The Sexual Emancipation of Louisa K

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You’ve heard this declaration before, or versions of it. Indeed, it’s a trope now (I do hate that word, redolent as it is if some obscure South American jungle fruit.) Let me elaborate in the summary manner favoured by the T.V guide:

A woman declares her sexual liberation. Carnal shenanigans ensue.

Of course you know this story, the hero’s journey with dropped panties, the dilettante becomes the whore via the ministrations of several partners who are merely vapid archetypes in their own right, stony-jawed and hard-cocked and no more real than Pirate Fabio on the cover of a ’90s bodice ripper.

Well I declare not a sexual liberation, but an insurgency. This is asymmetrical sexual warfare I know I’ll never win: my vagina my AK-47, fucking the patriarchy to death in hit and run raids, shock attacks to their moribund, ossified morality. Yes, I know the contradictions in my fight. Embracing my inner freedom-fighting slut also plays into the hands of the existing power structure and its … blah blah blah – why don’t you save it for your blog no-one fucking reads?

Anyway. I work in advertising as a copywriter in a medium-sized firm. I won’t bore you with the intricacies, such as they are, of my workplace; I’m sure they’re the same as yours, only everyone is paid much more. Suffice to say the usual suspects are well-represented: the suck-up, the fuck-up, the golden boy and girl, the honest worker who actually does a damn fine job. There’s an office slut, too, I can’t lay claim to that title. But I have not come to usurp, but to lay waste.

I’m 28, about five-seven, dark-haired and just a little overweight. If I passed you in the office you wouldn’t give me a second glance. Roll your eyes at that cliché if you must, I don’t care. My innate irresistibility will not factor into my story. When I refer to liberation, I mean also from body shame; I won’t insult your intelligence by explaining that to you.

That’s not what you’re here for, is it? I’m glad. But it’s important to me the you understand my motives before I detail my insurgency to you. Without context, my struggle for liberation is just so much random fucking; I’m depicting a war of attrition and don’t want you to ever think you’re reading a coquette’s progress.

So let’s begin. I must use pseudonyms here as the set of circumstances I’ll describe render the participants – and by association, me – easily identifiable to some. I said I wouldn’t burden you with the dynamics of my workplace, but I need to explain the logic behind my selection of target. My boss is a creative director at my agency, neither a bastard or Mr Darcy; he seems genuinely decent. Facebook shows a relationship status of “engaged” next to a waifish blonde. His interests are triathlons, kayaking, rock climbing …. and perhaps inevitably, for “Music” it lists Maroon 5, Nickelback and other exponents of that nameless rock genre preferred by men of a certain age.

For this reason, we’ll call him Creed. It’s my intention to take Creed down, for the simple reason that doing so undermines the whole proposition of fidelity and “nice guys” who are supposedly its most fevered adherent. He will be tested, and if found wanting, the consequences are his alone to bear.

I now sat down to a serious reckoning of how I would achieve this goal. You have a man in a stable, committed relationship who barely notices you on a physical level, with whom you have no intrigue or flirting or any of the supposed Dark Art best surmised by men as “She’s not that hot, but there’s just something about her.”

For this takedown, I’ll need an accomplice. Not necessarily willing. Expendable with maximum deniability. I choose the Office Slut who’ll I’ll call OS for expediency. Dale Carnegie said that there is only one way to make someone do anything, and that is to make them want to do it. I can’t merely approach her and put out there: “So, Creed’s pretty hot, huh? Up for a threesome?” In the case of OS, I’ve learned that her sluttiness is purely for the acquisition of social capital; staying in the frame of office gossip keeps her name in play. That it mainly renders her objectified like some ’50s demure and submissive bombshell, eye-fucked by managers peering down her dress when she ankara escort inevitably suffers one of her regular pencil malfunctions as she passes their desks, bothers her not in the slightest.

I don’t hate her. She, like Creed, is genuinely nice. This is no morality play and there are no deserved comeuppances; just a girl trying a little too hard and delivering the odd surreptitious blowjob in the stationery storeroom. OS is blonde, long and thick Nordic tresses like a shampoo ad, tumbling past the slightly pouty face made up in the current pinup retro style. We are part of a regular drinking crew, the younger members of the creative department gathering at one of the cooler bars near our agency. Tonight most people have left, we’re a small group left with Creed and some other department heads. I have discussed nothing with OS, yet it all seems prearranged somehow.

She has the pinup look going on, with an unwitting double-shot of Bettie Page in there too. She’s talking to Creed, leaning forward in that obvious way she does, her hand drifting on his knee. I stroke the skin of her back gently. She arches slightly towards my fingers. Creed shifts just a little in his chair. The other managers put down their drinks. I dip my head into her neck and my hair falls fully against hers and splays on her shoulder blades. She arches more and her breasts press against that va va voom blouse like the Colorado river trying to outrun the Hoover Dam. I kiss her neck and ease her face around to meet mine; our lips are together and my hands ease around her body gently. From the corner of my eye I see the amber eye of a camera phone LED trained squarely on us; one of the managers is ensuring none of this is lost to posterity. Good. We kiss for a minute or two; it’s my first time with a woman and while I don’t mind it, it doesn’t drive me wild or anything.

I want to free those breasts and touch them, though it will destroy my plan if I do. No, this needs to focus back on Creed. I guide her hand to his knee. No flinch-away. What would Miss Facebook Waif make of that? I cease our kiss by moving my mouth to her ear, whispering:

“I want you to take out his cock.”

Her vestigial morality centre kicks in. “No,” she whispers with a shake of the head. I had anticipated this and already planned a contingency action. The girl-on-girl stuff to get a mild Armani-tent in the bosses’ suit trousers was fine, but she lacked the immoral fibre to follow through. The camera phone still runs. I kiss her slowly and glanced at Creed.

He was gulping hard with eyes shining, the classic flight or fuck response. I shimmied my hand up to hers and spread her fingers onto Creed’s leg again, locking her fingers under mine.

“It’s OK if you’re scared,” I say. OS pulls away from me; for an awful moment I thought she was about to slap me.

“I’m not scared,” she asserted, “It’s just that …” I gently dip my hand into her blouse and free her breast. Movement to my right – the bosses are actually forming a screen for the alcove. We’re lucky in that it’s a semi-private area anyway, with wait-staff easily able to be waved off with folded hundreds, and so long as the Bollinger keeps flowing management will look the other way.

I dressed in anticipation of this moment, and easily slip my dress down to reveal my bra. She probably didn’t expect me to be so buxom, as there’s a little giggle. I unclip myself as I nestle forward so that our breasts just brush with the barest flick of my nipple on hers. I don’t just glance at the managers now, I look them square-on as I simultaneously whorl my tongue-tip around OS’ aureole and spider-walk our linked hands to Creed’s crotch. He’s hard beneath the suit, leaning back, eyes closing. He knows this is his porn star moment. More than that, with more powerful males looking on, it’s like some warrior’s ritual from millennia ago.

His erection is freed with minimal delay. OS’ blonde tresses soon cover his lap from everyone’s view so I oblige the bosses and scoop a hank away from the side, revealing her tongue exploring the tip, a gleaming glob of pre-cum slathered up by her hungry mouth. Perfect. I take his lower shaft in my hand and feel It slickened from OS’ saliva. Creed ankara escort bayan is grunting; the porn cliché would be ruined by his coming too soon so I ease OS’ face up for a lipstick-smearing kiss. My hand dives roughly for her panties the way a guy would, unsubtle I know but I need to move things along.

“Keep sucking his cock and I’ll do you,” I say to her.

She nods and I kneel between her legs, almost tearing the fabric of her skirt as I arch my neck back to seek her pussy. I squat a little awkwardly and move her panties aside to get to work. She’s already wet, surprisingly so, and my first taste of a woman excites me truly for the first time tonight. I am greedy, slipping my tongue up and into her in a smooth pattern, one finger gently probing for her clit. She shudders and I glance back down to see Creed’s cock fully enveloped by her lips; released now and popping free, swaying like one if those inflatable clowns you can’t knock down, then taken up again between her jaws.

She’s squirming a little, I wonder if more of this will get her to cum? I don’t want that now. I break away and rejoin OS, kissing her now with Creed’s erection proud between us, glazed by our tongues where they rejoin and part. From nowhere, the image of him at a meeting several weeks ago enters my mind, explaining how we would be service a new client. I smile and look at OS.

“I want you to fuck him,” I breathe, my transition from scriptwriter to director lost on her in the moment. She obliges, rising and straddling Creed backwards without a word. I scrutinise his face; was that a flicker of apprehension? Irrelevant the second OS’ globular bottom eases onto his lap and he’s fully inside her. They start, a frenzied rhythm and OS’ fuck-noise is an almost comical “Oooh ooh ooh” sound she repeats with every thrust. I busy myself with Creed’s balls, thanks to OS’ pumping I pretty much just have to open my mouth with a sloppy gape and they jumble across my tongue.

My finger returns to OS’ clit and she shudders again at my touch. I can sense she’s close, so I use both hands to clamp her down on Creed’s cock so I can really concentrate on her, my tongue trying to light a fire on the tinderbox of her flesh. Sure enough she orgasms explosively, mashing her pelvis into Creed in little juddering gasps, a squirt of ejaculate from her musty pussy on my tongue. I lift her up and flip Creed’s cock out straight into my mouth, I barely do anything with it when I hear him moan and the whole thing bucks against my palate. I close my eyes and slide him free just as a warm string of cum strikes the side of my cheek, more of it tracing a sticky web from nose to forehead. OS is leaning back on Creed and kissing him.

I interrupt their Hallmark moment by bestrding the couch and pulling my panties down. Walking up over their bodies with my knees, I proffer my pussy to both and somewhat predictably OS only gives a half-hearted stroke with a couple of fingers; Creed abstains completely. This isn’t the porn movie script.

I guide OS’s hand further into myself while I reach down and seek my own clit, and pleasure it like a monkey batting a marble around a teacup. Committed now. I wish I could claim I lasted, that my thighs clamping OS and Creed beneath me were some perfect prison of rising social discomfort and sexual terror, that my own orgasm was a Molotov cocktail lobbed into the face of the enemy. No. Though I still come harder than I ever have, I mean to simultaneously grind my pussy into Creed’s face in a show of defiance but the waves of pleasure are too hot and unrelenting and when I open my eyes he’s somehow already slithered from underneath me to retrieve his clothes, leaving just OS to remove her wet fingers and smile up at me.

We all dressed hurriedly. I’m elated, because despite my final failure things have pretty much all gone according to plan. Sure enough, the next working day Creed, OS and I are called into a manager’s office (of course, a neutral party who has not witnessed our interlude) and we’re offered to still keep our jobs provided non-disclosure agreements are signed and the company’s reputation is not impugned and so on. The presence of the bosses and their failure to halt events escort ankara turns what would have been a strictly fireable incident into Advanced Crisis Management 101. All as I knew it would. OS cries, in the end, and while I feel a little bad for her, she was not drugged or blackmailed, just easily lead. In the context of entire nations that’s a tragedy, for a large-breasted blonde girl in advertising it’s a cliché.

Creed won’t even look at us. I feel like making a point of this, but let it go. He seems to be running the “I was drunk” defence, the lame bastard. Just what I expected. He’ll never be able to talk to me again without us both knowing I’ve had his cock and balls in my mouth and seed splashed across my face. I friend Waif on Facebook just to fuck with him a little. Cheap move, I know. But it’s still the opening shot in a war.

My postscript is the acquisition of the video of that night’s performance. The manager who’d played cameraman was a chubby little man, unusual in advertising at his level, where most of the alpha males are crafty tall pricks. It makes him a much easier target. I’ll can him Teapot for reasons that will soon become apparent. I corner him in the break room one afternoon, ensure no-one is looking, lock eyes and murmur some lame come-on, mentioning his car. Sure enough, we’re there before the day’s end, I let Teapot know want I want to do to him and of course he agrees, almost tearing the seam of his pants as I fondle him.

This is tactically risky. If his phone is not on him or if Teapot’s deleted the video, he’s just getting head and I’m shortening my lifespan at the agency. Then again, if it’s a payoff, the agency will effectively be destroyed, so I guess it’s a moot point. Anyway. He has a surprisingly large cock for a little man; I tell him so and swear the damn thing swells another half inch in my hands. I need to ensure maximum time here so I tell Teapot to close his eyes as I lick the underside of the head and massage his foreskin back with slick fingertips. OK then. Whilst doing that, I rummage slowly in his suit pants pocket for his phone … Got it.

It’s a fucking Android. I don’t have time to work out the mute setting. Another huge risk if the tones are activated and he hears. I hit the “Video” folder; no sound. I check Teapot’s face – eyelids fluttering in response to my taking him deeper into my mouth now. Of course he’s kept it. I open a browser and submit it to a large porn clip aggregator site whilst increasing my rhythm on his engorged pole, lubricating the shaft with a clinging, saliva-dripping tongue first then rapidly stroking him. I’ve made this sound easy – I assure you it wasn’t, especially as the act of hitting “Upload” brings a flood of delicious danger-horniness over me and into my pussy, an actual little squirt against the cotton of my panties. Teapot moans and comes quickly, a flood of semen over and within the piston of my enclosing fist. I wipe it away with his designer tie but he doesn’t notice at all.

I wait several weeks, then put on a 4 dollar eBay red wig and go to the library, set up a fake email account and send the porn site link to everyone in the agency. I have maximum deniability with the potential damage the exposure has for myself, yet curiously, when I review the video I am the only party who is indistinct. You could use a screenshot for both OS and Creed as a LinkedIn profile pic. In a porny, sex face kind of way. We all leave the company voluntarily. The management team in the room with us are sidelined, demoted or cast to the four winds. Teapot stays on, but is rumoured to take a 50 grand haircut.

There are no farewell drinks. The agency continues without us but its reputation is shot. It enters a tailspin rebuilding phase and never truly recovers. My little orgy probably costs it 20 million in billings. It retains clients via a desperate round of re-negotiations and sweeteners.

I’m proud. The first action of my insurgency was an unqualified success. Reputations besmirched (I’ve always wanted to use that word in context!) and a company laid low, its patriarchy forced to confront its own hubris in a career-fucking way. OS is collateral damage. You can’t wage a campaign like this without some unavoidable and regrettable friendly fire incidents.

I’m still out there. Perhaps I’m at your company right now. Fellas, I’ll do what I did to Creed if you let me. Ladies, I’ll co-opt you into my fight whether you realize it or not. Just remember: I’m nobody’s slut or bunny boiler.

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