A Study in Shame. Lucy Salisbury

      Chapter One

      ‘Morrison, I have a confession to make.’

      Morrison didn’t answer, so I carried on. ‘I’d like to suck your cock, Morrison. I’d like to crawl over to you on my hands and knees. I’d like to kiss your big furry balls, and then suck your cock, all the way.’

      Still he didn’t answer, but there was definitely something accusing about his stare, accusing and distinctly superior, like a bishop who’s caught a choirboy pissing in the font.

      I stuck my tongue out at him, then went on. ‘Yes, of course I ought to be ashamed of myself. I am ashamed of myself. That’s half the fun. Wouldn’t it be nice, though, with your big black cock getting longer and thicker in my mouth as I knelt between your fat little legs? Longer and thicker, Morrison, until I couldn’t take in any more. Yes, OK, I’d do it in the nude, if that’s what you wanted, but wouldn’t it be more fun to make me go the way dirty boys like it, with my blouse open and my bra pulled up to show you my tits? I bet you’d like that, and I’d feel so ashamed of myself, sucking your beautiful big cock with my tits out. I wish I could. I wish you had one, a huge one, long and thick and black. I’d suck so well, Morrison.’

      I gave a soft moan as I lay back against the pillows. There was just time, if I was quick. My nightie came up under my arms and my hand went down the front of my panties to find the warm wet flesh of my sex. I was still staring into Morrison’s eyes as I began to masturbate, imagining myself on my hands and knees with a really enormous cock in my mouth.

      After a while I began to talk to him again, picking up where I’d left off. ‘Oh, if only you had a cock. I promise I’d suck well, and I wouldn’t be a tease. I’d let you do it in my mouth and I’d swallow for you. That would be shameful, so shameful, to have my tummy full of your come while we’re in conference. They think I’m so prim and proper, such a good girl, such a nice girl, and all the time I’d have a bellyful of spunk.’

      My eyes were closed and my back had begun to arch. I was going to make it, my fingers now busy in the wet slit of my sex, my mouth wide in a long sigh until I began to talk to him once more, with my fantasy growing ever more dirty as my orgasm grew closer.

      ‘Wouldn’t that be nice, Morrison, to have me suck you off? I’d pull out my titties and roll up my skirt. I’d pull down my panties and get dirty with myself while I sucked you, and when you’d done it in my mouth I’d swallow what you gave me. Only that wouldn’t be all, would it, you big bad bear? There’d be more, lots more, in my hair and in my face, down my front and all over my tits and … oh, Lucinda, you are such a dirty little tart. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, and I am … oh so ashamed.’

      I was, and it was wonderful, as always, the one thing that could be guaranteed to make an orgasm truly worthwhile. It didn’t much matter what I was thinking about while I played with myself, as long as I knew I ought to be ashamed of what I was doing. Thinking about sucking Morrison off was not only shameful, it was also silly, which made it all the more delicious. There was a big smile on my face as I sank into the softness of my bed, my hand still down my panties as I enjoyed the luxury of a few seconds’ more rest before opening my eyes again.

      Morrison had fallen off the bed and now lay on the floor, the fixed stare of his beady red eyes directed at the ceiling, more accusing than ever. I picked him up and kissed his nose. Not for the first time I wondered what lunatic Chinese production manager had ordered a line of large, jet-black teddy bears to be fitted with red eyes. He looked demonic, but in a smug, disapproving sort of way, like a minor devil set to look over a group of damned souls guilty of some particularly embarrassing sin. I’d had to buy him.

      It was 8.24 a.m. by my bedside clock, which left me fractionally over half-an-hour to shower, dry, dress, do my make-up and get myself down to the conference room looking immaculate. I could do it, just, maybe even snatch a coffee on the run, but breakfast just wasn’t going to happen. Lunch was; that much could be guaranteed, because it said so in my schedule.

      When I’d started nearly two years before, it had seemed the perfect job, PA to the CEO of a FTSE company, as it had been described to me. I’d been cherrypicked, straight from university, onto a salary far higher than I had been expecting and into a flat on the third-highest floor of our London headquarters. At the time, several people had gone to the trouble of pointing out that I didn’t deserve the post, and that I’d never have got it if I hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in my mouth. It

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