Cleo gasped and murmured, "Oh, my darling, my darling, what are you doing to me, ooooh, oh!" She held her own cunt tightly as though to keep it from melting into a pool of nearly-unbearable sensation.
Now Helen kissed and sucked the other toes. Then the ankles. Then, slowly, she made tiny kisses up the calf and paused to run her tongue along the sensitive area behind the knee. She made a little slapper of her tongue and slapped it wetly at the nerve center behind the knee.
"Ohhhh, you'll drive me mad. More, more!" moaned Cleo, pumping her hips in ecstasy.
Helen got Cleo to bend her knee upward. This exposed the tender pinkness of her inner thigh. Helen murmured over its svelte curves and whispered that no man was good enough to possess Cleo's delightful body.
Now her tongue found the thigh and drew along it, upward, upward, leaving a trail of passionate tremblings. It was as though Helen were drawing little tongue-paths up the thigh in the direction of the throbbing cunt that was her goal.
As she came within an inch of the cunt, well into its aura of exciting aroma, Cleo took her hands away and sighed, "It's yours, it's yours!"
But Helen teased her, going down to the top of the knee again. Cleo cried, "Please, please!" and opened her cunt lips with both hands to show Helen the inviting interior, all moist pink and proclaiming its deliciousness. But Helen once again drew her tongue very, very slowly up the thigh along a different path.
She watched that yummy cunt. She rejoiced in its spasms, and saw how the fuck tunnel watched her, so wet with female sex secretions the very basis of her own on-duty perfume – that it seemed almost like a weeping eye.
She wanted desperately to fling herself upon that cunt, mouth-wide open, tongue protruding, and tongue-fuck Cleo, going like a jackhammer, till her lover screamed and beat her fists on the bed and pumped her hips wildly and came.
But still Helen held back. A quarter-inch at a time, she drew that second trail of passion up Cleo's inner leg, savoring it, letting the other woman know something about the wild passions that women used to give each other in the ancient Isles of Greece and still do today.
Cleo begged her, "Take my cunt, take it, take it, I can't bear this any more!"
But Helen intended once again to travel her cunt aspiring way to within an inch of its musky moist sticky goal. Then again she would go back to the lower thigh. And again she would tease and cajole Cleo into an exquisitely tuned yearning. And only then would she plunge her face into that desperate crotch.
But suddenly Cleo grabbed her by the hair, yanked Helen's face to her cunt, and with surprising strength slammed her mouth and nose down into it. Helen couldn't breathe! Gamely she thrust her tongue down the tunnel as far as it would go and hoped Cleo would come before she fainted.
And fortunately she had already brought Cleo to the threshold of wild climax. Her tongue seemed to feel how the nerves took fire in all the sensitive area of Cleo's cunt. Cleo bucked so hard when the great spasm of sexual delight took hold of her, that she bucked Helen's head away from her crotch.
Helen gasped for air. She felt dizzy. But it would be her turn now. Tenderly she stroked Cleo's breasts while the novice moaned in the aftermath of her initiation.
Then Cleo got briskly to her feet and began to dress!
"But what about my turn?" Helen wailed.
"Oh, I'm sorry darling, but I just looked at my watch and I have to be at the short-wave telephone in ten minutes to call my office exactly when I said I would. So I have to run, but don't worry, sweetie, once we get to Buenos Aires we'll find a hotel room together."
Miserably, Helen said, "We have a turn-around flight. Fuel-up and return. No leave till New York."
"Oh, dear. Well," said Cleo, briskly returning to her shape-hiding tailleur. "Take care, now. And remember, I owe you one." She walked out, waving a casual goodbye. With her cunt burning and her head whirling, Helen tried to think. Let Cleo go fuck herself. Must be some kind of sex nut.
She, right now, must get the bed in order and return it to its place in the wall. And get back into her uniform. And get out of that Goddamed Conference Room One.
She took care of the bed. She gave herself a quick wipe down in the bathroom, then dressed. Then paused.
Damn, she needed an orgasm. It was hellish to get so excited and have no relief. Her cunt quivered. It begged to have its taut nerves relaxed.
Her still hot twat bothered her so much with its unrequited agony that she decided she might as well sit on the rug and finger-fuck herself.
She got her skirt up and her panties down and two fingers sliding slickly down into her ready and-willing fuck canal. With the first five or six thrusts she could almost feel her labia major and her labia minor and all the rest of her female apparatus sigh with relief.
And then take notice and get ready.
And then gather speed and steam. Hot musky steam.
The orgasm lurked just beyond her reach. She lay back on the soft rug and jammed her fingers deeper, deeper, deeper, giving them a vibratory motion, and she let out a gasp of delight as the greatest feeling in the world promised to burst within her like a skyrocket if she gave herself just a few thrusts more.
Her clitoris throbbed. Her heart leaped. She didn't seem to be in Conference Room One any longer. Instead, she rode the puffy white clouds outside and the hot equatorial sun was making her cunt sizzle. Now! Just one thrust more, deep, deep! But she fell back into Conference Room One.
Where she lay on the rug with her skirt up and her panties down as though she had just gotten off the toilet. Let alone that she had her fingers in her cunt. She lay helpless and miserable, her sexual climax utterly lost, her shame showing in her flushed cheeks and her wide, startled eyes. All this because a male voice had drawled from nowhere: "Why, hello, Helen."
CHAPTER TWO
Grimly Helen kept herself from looking around.
Despite being so close to the climax she desperately wanted and needed, she withdrew her finger from her cunt. She licked it clean. So what? But still she did not glance around at the big overstuffed armchair that faced the window.
She didn't have to. She had recognized the man's voice.
She pulled up her panties and smoothed down her skirt and at last turned and said, "Why, hello, Hank," as composedly as she could, which was not very.
Finger-fucking is one hell of an activity in which to get caught!
Hank, of course, had been sitting in that chair all along. He must have heard her open the door and hold it a quarter-minute while waiting for Cleo to arrive. So he and his lover had not been locked up in a lay. They had been whooping it up in Conference One's big easy chair all the time.
Hearing Helen open the door, they had hidden their clothing and themselves by snuggling in the armchair between its overstuffed wings, hoping that whoever had entered the conference room would soon go away.
And then they no doubt had peered at the lesbian fun that Helen and Cleo had had with each other, although, of course, it was Cleo who really had had the fun and had left Helen in a dreadful state.
Now Hank's lover's inquiring face appeared next to Hank's. The woman – girl, really – had a Latin face. A quizzical, not unfriendly expression.
Of course Hank had been sitting there with his pants and underpants off and the girl had been sucking him while he fondly watched her dark head bob back and forth between his thighs.
Helen knew Hank Hastings.
And now the fellatrice stood up beside the chair and revealed herself to be quite naked save that she wore long stockings, right up almost into her twat. This was an old whorehouse trick. Long stockings worn with nothing else whatsoever make a naked woman seemed nakeder than naked.
Hank waved a big hand negligently. "Helen. Carlotta."