The Erotica of Al X : Serving Deana - Episode 1
(MF FDom oral feet anal panty)
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Standard Disclaimer: This story contains sexually graphic and explicit material.
It is NOT suitable for minors.
If you are a minor, LEAVE NOW as it is illegal for you to be here.
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in your community, LEAVE NOW.
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This story and characters are purely fictional and any resemblance to
events or persons (living or dead) is purely coincidental.
These stories are pure fiction and do not promote or condone the
activities described herein, especially when it comes to unsafe
sexual practices or sex between adults and minors.
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Summary: Deana is a sexy Latina BBW. When she catches a coworker staring at her ass, she takes advantage of the situation. She orders him to perform a series of tasks until her domination of him is complete. In "Well Done," she has him clean her office, her feet and her ass.
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"Well Done"
by Al X
Let me describe Deana, a chubby Latina who works in the same company as me. She's young, mid-twenties, short, with a cute round face and dark hair usually pulled back in a pony tail. She has large breasts and a round belly, and a healthy sized rear-end. She dresses in a casual, yet professional style; she usually wears tight pants with visible panty lines. And those panty lines are what struck my interest in her: Whenever I found myself walking behind her in a hallway, I couldn't help but noticed them. She usually wore full bottom panties, and when she walked, her cheeks always put on a bouncy show.
I started going out of my way to walk behind her. Whenever I spotted her in a hallway, I made the necessary adjustments to my walking - slowing down or speeding up - so that I would end up behind her. And always, when I was behind her, I stared at that juicy Latina ass.
One day in June I got to sit next to her in a meeting. For an hour I studied her: the style of her earrings, the slight scar below her chin, the way her eyes squinted when she was nervous, the length of her cleavage, the way she opened and closed her legs when she was bored, the faint aroma of her perfume. After the meeting we were both heading for the cafeteria, so we walked together. We shared some small talk, then swapped personal details - she was married, her husband worked for another firm, she traveled to Puerto Rico twice a year, she missed her parents, most of her family lived in Florida.
After that I seemed to see her more often in the hallways. Once or twice I had thought she caught me staring at her ass. I quickly diverted my eyes and she didn't say anything, so I thought my secret fascination hadn't been discovered.
In late July she "officially" caught me staring. A meeting was adjourning. She was in the chair in front of me, and when she stood up her shirt rose up to reveal a two-inch strip of cotton panties. They were pink with little flowers, almost like what little girls wore. They looked so cute. Deana spied me but didn't say anything. She was on the quiet side, and I wondered if she was too shy to broach the subject. But she didn't pull her shirt down; as we walked out I had a great view of her panty sticking out of tan pants that barely contained that sweet ass of hers.
We walked side by side down the hall back towards my office, a five minute walk, and I had forgotten about the incident. But just as she was about to leave me, she asked: "So what are they today?"
I honestly didn't know what she was talking about.
She took a few steps in front of me, then glanced behind her, down towards her ass. "I forget what I put on this morning." Her tone was stronger, more assertive than she had ever used before. "But I'm sure you know what panties I'm wearing."
This was the proverbial moment of truth, where the path of a life diverges. I had two options. I could feign ignorance (or even shock that she would accuse me of this). Or I could be honest. I chose the latter, and answered sheepishly: "Pink. Cotton. With little flowers."
We stood there for a moment, with me feeling awkward, not speaking. She stared into my eyes, sizing me up. Her expression was neither playful, nor sexual. She looked serious, as if she were analyzing the situation, and it scared me a little. Without saying a word, she walked off. I stole one last glance at her ass. As I headed then headed towards my office, I realized she had just exercised a minor power trip. Deana, who was normally unassertive at work, had controlled that situation. She had controlled me. It felt strange, but not unpleasant.
Although we saw each other a few times after that, she never acknowledged that first encounter until two weeks later. I was walking a few feet behind her in the hall. "What are they today?" she asked me.
I knew exactly what she was referring to. I stared at her panty lines. "A thong."
"What color?" she asked, not looking back at me.
I could see it through her white pants. "Black."
Not once through this had she turned to face me. But a few seconds later she stopped and waited for me to come towards her. "Did you know that staring at a woman's ass violates our company's sexual harassment policies?"
I had a vague notion that it was wrong (which is why I had always tried to be discrete). "I- I guess so."
"That it creates an unsafe workplace?"
I could tell from her expression that she would accept no vague guesses. "Yes, I know."
I couldn't tell if she was threatening me or just asserting her power over me, and I got more confused when she said, "Follow me." As she walked down the hall, I followed like a puppy, although keeping my eyes up and away from her ass. I was afraid she would turn me in to a manager or to personnel. Instead we ended up at her office. She opened the door, flipped on the light and ushered me inside. "What do you think?" she said, waving her hand to indicate the room.
"It's a bit messy."
"Clean it," she ordered. Without another word she left the room, and I heard her walk down the hall to talk with another woman. I didn't think I had any choice - if I didn't clean it, would she turn me in for sexual harassment? Not wanting to take the chance, I closed the door and spent about ten minutes cleaning - throwing away garbage, tidying piles of papers, wiping up stains on the desk. As I arranged her framed photographs, I studied the wedding picture with her husband. When I finished I opened the door. Minutes later Deana returned. "Well done," she said she brushed past me. She sat at the desk and powered up her laptop. It was evident she was finished with me, so I started to head out in silence. Over her shoulder she said: "I would never force my husband to clean my office."
To be honest, I was entirely forced. It was odd, but I enjoyed serving her. And looking back I saw that her cruel smile. She had never been offended by me staring at her ass.
The following Monday she placed her second demand of me. We were leaving a conference room after an important meeting and she caught me by the arm. "Listen carefully," she said in with a firm voice and a Puerto Rican accent. She spoke slowly: "Victoria's Secret. Lace tanga. Rose petal. Large. Have them in my office by 11:30."
At first I was taken aback by her demand but somehow I wanted to serve her. 11:30 was an hour away, just enough time to drive to the mall and back, but unfortunately I had a critical deadline at noon and Deana knew it. Meeting her demand meant facing a possible penalty at work. From her expression I knew that she would not hear of any excuses. I also knew the implications if I failed the task. The penalty would not have been getting turned on for sexual harrassment, the penalty would have been an end to whatever future acts of submission she had planned for me.
"I'll get them," I told her.
Her smile was one of contentment. She knew she had me right where she wanted me.
Pre-lunch traffic was light so the drive to the mall took only fifteen minutes. Inside the mall I found the Victoria's Secret store. I knew time was tight so I went right to a salesgirl for help. I was surprised by the price - $25 for a panty - but I could see why she wanted this style. On the way back to work, I set the panty in my lap and imagined wild scenes back at Deana's office. What if she had me put it on her? Would I lick her through it? Would she allow me to fuck her over the desk? Needless to say, I had a hard-on the entire ride back, and nearly had an accident at the stoplight a half mile from work.
At her office, I knocked on the door. Deana sat with her back to me, typing on her laptop. She glanced at her watch, ensuring I wasn't late. She didn't speak, she just kept on typing. I stood there for a few minutes, then placed the bag on her desk. She took her time to finally glance it. Then, in a flat tone, she said, "Well done," dismissing me. Just as I turned to leave, she swiveled in her chair until she was facing me. "My husband would never run a foolish errand like that," she said derisively.
The following day I found myself walking behind her on my way to the cafeteria. She had on black pants; they weren't too tight, but I could make out the visible panty line. "What are they today?" she asked.
"The tanga I bought you."
She slowed her gait until I caught up to her. "My husband would never be foolish enough to pay that much for underwear. And I would never ask him to. Do you understand?"
Yes, I understood everything she said and meant.
Two days later I received an instant message from her. "Come to me office." I was in the midst of working on an important, and overdue, project, but I duly left my office and traveled the length of the building to hers. She was sitting at her desk, with her back to me. "Close the door," she said as she swiveled around to face me. Her white blouse was so tight against her large breasts that I could make out the nipples. She wore white pants that went down to her calves and what looked like wicker sandals, which she kicked off. She lifted her feet up off the floor. They were fleshy, like the rest of her, and a bit on the dirty side (from wearing open sandals). Her toenails were neatly trimmed and painted red. "Do they smell?" she asked.
I knelt down before her. I lifted up her feet and inhaled. "Yes. A little."
"They're dirty. They need to be cleaned."
I brushed off her feet with my hands, and hoped I was finished. I looked up at her, she shook her head. She was waiting for me to begin, waiting for me to use my mouth to clean her feet. I don't have a foot fetish, so this wasn't something that 'turned me on.' This wasn't sexual for either of us, I realized. Deana was establishing our roles: She was to in control and I was there to serve.
I let her left foot drop and brought the right foot up towards my mouth. I couldn't believe I was about to do this, but I began to lick the top of her foot. It tasted salty, unpleasant, harsh, and the foot odor became more pronounced. When I finished the top I licked her toes and in between the toes too, dipping my tongue deep between the digits. None of that was as bad as what followed: I had to lick her sole. Lifting it up I could see it was blackened, as if she had been recently walking barefoot. I worked up some saliva in my mouth, then started licking it clean. The skin was hard and there was a big blister on one side. A few times I felt sick to my stomach, but I persevered. When I finished the sole, I returned to the toes, sucking each one individually. And this I did enjoy, enough to get my first erection of the day.
Turning my attentions on the other foot, I started with the sole, wanting to get the worst part over. Again, I gagged a bit, and when I did, she laughed. "It's a dirty job, one I would never ask my husband to do." Her tone explained just how demeaning my position was. After the bottoms of her soles were clean, I licked the top of her feet, then began cleaning her toes. When I started to suck them, it started to get a bit sexual for me, as if her toe was a little nipple. As if sensing this, Deana ordered me stop. After I pulled away, she said, "Open your mouth."
I opened up my mouth, and she placed the tip of her foot inside my mouth, the big toe and two others resting on my lower lip. This wasn't too bad, but she didn't stop there. She squeezed in the remaining toes, stretching my mouth to the point of being painful. I felt her toenails against the roof of my mouth, and it brought on a rough gag reflex. She showed no mercy.
"I would never put my foot in my husband's mouth. Do you understand?"
I couldn't speak, of course. I could barely nod.
Then she removed the foot, and slipped her freshly-licked feet back in the sandals. While I remained kneeling, she stood up, turned around and leaned against her desk. She had her back to me and that big ass of hers was eye-level to me. She had a white skirt on, but through it I could see a shadowy silhouette of black panty, a small bikini panty that took up only a small portion of her ass. I thought she was giving me a show, a reward perhaps, but she was just teasing me. She knew I was getting excited, that I wanted to reach over and run my face against her ass. I knew better than to even rub myself through my pants. She turned around and Dismissed me: "Well done."
I stood up, opened the door and headed for the nearest men's room to relieve my erection.
She called me into her office the following week. "Close the door," she ordered. When I did, she asked: "I'm not sure if my ass has an odor."
I swallowed, getting excited.
"I would never ask my husband to smell my ass." With that she stood up, turned away from me and rested both hands on the desk. She arched her back and stuck her ass out at me.
I approached her and knelt down. I put my face a few inched from her behind. She had on a sheer skirt with no panty line, but on closer observation I could see the trace of a string thong. "There's no odor."
"Closer," she ordered. After I moved my face so that my nose was touching her skirt, she said, "Deeper."
I pressed my nose against her skirt. I started at the top of her ass and ran my nose down along the crack, halfway down her until I was sure my nose was near her asshole. I pressed my face in, probing into her cheeks like a hot dog being pushed into a bun.
"My husband would never shove his nose up some woman's ass," she laughed
But I would. I inhaled deeper, and could detect a hint of the smell of shit. I thought of lying, but once again I opted for the truth. "Yes, there's an odor."
"Then clean me."
She reached behind and pulled up her skirt, revealing her big ass, with its bumps and patches of cellulite. Her pink thong ran down the crack of her ass; there was a pretty pink bow at the top. I could see dampness where it touched her pussy. I placed my hands on her cheeks, and pulled the thong away. I licked her crack, slowly, tentatively at first, up above her asshole, then down below it. When I got too low, she said, "Don't even think of licking me there. My pussy is for my husband. Your job is to clean my ass"
And I did. I moved my mouth to her hole. At first my tongue ran circles around her rosebud, and I tasted the anal acridness. Then I got lost in the experience, and my cock was harder than I had been in months, with drops of pre-cum in my underwear. A rush of lust caused me to pull her cheeks apart for better access to her asshole. I clamped my mouth around it and darted my tongue inside her hole, not only cleaning her, but actually tongue-fucking her. She was getting off on this, too, for she grinded her ass against my face, trying to get my tongue even deeper inside her. I squeezed those big ass cheeks, pulling them apart.
She must have been playing with her pussy while I did this, for she started to climax. She had to control her moans (we were in a work office, after all) but her body started to twitch. Then she fell forward onto the desk, and as she pulled away I could see that her panties were soaking wet.
I remained on my knees, staring at her thong-covered ass. My erection was painful. "May I …."
"May you what?"
"May I pleasure myself while I look at your beautiful ass?"
She turned her head to look at me. "You may."
I was too hot to mind her watching me. I opened my pants and slid down my underwear. I spit on my right hand and grabbed my cock and began pumping away as I stared at her ass. I wanted to suck it and finger it and fuck it. I wanted to cum inside her ass, but all I got to do was cum in my hand, a large gooey mess that I caught in a closed grip.
Deana turned around and straightened out her skirt. "Is your hand dirty?"
I nodded, afraid of what was to follow.
"Clean it."
I was spent, the sexual arousal was over. I just wanted to be gone, to have this episode over. Instead, I knew I had to fulfill a final degrading task. I opened my hand and saw the white spunk. I lifted my hand to my face and inhaled the bleach-like aroma. I had never tasted cum before, but Deana had ordered me to clean it. So I did. At first I dabbed my tongue on it, tasting just a little, then I placed my mouth full on my hand and sucked in a large wad of cum.
"I would never force my husband to eat his own cum," Deana told me.
And I knew why. It was disgusting. It tasted brackish and acrid and was thick in my mouth. I almost gagged as I swallowed it, which caused Deana to laugh. I felt ashamed, totally humiliated, and I had to turn away. Knowing she was done with me (for today) I got off the floor and pulled my pants back up. I reached for the door with my clean hand, and just before I could open it, she called my name. When I turned towards her she nodded, and once again dismissed me with two words: "Well done."
THE END
Written during November, 2006 / Revised November 16, 2006
The author welcomes your comments and suggestions for future stories.
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