Speaker 1: The intercom on my desk crackled. At four forty seven
pm on a Thursday, Miss Holloway, mister Driscoll's office, Bring
your notepad. I smoothed my skirt, checked my lipstick in
the black mirror of my phone screen, and walked the
long corridor to the corner suite. The building had gone quiet.
Most of the floor had left for happy hour. Driscoll
and Vance. I'd been at Meridian Holdings for eleven months,
long enough to know that when both of them wanted
to see you together, it was either a promotion or
a funeral. The door was heavy oak. It closed behind
me with a sound like a safe locking. Driscoll sat
behind the desk, a man built like a collapsed souf
in a four thousand dollars suit. Vance occupied the leather
couch to my left, his thighs wide apart, his tie loosened,
two fingers. Both of them watched me cross the carpet,
sit down. Miss Holloway. I sat, crossed my ankles waited.
Driskell leaned forward, his gut pressing against the desk edge.
You've been doing excellent work, really, the quarterly reports, the
client dinners. You're going places in this company. A pause,
But we need a girl with a little extra. He
let the words hang there, oily and ambiguous. Do you
have it that little extra? My stomach went cold, then hot?
Are you talking about fucking me? The words left my
mouth before my brain could intercept them. Driskell's face crumpled.
Vance actually flinched, his hand, jerking up from his thigh
like I'd slapped him. They looked at each other, a fast,
panicked conference conducted entirely in eyebrow twitches and lip purses. No, no,
Driscoll sputtered, that's not we would never well. Vance cut
in his voice, lower, slower, at least a little sucking, licking, nothing,
nothing invasive. I stared at him. No. The word landed
like a stone in still water. They spoke among themselves,
then two fat men in expensive chairs, muttering and gesturing.
I watched them, Driscoll's sweaty upper lip, Vance's fingers drumming
against his knee, dirty old perverts. The thought arrived clean
and sharp, but underneath it something else, something I didn't
want to name. Vance turned back to me. How about
he cleared his throat, a little jerking and spitting. His
voice cracked on spitting. I tilted my head. What for
Driscoll jumped in ten thousand a year added to your salary,
and that includes he swallowed dirty talk. The room was
very still. I thought about my apartment, my student loans,
the seventy two hundred dollars sitting on my credit card.
I thought about how Driskell's hand trembled slightly on the desk,
and how Vance couldn't meet my eyes. Oh fuck it fine.
They moved fast after that, too fast, like they'd rehearsed it.
I found myself on my knees on the carpet, the
good carpet, the kind that costs more per square foot
than I make in a day, with a man on
either side of me. The leather of the couch creaked
as they settled in belt buckles, cling zippers, descended, and
then their cocks were out. Fuck they were big. Driscolls
was thicker, a blunt instrument, already flushed dark at the tip.
Vances was longer, curved, slightly left, with a vein that
ran the whole length like a river on a map.
The smell hit me immediately, Musk and sweat and something
sharper underneath make them wet Driscoll said, his voice had
changed rougher. I gathered saliva in my mouth, my mouth
that had just said no, my mouth that had just
said fine, and I let it drip a long thread
onto Driscoll's cock, first glossy against the purple head. Then
I turned and did the same for Vance. My spit
landed on his shaft, slid down the vein. Both of
them groaned. I wrapped my hands around them, one in
each palm. The skin was hot and soft and strangely alive.
And I started to work rhythm, first, a steady pace,
up and down, twisting slightly at the top, the way
I'd learned in college, the way that always made boy's gasp.
Their cocks jerked in my grip. I could smell each
one distinctly, Driskell on my left, earthier, and Vance on
my right, saltier. Filthy fucking things talk dirty. Vance grunted,
earn your money, bitch. The word bitch landed in my
chest and bloomed. I smiled, couldn't help it, dirty old bastards,
I said, my voice of purr. I didn't recognize you,
like my nice young hands all over your old cocks.
Driscoll's hips bucked like my young spit all over them.
I squeezed harder, making them wet and slick, so I
can jerk you off like the desperate perverts you are. Fuck,
Vance hissed. They moved closer. The couch cushions shifted, and
suddenly their cocks were right there, inches from my mouth,
so close I could feel the heat radiating off them.
Driscoll's tip brushed my cheek. I didn't flinch. Bet you'd
love to sink those filthy things in my wet mouth,
I said my voice, dropping my dirty, wet, hoar mouth.
Taste them one at a time, or both together, your
cocks rubbing against each other in all my sloppy spit.
Do it. Vance grabbed the back of the couch. His
knuckles went white. Do it, I laughed, a bright, sharp sound.
No fucking way. My hands sped up faster. Their cocks
slid against my cheeks, now leaving slick trails on my skin,
so close to my lips, I could almost taste the salt.
You'd both let me lick your cocks right. My breath
came faster. Lick them from base to tip, Run my
tongue up and down your shafts, lap at your balls
until you're squirming. I paused, squeezed, twisted. If you're good, boys,
I whispered, maybe i'd part your cheeks and eat out
your filthy old assholes. You'd love that, right, Fuck yeah,
Driscle moaned. The sound was animal desperate. I laughed again.
I bet you'd both love to fuck me, both of
you taking turns, seeing who can fill me up first,
who can get the horse secretary pregnant. My arms were burning.
I didn't care. I pumped faster, my spit making obscene
wet sounds in the quiet office. Think of my tight
pussy wrapped around your old pricks, your cocks violating my
my tubes. The words spilled out, filthier and filthier, drilling
deeper and deeper into my wetness, your cum shooting into
my core, dripping through me. Rope after rope of hot.
Vance made a sound like he'd been punched. His cock
pulsed in my hand, and then he was coming, thick
white stripes that landed on my blouse, my collar bone,
my breasts. Driscoll followed a heartbeat later, his cumb was
hotter wetter, splashing across my chest. And dripping down between
my tits. They collapsed backward onto the couch, sweaty spent,
their cocks glistening and softening against their thighs. I stayed
on my knees for a moment, looked down at my
ruined blouse, at the mess they'd made of me. Then
I lifted my right hand to my mouth and licked
my palm, my fingers, the webbing between them. The taste
was salt and bleach and something metallic. Then I did
the left hand. All that old dick stink rubbed off
onto my skin. I sucked my index finger clean and
smiled yummy. Driscoll's eyes were half closed, Vance was breathing
like a marathon runner. Who ever thought being a secretary
could be so much fun? I hoped you enjoyed today's
sexy story. If you love this podcast, leave an Apple review,
Share what sexy fantasies you want to hear. Maybe we
can make your dirty dreams come true. See you soon,