Caramel Flava

“Which is?”

“You should know. You have it.”

“Do I?”

When she just stared at him without offering any further explanation, he switched to Spanish and threw out a compliment (just in case), telling her that she was far too pretty to be a doctor. Her eyes had narrowed and a few moments later she’d asked him how long his dick was. Despite his attraction to her, he was taken aback by the question.

Leaning back in his chair, he reached down to cup the thick folds of wool bunching between his thighs with one hand and let his libido guide his response.

“What? This?” he asked.

“Sí. That.”

“Come find out.”

She was out of her chair and coming around his desk so quickly that he felt a rush of apprehension. She seemed to sense his discomfort and revel in it. Her left Via Spiga pump came off the floor and perched on his right leg, giving him a perfect view of the landscape underneath her short skirt: an expanse of fishnet-clad thighs made grayish by the combination of smooth, copper skin and black netting. And, further up, at the intersection of her legs there was a dim sparkle of ornate but obscured lingerie.

The stiletto bit deeply into his thigh but he didn’t want to reduce his masculine stock by acknowledging the pain. She shifted, her curvy hips gliding back to settle on his desk, and brought her right shoe up to dig into his left thigh. He tried to merely glance at the tantalizing tapestry in front of his face and then resume eye contact, but he failed and ended up staring between her legs intently, as if by sheer force of focused attention he could get her lips to moisten themselves, find their way to his lap, open wide for his entry and ease up and down on top of him for the rest of the day.

She leaned forward, bending at the waist between her upraised legs, and he licked his lips, parting them in anticipation. When she drew close enough that he swore he could feel her eyelashes on his forehead, he expected to be kissed but she only touched him enough to untie his tie and yank it suddenly from the folds of his shirt collar. His fear spiked with the sudden motion but, even so, he felt his body reacting to her proximity, her touch and the specter of danger. When she let her manicured fingers slide from his shirt collar down the front of his shirt, over his belt and below his waist, he was already stiff and throbbing. He couldn’t remember getting hard so easily.

Her fingers encircled him and he expected a handjob or a blowjob—something direct, quick and explosive that hinted at pent-up passion, limited time and the possibility of discovery. He was completely unprepared for what she did instead: liberating him from the folds of his slacks and boxers only to wrap his tie around him in tight circles, starting from the base and cocooning him up to the tip.

When she was finished, he was happy to note that there was more of the tie wrapped around him than not. She seemed happy about it too.

“It’s very long,” she said, sounding aroused, still speaking in Spanish. “Thick too.”

She smiled at him with her mouth, below eyes that seemed hungry in a predatory kind of way, then lowered her legs and backed away, pulling on the extra length of tie as she went.

She’d wound the tie so tight that he had to follow or risk having his circulation cut off, so he shuffled after her awkwardly as she led him around to the front of his desk. With his pants gathered at his ankles and his mummified member poking into the air like a makeshift flagpole, he felt more than a little silly but when she moved the guest chair she’d previously been sitting in out of the way, he got excited.

She told him not to move and then she backed all the way up to the door of his office like she was about to get a running start. He spread his arms out for leverage—her body was voluptuous and he didn’t want to run the risk of dropping her. Watching her, he saw her eyes narrow again.

“Too pretty to be a doctor, huh?” she asked in English.

“What?” he replied, genuinely perplexed. He had no idea what she was talking about. Then it came back to him and he realized that she might have taken his compliment as an insult. This thought was just taking form in his mind when she abruptly opened his office door and walked out, leaving it all the way open.

Coño, he thought, as he scrambled to hide his disheveled nakedness from the view of the coworkers walking past his office door. He scampered behind his desk, knocking file folders and papers to the floor as he streaked by, and ducked down to straighten himself up, all the while fearful that the people he could hear passing his office would come in to check on him.

After he finally got himself together enough to walk over and close the door, it took him the rest of the day to calm down, feeling frustrated and angry but somehow extremely aroused by the encounter.

Since he made most of his decisions based on the potential for sex, the idea of managing the Macy’s at Thirty-fourth Street had appealed to him immensely. The place was so massive that he could conceivably “book and bang” for most of a year without getting caught, slapped or fired—probably in that order. He envisioned the Thirty-fourth Street Macy’s as a player’s paradise and, from his first day there, he had made the most of his new home-court advantage.

Early on, he’d made a few predictable choices. There was the short sister with an enticing tangle of natural hair that begged to be pulled and an athletic body that rippled and flexed under anything she wore. She had a penchant for wearing miniskirts that showed off thickly chiseled thighs powerful enough to crush his hips into submission. She worked in the beauty products section and, by virtue of sampling the wares, smelled enticingly different each time he sucked her clit into his mouth and licked it until she folded herself into a corner of his bed, panting and spent. He liked to enter her then, while she was still dripping wet from his saliva.

Then there was the tall receptionist from the corporate offices upstairs who wore colorful glasses but otherwise seemed subdued. He’d run into her in the elevator when he was on his way out to a music industry party. He invited her to come with him just to be polite and was annoyed when she agreed. Once there, though, he’d seen that there was a devilishly lusty side of her personality by the way she rolled her hips against his and the things she whispered in his ear. They’d rubbed and bumped against each other all night, until they were drenched in sweat and needful longing.

In the taxi to her place, he’d slowly coaxed his hand under her skirt. She resisted at first and then surrendered, spreading her legs wide enough to welcome any part of him inside her. Her moisture was so abundant that it felt like he was dipping his hand into a cup of water. The feel of her wetness flowing onto his fingers and dribbling into his palm made him want to keep his hand inside her for hours. He slipped his middle finger past her sodden panties and let it get lost in her flood. She came three times before they got to her house.

He liked to imagine that it was the power of his job position and his natural good looks that ensured an evening would end with his hands cupping cheeks and his fingers pinching nipples. Inwardly, though, he knew it was his ability to find the dumb or desperate ones and apply the right amount of “man shortage” pressure that worked to his advantage.

Not that it mattered. He was addicted to the chase and conquest of women the way some people couldn’t function without a morning cup of Starbucks. For each new woman conquered, he felt a little better about himself. He’d sex them for two or three weeks and then stop returning their phone calls as he searched for the next woman he could make insecure enough to let him into her bed.

He’d first seen Ms. Ramos as he was walking through the men’s clothing section on his way to lunch. He slowed when he saw a long line of men in the tie section and was about to come over, apologize for the delay and get another sales representative to help when he caught a glimpse of her. Suddenly he understood why the men were waiting.

She filled

out the golden dress she was wearing with curves so forceful they looked capable of cutting through metal. The crystals rimming her shoes would have kept him ogling what he could see of the firm calves just beneath her hem, if he hadn’t been distracted by the beauty of her face and the fact that her sautéed butter complexion melted into her blond tresses so seamlessly that her face seemed to be shrouded in a halo of light.