Priscilla, the secretary

I smell her perfume before my eyes even adjust to the darkness. Jasmine. Her shape is unforgettable. A wave in the darkness, sillouetted by the Venetian blinds. Hips and breasts and the swell of thigh. Perfect. The tip of her cigarette glows briefly, eternally, and then dims. I can hear her lips pull away from it. I can almost feel the silk blouse over her body.

My cock pulses hard with blood. Yeziroth begins frothing in my head. "Your eyes are glowing, Mike." She says with a voice a smooth as angel feathers. I watch her blow smoke in the darkness, the spirals a gray against the black. Yeziroth might be in the mood, but I was feeling caustic. I clamped my eyes shut, and willed them back to true.

"Can it." I said, flicking on the light. She was standing in the middle of the room in a long sleeved, low cut, skin tight emerald green dress under a fur coat, her breasts desperately attempting to spill out from it. I'm no dummy. I flicked the light back off. She chuckled. Dames. They know when they have you.

I shucked my coat off and made my way to the kitchen. She had made coffee. I poured a cup and lit a Lucky. She moved like smoke on the moonlight. I barely heard her before I felt her smooth hands slide around my waist, or her soft, firm breasts crush against my back. "I'm cold, Mike." she said in barely a whisper.

"Coffee?" I asked, turning to her with the cup and prick hard enough to hang a flag from. Even in the dark, I could see her eyes. Her fingertips touched the skin on my wrist, then slid down my hand, and put the coffee cup back on the counter. She crushed herself against me, pinning me. Her mouth found mine. Her tongue was a hot firey thing in my mouth, our lips colliding and fighting like rams, seeking to dominate the other. My eyes flared up so bright I could see the shimmer of fire in her wet, wanting eyes.

I mumbled to myself. I felt him then. Yeziroth. He started to speak.

"If you aren't interested, and obviously aren't busy, I'd like to recharge." he said in his reverberating, ancient voice that was both as smooth and savage as a panther in the night. I looked at her, and thought about it.