a little boy. The other guys were mortified on my behalf, as she came to her conclusion.

  'As a senior, you are supposed to be setting an example, and frankly, you are letting the side down, Martin,' she calmly explained.

  Curiously, the expression in her eyes was totally at odds with that in her voice. She actually looked furious, but her voice was as cool as a spring morning. The use of my first name in such a caustic sentence threw me off track, as I half expected her to say 'Godfrey' instead. I don't know whether she learned that approach in business school, but it was extremely effective against me. The contrast of first name terms with such aggressive castigation, allied to the beautiful voice and the frown that belied its calmness, left me with too many signals to try and respond to.

  She swept that frosty glance slowly across the other guys in the pod, who all instinctively crossed their legs in a gesture that only I seemed to notice.

  My mouth had yet to form even the first stammerings of an explanation before she threw me a final col
d stare, and said; 'I presume it was a momentary lapse, as the rest of the work seems quite good, but I don't want it to happen again, Martin. Understood?'

  'Ahh! Yes, Estelle. I ju...'

  'Excellent', she snapped off, instantly dismissing me in that cheery BBC standard voice, before swinging smoothly away, leaving us staring at her big, muscular arse cheeks flexing snappily under the clinging, satiny sheened material of her bespoke skirt. I watched, half aroused and half angry, as the curvaceous figure strutted on to some other unfortunate's pod, out of sight, out of sound.

  'Fahkin bitch!' said Guy Tollers, coming immediately to my defence, as did the rest of the lads as soon as she was truly out of earshot.

  Downhill.

  It was all downhill from there. The following day, she called me into her office, invited me to sit down and, leaning her pretty auburn-gold haired head to one side, said, 'I think we may have got off to a bad start.'

  'Really', I said, quite pleased she was making the effort, as I saw the hint of a smile tilt one side of her plump red lips into a lovely, dimpled moue.

  'Yes,' she said, really smiling now, but I noticed that the hard glitter was still in her eyes.

  'I expect there will be many occasions when I will have to enforce my rather strict notions of professionalism, but in future I will do it more privately. I noticed that several members of your team were enjoying your discomfort yesterday, but in future I will enforce discipline in a way that is less likely to affect your ability to inspire your team's respect.'

  I was stunned by the way she had managed to imply that I was going to need further discipline, while also casting doubts on my ability to manage my own subordinates. All in one sentence.

  'Estelle,' I said, trying to stall for time while my mind struggled to find the right words to answer her.

  'Yes,' she breathed, leaning forward so that a tantalising glimpse of the tanned swell of her breasts was visible under the crisp open collar of her blouse. She hauled one smooth, stockinged knee over the other and my eyes were drawn to the slight crinkling of her stocking's material at the back of the uppermost folded joint. The muscles at either side of the neat bend swelled, and I found myself unable to put together a coherent sentence, such was the effect that following the line of her inner thigh up the delicious, dark crease to where the crossed thighs disappeared under her tight skirt was having on my thought processes.

  'Yes, Martin,' she said again, jade eyes glittering with amused malice as I glanced up at her prompting.

  It slowly dawned on me that this was some sort of a game to her. Distracting with her body, and confusing with both her sharp mind and quick tongue. I determined to buck myself up and make some kind of a show of defending myself.

  'I don't think you need to worry about me motivating my own team, Estelle,' I blurted, then plucked up some sharpness and let her have it. 'After all, we managed perfectly well before you came, and I dare say.....' I paused, unsure whether I should go on.

  She smiled even wider, and tilted her pretty head to one side so that the immaculate chignon of reddy-blond, brown curls that was her style on this particular occasion, provided a perfect backdrop to the smooth lines of her lean throat, and the gorgeous shell of her right ear.

  'Go on, Martin. We should be able to be completely honest with each other, if I am to be the kind of superior you and the company require.'

  The word “superior” spurred me on to greater heights of what passes for courage in the modern office. 'I dare say,' I spluttered, ears burning with indignation, 'that we shall get along just as well when you are gone.'

  She leaned back, utterly cool, and slid her chair backwards, letting me have a good look at her shapely knees and calves.

  'No doubt you will still be here when I have moved on to other challenges, Martin,' came the clipped, nauseatingly correct enunciation, 'but in the meantime, you will perform to my level of expectation, at all times, or face the inevitable consequences.'

  Then she stood, cool as a cat, smoothed her skirt down over the curved front of her thighs, and strolled over to open the door. The fixed malicious grin was still in place as she twisted her upper body around so that the stiff linen of her shirt front moulded tight to the little boulder shaped mound of her left breast. Under other circumstances I would have been entranced, but I was ice cold with fury, and could only stand, as to remain seated would have made me ridiculous, and walk over to her. She stood, sideways on, one firm, rounded hip cocked towards me in an exaggerated contrapposto, that made me have to bend slightly forward at the hips in order that my groin didn't brush against her as I squeezed past. Once in the security of the hallway, I turned to face her and realised that, in her stiletto heels, her eyes were nearly on a level with mine, I could feel waves of physical challenge coming off her, and again I felt a childish impulse to physically push her over. As it was, she stared right back as me, with no physical indication of risen emotion marring her beautiful, haughty expression. And yet I was certain I could feel her contempt spilling over me. I don't know if there is something to the whole psychic thing or not, but there was definitely a vibe coming off her, and it wasn't at all pleasant.

  From then on, it just got worse and worse until after about a month, I actually considered leaving.

  Now that may seem a bit weak, and it probably was, but the way she used to breeze into my pod, into the area I shared with my mates, and preen her perfect little hair-do with one manicured, practical hand, while the other was twirling and twisting to illustrate some, new 'vital' initiative in her cultured superior voice, started to seriously get on my nerves. All the while I was fuming, she would almost completely ignore me, unless I ventured to comment on what she was saying, in which case she would fling that malicious grim he reserved just for me, and just say something non-committal like,' Noted, Martin,' or 'Naturally, Martin,' so that eventually I stopped trying to contribute and just listened to her as she went about stealing my team's loyalty and respect away from me.

  The trouble was, she was always perfectly correct in her assessment of what should be done next, and always perfect in her delivery of her instructions. Each intrusion in to my pod was a master class in man management, as she strutted and preened while stroking the ego of each of my team mates at exactly the right moment and exactly the right way.

  'So right, Guy', she commended, her little thumbs up gesture eliciting a vacuous simpering from the man who only days earlier had called her a 'Fahkin Bitch!'

  'Always on the ball, eh, Charlie!', and a little twitch of her taut hips hinting that Charlie's competency had moved her deeply where it really mattered.

  That was the other problem. She positively oozed hot, muscular sex appeal. Her tailored shirts were just transparent enough to let you know that the tan was both entirely natural, and as even as the plains of the Gobi desert. Her skirt moulded so smoothly to her rounded buttocks that you could almost see the full cheeks clenching against the satin inner lining, An absence of obvious panty line kept the men guessing whether she was a thong or French knicker type of girl. The conclusion was that she wore both, depending upon her mood, as all the boys in the office had compartmentalised her into the unattainable whore-goddess.

  They assumed the infuriating woman needed a man with a golden cock to make her consider getting dirty in the stationary cupboard.

  There was a kind of betting game going on for while, where everyone speculated as to who would eventually get off with her, and it was obvious that yours truly was the non-starter. Then, as she showed no overall preference, the lesbian jokes started, and were just as soon quashed when she turned up wearing an engagement ring that was obviously as expensive as it was exquisite. Thereafter she attained the lofty status of the lost mines of King Solomon; One whose riches' inexhaustible allure was only equalled by their un-attainability.

  I was defeated, and took refuge from my rage, and it must be admitted, thwarted lust, in exercising myself to exhaustion, nightly in the office gym. I mentioned the evening e
xercise to no one, in case they let it slip to the wonder cunt, and I arrived one evening to find that she had decided to carry on her campaign of belittlement into after work hours.

  As I ran myself to a hollow eyed gauntness that even my cunt-struck compadres had noticed, I could not help letting my almost meditative state of mind from amusing itself by imagining me, naked above her in some half cocked domination fantasy. I would be hard, even as I ran, as I imagined myself, time and again, spreading her muscular cheeks and fucking her tight, superior arsehole until she howled for mercy. I grunted with trembling effort, sweat beading down my face, as crystal clear images of her red buttocks clenching and wobbling under ferocious slaps of my swollen veined hand flicked to and fro at the front of my skull, only ending when she crumpled to the floor, begging me to stop.

  And yet, I refused to masturbate to those images even when they disturbed my sleep. I became monk-like in my abstinence, and the hornier I got, the more iron was my self control.

  I refused to let her become my fantasy. Refused to let myself be beguiled by her cruelty, or inspired by her disdain like the rest of the lads in the office. In fact, I was developing a little bit of contempt for them too, as they developed a perverted sense of pity for me. I felt more and more like one of those ravens that are singled out for mob plucking by the other birds in the flock. Like there was a hidden signal, a scent that marked me out for special attention.

  It did my work no harm though, for as she grew more dismissive and critical, I grew more determined to excel. At first, because I thought she would relent and start to acknowledge my skill, and then because it was just another way to rise above it all. The other men watched me growing leaner, harder and more humourless, as I watched them getting a kind of wary look in their eyes when I initiated work related conversation. It took me a while to realise that what I was seeing in their open mouthed, slightly wide eyed faces was a flavour of fear. After that, it started to bother me less when the supercunt ignored me at her almost daily forays into my space, because I realised that ultimately she could do me no real harm, either at work or in my social life.