Not My Type - Sex Stories

Not My Type

I keep telling myself she's not my type, but every thrust into her tight arse tests my resolve to the limit. She begs for more, tossing that dark mane with its thick blue highlight, and fires a smouldering look back at me over her navy T-shirt. Her eyes darken with need, knuckles whitening as they hold the far edge of my office desk.

“That's not fucking. I told you tofuck me.”

My primal side kicks up a notch. I raise both hands, crash my palms into the flesh of her taut rump and grip it, watching my cock disappear into her tightest ring of muscle again and again as I savage her. She emits a satisfied gurgle, biting her lip and nodding. Each time our hips connect, one syllable per thrust escapes.

“That's. Beh-ter. Fuck. Me. Hard, Mis-ter. Gar-land.”

I grit my teeth and keep at it while Zoë huffs and sighs, deep groans bouncing off the desk, filing cabinet, and whiteboard. Drawn vertical blinds obscure the elevated view over the warehouse floor.

It's lunchtime. The door’s not locked. Any of our colleagues could burst in and see us, my belt undone and clacking against the underside of the desk, her denim skirt flipped up, thong at her knees with my cock buried in her bum. Lust beats common sense, and I’m past caring. Always does when she challenges me. She knows I’ll snap every time.

By all accounts, Zoë is a horny slut. She doesn't seem bothered that we all know it. Sex is part of her; an extension of her, and she embraces it. Owns it. It's part of her ...

... appeal.

She tells everyone the ridiculous umlaut in her name is important, yet incorrectly pronounces the flattened vowel as if the diacritic wasn't there. That perhaps indicates her general intelligence level: she doesn't come across as the sharpest knife in the block, but it could be an act. I didn't hire her for Mensa, anyway. She's good at her job, takes no shit from anyone, and told me in the interview she likes anal sex.

Well, not in so many words.

“How would you describe your attitude towards teamwork?”

Zoë smiled, twirling an inky lock around her finger. It hung opposite the blue streak that obscured half an eye and a cheek of dappled freckles. “I know how to work hard and play hard.”

“I see. You work well with others?”

“Yeah.”

“So why did you leave your last job?”

That one tended to trip people up. The usual response involves being candid with the truth, or demonstrating humility. Not her.

“Manager was a knobhead.”

I was surprised. “How so?”

She shrugged shoulders that led to two full-length sleeve tattoos of, well, I wasn't quite sure. They were evidently coloured in by a four-year-old who couldn't stick within the lines. “Kept telling me to do stuff I was already doing. Micromanaging, y’know?”

“And you prefer not?”

“Yeah. Once I know what I'm doing, let me get on with it.”

I scribbledindependent on my notepad. “So what makes you a suitable candidate for this role?”

She smiled again. “My tight bum not enough?”

That floored ...