Hi Melissa

You don’t need to see or hear anything - the scent of Melissa is unmistakable - Chanel No 5, of course, but with a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’. She can’t have been there more than a couple of minutes, and yet the air is filled with her musk.

“I was hoping it would be you, John,” she whispers. “I was getting excited just thinking how you would choose the room I chose.” Melissa’s courses in staff management and understanding have clearly paid off.

Her hands touch your hair. You feel yourself getting hotter and (yes!) wetter. You in turn reach for her hair. You edge closer (Ooh, that top will have to go...) and then your lips find hers. No half-measures here; Melissa’s tongue starts exploring your mouth like a ravenous conger eel. Her hands are already working on the zip of your little black number. You are taken aback at her speed - then you realise that your hands are working her skimpy vest top up off those glorious boobs.

The passionate kiss continues as Melissa draws your dress forward and down, releasing your breasts. Your head spins as your nipples rub against hers. As the dress hits the floor, you step out of it (still in the clinch) and flick it to one side. Grabbing her top, you break from the kiss for a second, and lift and fling away the offending garment.

Now you realise your boss is on her knees before you. The feel of your lacy panties is lovely, but the feel of her fingers tracing across them (and across your sex) is better. You knees are already beginning to buckle as she pulls down, and her mouth encounters your shaven pussy.

“Ooh, I love finding a Sinéad O’Connor!” she squeals.

“But nothing compares 2U!”, you gasp, as her tongue begins to work its magic. You bend your knees some more, and open up your pussy to your boss’s probing movements. You’ve been with other women before, but no-one with the deft skills of your hot partner.
Your hands are clinging to her hair, but letting her do as she would wish - not guiding, the way you usually would do.

As her tongue continues to tease around your lips, with the occasional (jump!) visit to your throbbing clit, her long, sharp fingernails are playing games with the backs of your thighs.

Your back is now sanding the panels of the door as your hips move to the music of this Pied Piper. Your eyes are closed; they see that vivid rainbow-white-fluorescent; your ears are filled with the rush of no-sound. Somewhere in the distance you hear Melissa moan and murmur “You’ve been here before, girl...”

“Whattawoman,” you think to yourself, “whattalover!” Then you realise again that this is your boss, and your hostess, and that the ten minutes must be running out. You want to return the compliment, but you are enjoying being on the receiving end too much. What to do?