The Taste of Honey

May More
13 mins read
Published almost 2 years ago

Work was my life. I was unwilling to stop for a moment until I landed a seat on the board. 

Finally, it paid off. I was a director of the advertising company that employed me when I graduated. Honeydew had grown into a corporate giant with clients on three continents, and I'd got a real buzz from growing with them over a decade of long, hard hours, schmoozing the people that mattered, sucking a few of the right cocks and watching the fertile years slip by... Until I found myself safe in my own office, with my choice of secretary, to defend me. 

I was on a two-year placement in the London office—as demanded by company policy—and making the most of my newfound power position. 

Glancing out the window from my office on the sixteenth floor, I saw it was raining as usual. Seemed it was always raining in London. I watched the trails of cars heading for commuter hell and reflected on how my second year here was taking forever. It felt like life was passing me by. I'd never thought about having kids but it had come as a bit of shock when I realised how much dating time I'd given up for this position. My thirty-fifth birthday was fast approaching and I hadn't enough experience with romance to realise what I may have missed. For me, sex had been mainly a means to an end, and I had certainly laid a few high-fliers on my way up the tree.  

Don't get me wrong—I got off on that kind of thing too. I would make my self available with a necessary file perhaps. Tight skirt clinging to my curvy hips, heavy bosom busting out of a white blouse. I knew what they wanted and in return, it seemed, I always got what I wanted: fast track promotion.

But it was only one facet of my career plan. As time went on, it became clear that I had a better brain than most. I was certainly more determined to succeed. The realisation that it was more than likely I'd won my directorship on merit, rather than favours, left me feeling a little empty inside. I didn't regret my past behaviourin fact, I'm the type who always takes responsibility for her actions. But now, for the first time in my life, I felt reflective and a little unsure what to do next.

I needed a bit of fun and to be honest, I mourned that more than being childless. Inside, I longed to meet my match. A kindred spirit who I could embark on a road of discovery with. Someone who also knew what they wanted and was not scared to push the barriers to get it. But how to find him?

Wiping off some finger marks from the gold-plated name banner on my desk I glanced out of the window again. The rain hadn't stopped all day. I grabbed my bag, an umbrella and a trench coat. I was late leaving so there were not many bodies left in the building. It was a short, soggy walk from reception to the executive car park. I hoisted my umbrella and stumbled between the puddles, splashing my stockings. As I went to cross the road, the heel on one of my Jimmy Choos gave way. It must have snapped as my ankle went over and I found myself squatting, in a not particularly dignified fashion, on the sodden sidewalk.


It was difficult enough working a full day in stylish, sexy footwear without this hassle on top. My ankle hurt a little but I was more shocked than anything. Taking the shoes off I was considering a slow hobble to the car park when a small car stopped beside me. The passenger door opened. Craning my neck, I recognised the driver as Jonesey, a drone from the pool. 

The 'pool' was a roomful of interns we'd hired last autumn. 'Drones' was boardroom slang for these mainly useless kids who were almost all heading for the chop after their twelve-month probation. I usually sacked a dozen or so every January. He was a typical twenty-something cutie: bearded, slim hips, and a fifty-dollar haircut.

“Ms. Dawson, jump in,” he shouted above the traffic.

“No jumping for me...” I held up the crippled shoe and he mouthed 'Oh'. I rolled my eyes.

“Think you could drop me at the car park, Jonesey?” I struggled to my feet and groaned. 

“That doesn't look so good. Your ankle – I can see it swelling up from here. How about I drive you to your apartment? You'll need to bandage that – and I'm a company first aider as it happens.”

“It sure is starting to hurt. I guess I can get a cab into work in the morning. Go on then. You know the short route to Islington?” 

“You'd better tell me, Ms. Dawson, ” he grinned.

“You'll find the first aid stuff in the big cupboard,” I called, as my saviour disappeared into the bathroom. I leaned back into my deep, chrome and leather sofa. Within five minutes he was carefully bandaging an ice pack to my ankle. I gazed down at his long, nimble fingers tying the final knot. 

“You've done this before, Jonesey.” 

“Once or twice.” 

He came on like such a sweet caring guy. Quietly spoken and attentive. He fingered the bandage, checking his work, and gave me a thumbs-up. My mind went AWOL for a moment, imagining the feel of that thumb probing, pushing... I shook my head to clear the unexpected but attractive image. 

“There's beer in the fridge – do you think you could fetch me one?” 

“Of course.”

I watched his hips snaking as he walked to the kitchen. What was I thinking? He returned quickly with a pair of cold ones and tumblers.

“Think you could pour that for me, Jonesey?”

He popped the can, and to my surprise, gave a short, distinct chuckle.

“What's so funny?”

“I just love the way you give orders and disguise them as invitations. Ms. Dawson,” he smiled. 

He was a lot smarter than average.

“I spend all week giving orders, Jonesey. It doesn't hurt to sweeten the pill.”

He nodded and glanced around the room, checking it all out – the premium silk scarves, my French designer furniture, the high-end German stereo. I took a sip and reminded myself he wasn't my type at all. His eyes returned to me. 

“You do it well. I don't get much practice giving orders,” he said, in a voice that suggested otherwise.

“You'd get to like it,” I assured him, wondering where the hell this conversation was going. He was watching me now, his steely blue eyes narrowing slightly. I decided to brush him off with a promise of a reward. 

“You've been very kind, Jonesey. We can do lunch next week, my treat, okay?” 

“Ah yes, the old order/invitation,” he replied, eyes twinkling. This time we both laughed. 

“I really should try out that technique sometime,” he joked, his eyes tracing the length of my leg to the bandaged ankle. 

“You really should,” I replied, and right then I realised my pencil skirt had split at the side. Must have happened when I fell. Now my stocking top was on show. It seemed that Jonesey had noticed too. Reaching forward he cheekily ran his forefinger along the patterned band that clung to my generous thigh, and spoke in a quiet, assured tone. 

“Here's an idea. How about I get my, em, 'treat' right here and now?” 

His voice had changed. Deepened, and the words came clipped and direct. All the while his eyes intent, meeting mine. Was he serious? 

“Is that an order/invitation, Jonesey?” 

I made sure I spoke in a precise corporate tone but as soon as the words left my mouth I had licked my lips in contradiction.

“It is indeed,” he agreed putting his hand on the steadily enlarging bulge in his pants. I recalled what he'd said in the car park and couldn't resist giving it back.

“Well, Jonesey, I can see it swelling up from here.” 

His teeth flashed, very white in his dark beard. He looked young and strong. His cock visibly pushing against his fingers. Now I really was feeling horny. I reached for his fly but he pushed my hand away.

“Greedy girl. How about you give me your glass, Ms. Dawson?”

“You take it,” I murmured, and he set both our beers down on the table. I was trying to sound cool but my pulse was racing. He had me totally off-balance. Nobody ever dared talk to me this way. I had misjudged Jonesey — he had balls, and I liked that. My cunt reacted, clenching at his audacity and anticipating the release of his cock. He stood, looming over me, both hands free.

“You might want to take off your blouse?” 

His invitations were sounding more like orders every minute. He was dancing along the edge of permission. I was way over his head, an unreachable star. I could hire or fire him, pull him up or shut him down and we both knew it. Tilting my head back and to one side, I said, “You can call me Catherine.”

Taking the initiative he held a fistful of my hair and pulled my head slowly back onto the cold metal frame. Then he brought his face close to mine, till our cheeks were practically touching. His breath was warm against my neck. 

“A good girl might get exactly what she wants,” he whispered.

With words good girl echoing in my mind I skipped through the buttons with one hand. My shirt opened, revealing all my flesh, cleavage bulging from a black lacy bra. Jonesey responded with a throaty groan, put his arms around me and skilfully undid the clasp. My boobs spilled out directly into his waiting hands. He twisted the nipples and squeezed the flesh, obviously revelling in their size and weight. I could see the need in his eyes and allowed my mouth to open with desire, no order necessary.

He began unzipping his fly. Reaching in, he pulled his cock through and carefully began to manipulate his shaft back and forth over the already swollen purple knob. I swear I began to salivate. Unable to look away I simply took in the view before me. Pre-cum was glistening on the end of his knob and I leaned forward to lick it off. But he took a step back.

“Perhaps if you lay sideways it would be easier to take off your panties.”

My day was getting better and better. I swivelled gently, nursing my ankle, and stretched my legs along the white sofa. I opened my thighs to him, waiting for his fingers, but instead he reached for his beer and took a slow sip.

"You know, Catherine, it might be better to let me watch you do it. To see those stocking tops framing your cunt."

I'd never met anyone like this before. His directness excited me. His attitude was hot as hell. I peeled off my panties and hitched my torn skirt up as high as it would go. Now my plump, moist slit was on view – for him.

“That's more like it. What if you gave that gorgeous pussy a little stroke for me?” He practically purred the request, holding his dick and gently rubbing a fingertip across its tip.

I didn't need telling twice. I was wet. This was the sexiest scene I'd been involved in. Someone daring to take what they wanted from me. Asking, yet telling me what to do. I pushed my finger along the entrance to my sex and felt the heat. Burning. Looking directly into Jonesey's eyes I pushed in further, parting my legs. Now I could smell my own longing.

“Don't you think it's time for my treat, Catherine?”

He picked out a black Givenchy scarf from the silk pile and just stood, looking, waiting. 

"Yes," I whispered.

Heart pounding, I stretched my hands above my head and gripped the chrome pipes that framed the sofa. I arched my back, raising my boobs up towards him. In a few seconds he had both my wrists tethered to the frame. I was shocked—at Jonesey, at myself—but I didn't want this to stop. 

What I did want was his cock in my mouth and I didn't have to wait long. Kneeling astride me, he was perfectly positioned to push his hips forward and impale my face, dick plunging into the back of my throat. Hardly able to breathe I gasped in the air as he made short, sharp thrusts and his cock never left my mouth.

Looking down into my eyes, in between strokes he growled, “Good girl. I'm't you...” 

And at the sound of those words something strange began to happen. I started to climax, cunt pulsing against the stitched leather cushions as my clitoris, already proud from the earlier attention, rubbed and throbbed on the seams. What a release. 

At the same time, my mouth seemed to mimic my cunt's actions, massaging his shaft as I sucked and slurped. Just as my orgasm began to subside he started to come. His cock was unyielding. Pulling out he moaned, aiming his shot over my breasts and covering my milky skin with his spunk. Still not content, he kept jerking come from his dick, spurting deep into my cleavage. The explosion seemed never-ending.

Finally he got slowly to his feet and dropped onto the floor. Still panting, that cute smile opened again in the depth of his beard, the corners of his mouth turning up into a smile as he spoke.

“Thank you, Catherine, that was a fine...em...compensation package.”

“Compensation?” I queried, thinking it was a strange way to describe what had just happened between us.

“Well, you—or one of your pals in management—fired me last Friday, along with nine other, em, 'drones'. We all got four weeks notice and a very polite thank you letter.”

“Uh...I..we did?” My head was spinning and suddenly I felt very vulnerable, but the twinkle was still in his eyes as he gently untied my wrists.

“Not to worry. I have ambitions that runway beyond an internship at Honeytrap. Perhaps you'd like to hear about them? We could talk through some ideas over lunch next week, Ms Dawson?”

My heart skipped in my chest as I tried not to look like the cat who'd just got the cream.

Oh, yes fun was definitely on the cards and I guessed Jonesey had more than a couple of aces up his sleeve...

More from May on Bellesa:

The Colour of Life
Friday's Child

Journey by Moonlight
The Numbers Game

Written by
May More

May's writing is inherently personal, with posts describing her own sexual ventures into bondage, illustrated by real-life erotic photographs. Occasionally, she pens some more earnest articles when she feels a topic is worth discussing. She very much tries to put across that life is all about the choices we make. May writes because from the moment she started her blog, she couldn't stop herself. But what is a writer without an audience? Her blog enables her readers to find me and comment. That makes her happy.