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Power and sex. That’s what everybody saw in Jim Tate. They didn’t even have to look at him to feel it. His magnetism was so profound, it shaped the air around him. If he were standing behind you in an elevator, you’d sense him there even before you picked up the refined spice of his unfathomably expensive cologne. When he checked out your black nylon legs in high-heeled shoes, every molecule around you would get hot. So hot, you’d think it was the devil himself taking you from behind. When you turned to make sure the fires of hell weren’t burning in back you, your impression would be confirmed with one glance of the distinguished Mr Tate. He wouldn’t smile at you. Juicy smirks were for sleazeballs. You’d be nonetheless drawn in by what you might read as an expression of contempt. He looked like he was above nature. He looked was better than you. He was quality, better than any man you’d ever seen, let alone been to bed with.
You would stare at him without meaning to. You’d try to look away, but you’d find him so impossibly alluring you’d go right on imagining the prick of his black goatee against your chin. He wouldn’t lower himself to kiss you. He wouldn’t have to. When his striking gaze penetrated you, almost by accident, you would lose all control. The man had purple eyes. There they were: mauve flecked with green and gold. They were stunning. You couldn’t keep from launching yourself at him. You would feel like a stupid schoolgirl throwing herself into the arms of a sexy teacher as you planted a kiss on his lips, but even your embarrassment wouldn’t stop you. His tongue would be at once sharp and warm as he returned the embrace. He would hold your head in his hands with such force you’d worry he might crush your skull. He wouldn’t harm you. This was a controlled burn. Nevertheless, and though he knew precisely what he was doing, you’d be scared out of your wits.
Mr Tate had done this before. You’d get that sense from him. You were nothing special. Disposable. You could be anyone. It just happened to be you in that slow elevator to nowhere. It just happened to be you whose wrists he was pinning against the elevator door. You could envision those doors screaming open, and you plummeting to your death in a pit of blackness. That’s how it felt to be taken by Jim Tate. You wouldn’t know his name, of course. He was never one for small talk. Besides, he didn’t care who you were. To him, you were only a pussy, hot and ready all because you wanted him inside you. You wanted him so badly you could almost taste his salty precum as he tore the buttons from your blouse.
He would kiss you as he fondled your tits. Kissing would be the only form of foreplay he could be persuaded to engage in. He knew your dripping wetness had soaked through your panties even before you turned around to look at him. That’s how devilishly desirable he was. He had no shame, and even less humility. Just when you thought your knees would give out on you, he would spin you around. You would wince as your cheek and your bare tits met the cold metal of the elevator door, but pain was only another word for arousal. He would pull your sleek skirt up above your waist and pull your nylons and panties down below your knees. In no time, his cock would be out of its lair and prowling your heat. You wouldn’t even get a chance to glory in its magnificence before its slick head forced itself inside your slit.
You’d have your trepidations. The pressure of his wedding band against your wrist as he held it firm against the elevator door would give you a momentary sense of wrongdoing. There would be a thousand other reasons racing through your mind why you should bring the whole sordid encounter to a smashing halt, but would it do any good to say no? You would ponder that question until Jim Tate’s cock pounded it clear out of your mind. Your grey matter would melt as he rammed you from behind, your face and breasts plastered to the elevator door. If you could see his unsmiling expression, you’d be twice as fearful and ten times as aroused. His gravity could easily be taken for malevolence.
He would thrust so deep your insides would pang. What could you do but love every second of it? His body would so rage with mercenary heat, it would make you sweat through your torn blouse. Not that you’d worry about your clothes while he was fucking you. Or about how you’d explain the lingering scents of sex and spice on your skin, even days after desperately trying to scrub him away. He would never let you go. That’s how it was with Tate. He’d never release you from his grip. He’d fuck you so hard you’d swear it would kill you. You’d be so overwhelmed by his prowess, you’d welcome death if he wanted you slaughtered. Everything was for him.
Even when he released your wrists, you’d find your hands held flat against the elevator door by his sheer force of will. As he slid from your mourning slit, he’d press your buttocks together and slide his sopping wet cock in the crease. He liked that. It was like fucking a firm pair of tits, he said. You would never have imagined relishing the feel of a hot, firm cock coursing across your ass crack, but the sensation was incomparable. He wouldn’t say anything, but you’d know exactly when he was about to come. You’d be enraptured by the spice of his fragrance, which would grow into something as demonic as it was delicious. He would thrust in the crease of your ass, pressing your cheeks tight together until his controlled breath grew laboured. With his teeth gritted, he would breathe roughly through his nose. The sound was animal. Brutal.
Little cries would try their damnedest to squeeze out from between your lips, but your fear of the man would be adamant about silence. Your lips would remain pursed beside the cold metal door as Jim Tate released a torrent of cum across your crack. He preferred coming in ass cracks to coming in pussies, or even inside assholes. Coming all over a nice pair of tits wasn’t bad. A close second perhaps. He very much liked to watch his jizz spurt from his cockhead. But ass cracks would always be the pinnacle. Once he’d come in one, he could then observe your poor little anus pucker and undulate. It was a spectacular image, he thought. A pretty little asshole drowning in a river of cum.
He would shift you out of the way when the elevator arrived at his floor. You’d find yourself too weak to stand. The dirty, loveless, indiscriminate sex he thrived on would leave you feeling empty. He’d waltz through the doors the second they opened up and he wouldn’t look back. Not a glance. He’d leave you sticky and wet, your nylons at your knees, on the cold marble floor. If you were so inclined to discover who he was, he’d leave it up to you to figure that out. He never offered up such incriminating information as his name or his title. Not that he wasn’t well known for his sexual escapades. Everybody knew Jim would get off with a hole in the wall if the mood struck him. After more than twenty years married to him, even Helena knew.
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