Four! Power woman solo masturbation with a sensational image from the wonderful Cara
Monique felt like she’d been working hard since the day she was born. If she wasn’t at school, she was holding down a paper round, or a Saturday job in Top Shop, and then hours and days and lifetimes of temping filling in the gaps like Polyfilla.
At 38 – she could sit back in her top floor office, senior partner in the law firm of Lawson, Moore and Crossland – and with ten minutes to herself, decided to give in to temptation.
“Karen – no calls. Not even David. Not Judge Prentiss. Not my mother. NO ONE.” Kate nodded and watched her boss turn on her immaculate black stiletto heels and shut the office door behind her with a bang.
Monique’s office had the best view of the city – at 3pm that November day the light was already fading and an orangey glow settled over the view as she sat at her desk and let her eyes focus beyond the horizon for a moment or two.
It had been a bitch of a day. Meetings from 8am.
It had been a bitch of a week, even.
Maybe even a month. Just too much, even for her.
She kicked off her heels and reached under her desk for her purse.
In her purse was a zipped pocket.
In that pocket was a key.
The key was to the bottom drawer of her desk. In there was a bottle of vodka, a small glass tumbler, a tube of KY jelly and a two inch stack of porn mags. Mostly Reader’s Wives, but the occasional Fiesta might make its way in there every now and again if she was in that kind of mood. She selected a magazine at random and set it next to the other items on her desk, poured herself a decent drink and swung her legs onto the desktop. For once she was wearing hold-ups, not tights. Not fussed about her cheap nylon underwear, she took the letter opener from her stationary holder and used it to carefully slice the knickers from her hips.
She balance the lubricant on her lap and began to flick through the magazine, until she found the letters page. Her favourite. There was something about desperate men writing desperate stories about encounters they swore up and down were true but clearly weren’t. She laid the spread over her thigh and squirted lubricant over her right fingers. She had about seven minutes left before her next meeting. Easy peasy.
As she began to read about the alleged window cleaner who – when he went to collect his pay for an honest day’s work – found the lady of the house stark bollock naked with a lady friend and both of them wanted servicing – she spread her legs and began to rub her clit hard, the way she liked it. The way she needed it. No preamble, no foreplay.
She spread her cunt with her left hand and fucked herself with the lubed digits of her right, with her thumb keeping up the assault on her clit, her eyes no longer on the text of the magazine, which soon slid to the floor. She imagined herself as the window cleaner, with her harem of female clients, rubbing themselves up against her, pressing their warm, soft, naked bodies into her clothed one. She ordered one to her knees and made her play with herself as the others watched. Instructed the other woman to suck and bite her nipples whilst a third appeared through her hazy fantasy to kneel behind the first woman and nestle her face between her freckled arse cheeks.
In the fantasy Monique stripped off her own clothes and the girls begged to please her. Suddenly she was in the place of the first girl, on her knees with a compliant woman attached to her aching nipples and another poised behind her, elegantly eating her ass and it was picturing this sweet-faced college-graduate licking her arsehole that put her over the edge and made her come heavily, clenching over her fingers so hard it almost hurt.
She relaxed back into the chair with satisfaction and glanced at the wall clock. 3.09pm.
She had beaten the clock again.
She was fucking superwoman.