Balance of Power by CB Redson – A Lesbian Fantasy

Being an erotica author has presented me with no small number of unique opportunities. I’ve met all manner of fascinating people. Cut to a few weeks ago, when I made the acquaintance of a person we’re going to call CB Redson. CB wanted to give me stories to publish and make money from as an act of submission. I was a little reluctant at first because it’s a unique offer. And because I didn’t know if their writing would be something that was up to my standards. But we progressed and I had CB send me a story. And it was soooooo good. We’re still figuring out the finer points of what CB will be doing for me and how often, but I present to you the first such endeavor and I hope you enjoy it! 


Surprised business woman


It was always quiet this time of night. Most of the team had other commitments and couldn’t be counted on to pull the extra hours, Beatrice was different though.
Meghan sat at her desk, alone. Her corner office was a standing joke, no natural light or dramatic views, just wall spaces which struggled to house bookshelves, and strip lighting which gave off an infuriating low level buzz. It was however, her office. Earned on her terms, against the prevailing currents of old boy networks and after work entertainment. She ran one hand through her jet black hair, ruffling it slightly, holding her other fist high and raising a single finger in salute to her absent colleagues.
Meghan’s after work entertainment normally took place over a must-read document and perhaps a glass of wine. A decade after graduation and her own commitments extended no further than an electronic inbox. She sighed, dropped her pen and leaned back into her seat, allowing her mind to drift.
Somewhere out in the open plan area, Beatrice would be typing. They’d been working together for weeks now, and whilst any number of juniors could have done the job required, Meghan had insisted on having Beatrice with her. She told herself it was the quality of the older woman’s output, or possibly the dedication which years of experience had delivered, deep down though, she knew there was more to her feelings. The evening work had been an excuse to spend more time with Beatrice. To see her alone, out of hours, to have the older junior to herself. To build something personal to them from shared looks, workplace jokes and the intimacy of each other’s company. She knew it was silly, inappropriate even, but Meghan desperately wanted to be near the older woman.
Over time a keen sense of camaraderie had developed. The women were very much on a level, and whilst Beatrice was over a decade older and had life experiences Meghan could only imagine, there was an unquestionable likeness in their reactions. They even shared the same, eccentric sense of humour. Both women knew the age gap was a ‘thing’. For others, the fact that the manager was far younger than the assistant, might have caused rancor, for Meghan and Beatrice it became a source of humour. Meghan knew Bea had invaluable experience from her previous career. Beatrice respected her boss’s rapid rise through the industry.
It had been natural enough for Beatrice to nickname Meghan ‘Boss’ and a playful extension to add overblown bows, comic salutes to their interactions. Within a week the game had become a play acted out by both women, the older subservient, the younger relishing her role as the dominant boss. Nine pm each evening had become their regular one to one, a chance for Meghan to check her junior’s work, for them to walk through their playful fantasy.
For Meghan, it was a bittersweet arrangement. She treasured the time spent with Beatrice, revelling in every joyful moment in her company and yet, she found, she couldn’t fully commit to the role of ‘Boss’. There was a something amiss in the balance between them, something not quite right, an awkwardness in the equilibrium they had found.
Meghan gazed blankly into her screen, the reading lamp had set up a peripheral reflection against the evening’s gloom. The cursor blinked idly.
There comes a time with every flirtation, when the players need to answer the inevitable, ‘What now?’. When brief thrills lose their power, or the pull of promised intimacy becomes too strong the make-believe barrier, built of gestures and double words, is liable to tear and a flirtatious couple must ask themselves how strong that barrier was ever intended to be.
Meghan crossed her thighs, squeezing her sex, wringing pleasure from her frustration. She wanted her junior, needed to hold her close, feel the flow of her hair in hand, to smell her fragrance. She dropped one hand to her groin, rubbed herself through the material of her own dress, sighed as fingertip met sex, felt its warmth wash over her hand. Meghan opened.
Pulling her hand up under the hem of her dress, she let her nails push at the stretched fabric of her tights, teasing herself as she brushed against her dampening mound. Heedless of the awkward angle, she crammed her fingers greedily up over the elastic, under the nylon hose and deep into her panties. Closing her eyes tight she imagined Beatrice standing before her, dominant, instructing the younger woman to touch herself, ordering her to continue. Meghan swallowed hard, rubbing her hand back and forth, willing Beatrice to control her, to dominate her.
A series of sharp taps, tuneful, deliberate, brought Meghan rudely back into focus. Beatrice, appeared around the door’s faux wood panel, clasping two wine glasses. Meghan started guiltily, struggling to untangle her fingers from the depth of her dress. The laptop, open between them, shielded the full details of her humiliation from view, but Meghan knew with certainty that the more experienced woman could clearly see, something odd was going on. Blushing madly, wrestling her hands free, Meghan righted herself, placing one hand on the wooden desktop for support.
Bea stood before her, ankles crossed, precision personified. One eyebrow raised quizzically, it’s arc perfectly formed. Everything from her work, to the way she dressed was always delivered, perfectly formed. Today she wore a bottle green dress, cut tight and hemmed just at the knee to reveal formal heels and black tights, or perhaps Meghan mused, stockings; the thickness of green material meant there was no way beyond speculation to uncover the truth. Meghan shuddered in delight, noting with embarrassed surprise the glistening smear left by her treacherous fingers on the work surface.
Despite her age, Bea’s hair was an immaculate brunette which kissed her collar at single level and was utterly untouched by the grey which often came to women in their late forties.
“I thought, maybe a drink would make it all more bearable?” She said warmly, leaning in close to place the two glasses between Meghan and her computer.
Meghan looked up into the older woman’s eyes, nervously holding their gaze, all too conscious that seconds before she had been masturbating to the thought of the woman before her. Bea moved forward, perched on the table inches from where the younger woman sat. Meghan had only to reach out, to touch a knee, and the unspoken veil between them would be torn. One small movement and Beatrice would perceive her desires perfectly.
The older woman crossed her legs offering the merest glimpse of stocking top and the delicious contrast between nylon and flesh. “So then Boss,” she said playfully, “Would you like to go over my figures this evening?” The innuendo was brazen. Beatrice was always flirtatious but this was another level. Meghan struggled to read the situation. Was this an offer or just more humour? Her head span. She longed to reach her hand beneath the green dress, to run her fingers across the soft flesh of Beatrice’s pale thighs. Her pulse quickened. She felt an excited dizziness. The moment to act had come. She willed herself on, straightening in her chair, leaning slowly forwards, closer to Beatrice. Her legs seemed so close, so kissable. And then it happened.
The merest of touches. A light pressure beneath her chin. Beatrice’s hand, outstretched, lifted Meghan’s face upwards. Guiding their gazes together. Their lips brushed. A shock like static skittered across her skin. She could feel Beatrice’s lips parting, a probing tongue push gently at her own closed mouth. She opened. Parting her own lips willingly, allowing the older woman to penetrate her, feeling the warm texture of her tongue inside for the first time. She rose from the seat and Bea pulled them together. Their forms meeting, in unison. She could feel Bea’s hands on her hips through the fabric of the dress. The confident embrace of another woman’s will.  Fingers spread wide, reading every curve; thorough, insistent. With each touch a new sensation. Tiny flickers, sudden shivers. It was as if something dormant between them had woken, a new energy.
“You want this?” It was more an observation than a question.
Meghan nodded. Right then she wanted her desperately, more than anything in her life.
“I think you need to work for it. Don’t you?”
“Yes, Boss.” Whispered Meghan. Saying it had been a risk. Shifting the balance of power had been an assumption.
“Well, well. Does our little success story want to be taken in hand?”
Meghan reddened, looking down, nodding.
“I can’t hear you girl, and if I can’t hear you, how do know what it is you want? Say it girl.”
“I do, Boss.”
“You do what, girl?”
“I want you to take me in hand.”
“And?”
Meghan gulped. She had no alternative, the veil had been torn. She stood before Beatrice completely vulnerable. “Teach me, Boss. Teach me to do it your way.”
“It?” Beatrice chuckled, she was plainly enjoying Meghan’s discomfort. “I need you to say it very clearly for me, so there can be no misunderstanding.”
Swallowing her pride, Meghan looked the older woman squarely in the eye. “I want you to teach me how to fuck you.”
Beatrice laughed out loud. “Very well girl.” she said, with a flash in her eye, “Lesson one. Take off my dress.”
Reaching behind Bea’s neck, under her precise bob, Meghan pulled the zipper down, feeling the material of the green dress slacken as she did. Bea’s shoulders, stood out, boney and beautiful. Meghan took in the lines of her black bra, the fall of her cleavage within the lace balcony. A joyful dizziness gripped her.
Pushing the younger woman back into her seat, Beatrice stood, allowing her dress to fall fully to the floor.
Meghan gasped. Waves of emotion flooding her mind. Bea stood before her, a vision of high-end underwear and flesh; a glass of warm red raised to her lips and a devilish flash in her deep brown eyes.
Meghan drank in the sight of the goddess before her, wanting more than anything to hold her, to touch her, to explore every inch of her form; realising belatedly how foolish she must look reclined in her seat utterly enrapt by Beatrice’s body.
With a playful tut, Beatrice placed her heeled shoes on either armrest of Meghan’s chair; Surrounding her less experienced boss, defining a clear channel to her own pussy. Without speaking she was directing the seated woman, guiding her. It was body language at its most pure, it’s most potent.
Breathing fast, Meghan leaned forward, gently placing her palms on Bea’s stockinged legs, sliding her hands across and around her ivory thighs, savouring the slick feel of nylon beneath her touch, anticipating the delights of the flesh which lay beneath. Taking one ankle in hand, Meghan lifted a foot, slowly slipping the heeled shoe up and off. The older woman sighed, flexing her toes in pleasure.
The border between nylon and flesh was slightly raised; The clinging rubber beneath, lifting a tight band which encircled Beatrice’s thigh. Meghan slipped her fingertips under the elastic cuff, and glancing up for reassurance, began to peel down the stocking, watching the delicate fabric pool around Beatrice’s ankles.
A scatter of freckles dotted Bea’s thighs. Meghan kissed them softly one by one, allowing her lips to linger on skin, tracing the lines between, as if they were a map to a mysterious land. Late night office light bathed the pair in a vibrant glare, stark against the darkness beyond, like water cascading over them, creating an air of magic. Urban fantasy. Meghan took her time, there was no rush. One leg and then the next. Kissing, caressing, licking. She wanted the moment to last an eternity, to cram every possible experience of Beatrice into the now.
Beatrice unclasped the bra, pulling it away, exposing her breasts to the after-hour light. The slightest fall betrayed her age, but Meghan observed with pleasure, made her no less desirable. There was something magnificent about the woman, a mastery gifted by the years, conjuring the effect of a Mistress utterly at one with herself, completely in control of her effect. It was startling, intoxicating. Meghan leaned forward and looking up, took the swollen form of Beatrice’s nipple  into her warm mouth, flicking her tongue around its rim, feeling the soft flesh harden deliciously. She squeezed the erect nipple between her lips, gently pulling back, sucking, before allowing it to spring away. Cupping Bea’s second breast she moved her mouth forwards, exploring the tender flesh with her thumb, pushing its nipple gently inwards. Beatrice sighed.
Meghan could sense fingers tangling her hair. Feel a firmness as they tightened, gripping her; As if she had been locked within this woman’s grasp. A tug. Meghan’s face was turned forcefully upward. Beatrice lowered herself, grazing her lips across the younger woman’s forehead before guiding her gently, firmly towards her cunt.
She could small Beatrice’s sex now, the sensual tang of heat, feel the warmth of her pussy through the dampening fabric of the lace panties. She wanted to bury herself in Beatrice’s wetness, to lose herself in her moist lips. Meghan eased the material down, noticing with delight the sticky mess she had caused. Allowing the garment to fall to the floor, she returned to Bea’s trimmed, yet full bush. Crouched on the office floor, coiling her arms around Beatrice’s legs for support she blew gently on the pink flower. Bea shivered, lifting her sex, seeking out the younger woman’s kiss.
Tentatively at first, Meghan traced her tongue over Bea’s engorged lips, teasing, gentle. Darting within the flower, lapping at Beatrice’s sweet nectar. Licking deep to enjoy her fully, to savour her taste. She wanted to sink into Meghan, to bury her face within the warmth, to feel her juices cover her own face, slick, wet, scented. Feeling her nose nuzzle into public hair, Meghan placed a gentle kiss on Bea’s erect clitoris, skimming its tip. The gentlest of touches. Beatrice gasped, her legs tensed, arching her back in pleasure. Meghan felt her own sex open, she longed to touch her self, yearned for release. But the older woman held her head firm, pulling Meghan into her, demanding attention. Meghan obeyed without question.
The harsh office carpet grated the skin of Meghan’s knees. Struggling for comfort she sat up, wriggling her face further into the wetness before her. Beatrice began to moan, forcing her cunt back down. Flicking her tongue rapidly across the engorged clitoris, Meghan drank in the salty fluid, revelling in Beatrice’s sweet taste.
Beatrice shook, her back arched, one hand tangled in Meghan’s hair, the other supporting her body. Her moans echoed around the room, escaping into the office space beyond. The thrill of their illicit union delighted Meghan, made her heart pound. Within a few short hours, office workers would be huddled numbly over their screens, oblivious to what was taking place beyond the office door. If only they knew, could hear. It was as if, together, the two women were giving the finger to everyone they worked with. Meghan felt naughty. She felt electric. Everything, her feelings for Beatrice, her frustrations with work, her pent up sexual desires coalesced into this one point in time, creating a pure joy she had never experienced before. She was alive.
Rising from her knees Meghan stood above her love. Beatrice panted softly, her hands, now free from the younger woman’s hair stroking her pussy as she drank in the sight before her. Meghan’s dress fell to the floor. Her underclothes followed one by one as she worked efficiently to disrobe herself. She wanted to be naked before Beatrice, to complete what had been begun.
Her panties were the last to fall. She had read once that the key to undressing for others was order: socks first, shirt, pants and finally bra and panties. Save the best till last and, above all avoid being caught in just your socks. She had scoffed at the advice at the time, but tonight was treating it as absolute gospel. She wanted to look her best for her new Boss. Beatrice reclined on the desk’s edge taking in the show, her left hand grazing lazily over her damp pussy. She watched in delighted silence as Meghan dropped her cream panties to the floor. “Come here.” She stated, clearly.
Beatrice glided closer to the seated woman, slipping between her parted thighs, placing a hand lightly on each for support.
“Kiss me.”
Meghan did as she was asked without hesitation, shuddering as their lips met.
“I can taste my cum on you.” Beatrice whispered, drawing her tongue up Meghan’s cheek. There was something predatory in the gesture. Meghan felt herself moisten. She had always hoped Beatrice would be dominant but the reality of it bewitched her. She reached forward and cupped the soft flesh of Bea’s breasts, and as she did felt a hand slide between her own legs and a fingertip slip all too easily into her, teasing her swollen lips apart, making room for another, and then a third finger.
Beatrice fucked the younger woman expertly. Working her fingers rhythmically, brushing Meghan’s clitoris with the flat of her thumb, blending regular strokes with wriggles and flourishes which made Meghan squirm and gasp. Each time her knees threatened to give, Beatrice was there, supporting, holding, kissing. She came in waves, each time convinced that she could give no more, every time shocked by her body’s capacity for pleasure, each time thrilled by the older woman’s skill.
When eventually they were spent, the two women rested, laced together in each other’s arms on the office chair.
“Is this going to work?” Meghan muttered, tracing distracted lines through her lovers freckles, “I don’t see how we can we can go back to being employee and boss after tonight.”
“Oh, don’t worry yourself,” laughed the older woman “It’ll work just fine. Just so long as you remember who’s really in charge now of course.”


If you enjoy the story, please buy me a coffee at ko-fi.com/SorchaRowan.

 

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