I had become a raving sex maniac, and she did it to me. For many long years I had been possessed of intense sexuality; lived with it, dealt with it, coped with it, but this last pregnancy sent me over the edge. Beautiful women are great to fuck, because at worst you can drool over how sexy they look as you rub your cock into them in a reasonably delightful form of masturbation. There is, of course, more to sexual satisfaction than a hard body, but we take as we get. Naturally a strong sense of vulgar creativity goes a long way in a partner, and I would surrender much in aestetic refinements for the glimmer of hot lust in a woman's eyes. One summer I was fucking a tall black beauty, making her beg by licking her pink slit to a thousand orgasms, and she pleaded for me to cum in her face or fuck her black ass until I could hardly walk, so desperate was her desire to keep my tongue in her lap. There were many empty spaces in my life at that time, but never before had I been so completely sexually satisfied. It was then that the blonde bitch appeared. My rocks had been balled dry when we first met, and a glimpse of her tits through the gap in her shirt had me cast in iron - firm white melons encased in white lace. I struggled with the bulge in my shorts, and I saw the lust flame in her eyes. As mentioned, I was living an overwhelming feast of wet pussy at the time, so I made no bold assaults on this northern cunt, prefering to watch her linger in a lusty thrall. Her blue eyes glistened when she spoke. I wondered as she licked her lips innocently and almost inadvertantly turned her pert ass in invitation. For weeks I watched her as she insinuated herself in my path, listened as she glazed her comments with bold innuendo, laughed as I teasingly avoided her pass. Finally able to take no more, I stripped the clothes from her lucious body, and ravished her for seventy-two solid hours. It started slowly - the first kiss lasted for three - but the eventual cascade of climaxes I discovered with this wench gives me reverberations even yet. The blonde, IQ, possesses a powerful sexuality smouldering in a blossom, and I have grown quite addicted to her charms. Three pregnancies in five years, however, have forced me to surrender a bit more of our sensual bliss than a junkie can stand. Fix me. We are in the ninth month of the third pregnancy, and while she still causes me half a dozen orgams every week, I am desperate to frolic with the nubile nymph I married. Two months will cure my anxiety, I know that for certain, but sixty days contain a great deal of lusty thoughts. The woman down the hall has a pussy. I've smelled its glow when she stopped by my office for some help. I can picture her naked; the jagged pink hole and soft white skin of her highest thighs, a thick snatch of black hair and a basketball butt, the heavy sway of girl-udders rising as her brown knots tighten. My cock strains when I imagine Terry bent over my desk, her ass held high as she turns to egg me on and on with a litany of vulgar challenges. "I will fuck you," I screamed, and shot myself into her hole. The goal established, I had no choice but to lay out a plan. Some profess to live with a scheme of morals, and I have only this; I act as I see fit, accept the responsibility for my actions, and face squarely the consequences. They can't take that away from you. So I would have Terry, Mrs. Theresa Samson, beg me to fuck her, with no real long term effects except pleasurable memories. The carat on her finger juxtaposed with the gold on mine to insist that she beg. A man must have some principles. When do I begin? E-mail is the greatest seduction tool invented since the VCR, and I had Terry's address (tsamson), so I set about doing it with style. After all, this scam was all too easy. "Ms. Samson," I wrote seriously, "Let me take advantage of this lull in the storm to tell you that you are doing a great job on the Overton project. I mentioned your work to Steve G. (upstairs in Samcuncon) and they think you should write a short brief on your organization of the teams. Bring it by when you get the chance. David." I'll take this opportunity to explain that very little of what I said in that memo was true. Terry *was* doing a great job. Steve G. *does* work upstairs. I made the rest up. Almost everything I tell Terry about this assignment was false. All's fair in love and war. I didn't know much about Mrs. Samson at that point, except that she seemed to derive much of her self-worth from her career. As any Casanova will tell you, improving a woman's perception of herself will generally get her wet and grateful. Same's probably true of men - I never thought about it. Terry wrote me back almost immediately, bubbling with excitement and spewing out organizational theory. I'll spare you the nausea. Tagged to the end of her memo, however; "I can't believe this is happening. I was beginning to think I was stuck, going nowhere but back to the same old song and dance. I kept telling myself to have faith, that the system couldn't be that corrupted. I was right. You did notice. Terry" "Terry; It didn't take me too long to perceive that you were taking charge whenever a crisis developed - and you can't blame me for wanting to keep you on the Pilot team as long as possible. We don't get so many aces that we can afford to ship them upstairs at first glance. David" For the next week, Terry sent me daily revisions of her brief, which I would dutifully applaud and point to another section which might use a bit more polish. With every passing of the file, another letter with growing familiarity would change hands. Friday finally came, and Mrs. Samson stopped by my office. She wore a dark green suit, with a modest skirt. Her hair flared to frame her warm face in fiery black. She put her hands on the door frame, and let a shoe fall from her foot. "That's it," she said, "I'm willing to call it done." "I agree. Magnificent bit of exposition, and just what they need upstairs." "I sent Frank to make copies, and distribute it." She stepped inside my parlor, and sat down. "I could use a drink." "Close the door," I replied and brought a bottle of brandy from my cabinet. "Cigar?" "No, thank you," she said with a smile. "I don't...smoke." Her long fingers grasped the brandy snifter. "Aren't we the naughty boy?" "I have many principles, but some concessions must be made to real life. There are times when we all need a...distraction." "That's certainly what I need." Terry laughed and shifted in her seat, spreading her black silk thighs just a nudge to reveal mysterious darkness. I could feel myself salivating. "Well, I'm glad we got the chance to work together on this. I've seen you in the office, but the way they run things now we may never have gotten together." Her nipples hardened slightly, bumping the layers of thin white cloth into a visible murmur. I adjusted my crotch slightly, and her eyes followed my every motion. I stood and went to the window, staring at some distant nothing. After ten seconds she came to stand beside me, peering over my shoulder. I could smell the rich bouquet of perfume and erotic musk sweltering in her body. Her breathe smelled sweet with a twinge of garlic. I turned sharply. She stood inches from my face. "Terry," I said low. She kissed me with fierce passion. I responded with surprise and delight, feigning the former, indulging in the latter. Nothing more was said as we explored the heat, lips grazing every sensation, hands fumbling to fondle flesh. I sat her down on my desk, and tore myself away to wrench off my jacket. She slipped off her olive coat, and slowly unbuttoned her blouse. "I never imagined...," I lied. She unclasped her bra, and her soft breasts, holy white, gleamed deliciously under my hungry sight. I grasped them with my hands, and caressed the nipples with my lips and tongue until they seemed ready to tear in their quest to tighten. Finally I suckled her bosom, reminding the glands of their ultimate purpose. I pressed her back onto the desk, she leaning on her arms. I pushed the skirt up her thighs, past the top of her gartered stocking ("I love silk", she purred when I complimented them) to the pearl-white panties. I picked up Terry's legs, and released her swollen pussy from its lingerie cage. The panties were soaked, and Terry's cunt reeked with the extent of her desire. I knew, as every Don Juan knows, that enslavement begins with cunnilingus, and I set my tongue gentle into the sopping vagina. I licked one lip, and then licked the other. Her jagged pink hole fell open, and I teased the cavern. Terry pressed her clit into my mouth, and I proceeded to lash her lusty nub. A finger poised before her pussy, another touched her asshole. I made no assault, but made them available for her pleasure, as a package. I knew at once she was unaccustomed to giving her bottom to sex, but when balanced against the ravaging her clitoris was enduring and a burning need to have something in her cunt, Terry fucked my fingers with slutty abandon. It was barely a minute before her orgasm began, and twenty minutes before it subsided She could hardly breathe, but gasped as she stared, wide-eyed. As she lay there enduring ecstasy, I motioned her to flip over - she scrambled to bend over my desk, raising her ass high. Her long fingers clasped the meaty cheeks. The juice of her pussy rippled down her lean legs. I studied the delicious sight at my own leisure. Terry turned her head and uttered from deep within, "Fuck me, David, Please!" I told her that I would, and shot into her hole.