"Lipstick..." Update

Guess what came in the mail today? Payment for my contribution to the Lipstick on Her Collar anthology. Maybe this means my story, "Reap What you Sew," will be going into print soon. My story was chosen the summer before last, before I created my writing blog.

When writing this little number I was pictureing the showroom I used to work at in NY. Having designed bathing suits there it wasn't a long stretch to picture lingerie being created. We also had an amazing seamstress named Magdalina, but she was a very sweet older lady. She would probably be shocked by this...lol...

Let me know what you think!

Reap What You Sew [1986 words] (FF, oral)
Copyright © 2005 by Crystal Barela

This story contains sexually explicit scenes.

I looked down at the sewing machine in front of me, adjusted the silk and lace under the needle and hit the presser foot. The whiz of the sewing machine echoed in the near empty room. Machines sat to my sides, in front and behind. A rainbow of delicate fabrics and ribbons were tucked in the drawers beneath my sewing table. Loose colorful threads dangled form their holders.

The delicate scent of roses preceded Sharon, along with the click-clack of her heels.

I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and glimpsed her walking past me from the corner of my eye. Her heels were high, too high to walk the paved streets of Manhattan, but she wore them everyday. No shorter than three inches in height, seamed stockings a favorite of hers.

Sharon looked the designer. One day the clean lines of Klein skimmed her curves, the next day the sumptuous fabrics of Gautier. A little flash and a lot of style could have been her motto.

It was after hours and Sharon had asked me to finish this bit of lace in front of me. A personal project. Not a difficult job, I turned out three dozen of these a day. When I was done it would be a delicate black lace demi-bra. The matching low-riding thong and garter belt were finished, also black, with contrasting cherry red stitching.

“Mags?”

I looked up from my needle. My name was Magdalina. She was the only one who called me Mags.

Sharon stood in her office doorway, white silk blouse unbuttoned and pulled from her black pencil skirt. I swallowed hard. She wasn’t wearing a bra and the gentle shadow of her cleavage winked at me when she put her hands on her hips.

“Yes, Ms. Sharon?”

She shook her head at me, smiling.

“Always so formal, Mags,” she walked toward me a natural sway to her hips. Her blonde hair skimmed her collar bones. “How long have we known each other? Four years?”

Four years, five months, two days, eight hours and a handful of minutes. But who’s counting? It had been winter and she had been late. Sharon had walked into the office unbelting an amazing white lamb’s wool trench, her calves encased in red leg-hugging leather that had looked as soft as butter; the heels topped four inches.

Underneath had been more winter white; a cashmere dress with a loosely clasped rhinestone belt floating on her hips. The hem just skimmed her knees. The only skin visible was her face, set on a pedestal of white.

“Nearly done?”

I focused on the project in front of me.

Sharon came up behind me and leaned over my shoulder, fingering the delicate material between her manicured fingers, the bright red polish setting off the lace.

The heat of her body pressed against my back. Her soft hair kissed my bare arm.

“Beautiful work.” She whispered her breath wetting my ear. I shivered, shifting the chair away from her, the screech of the legs against the floor echoed in the room.

“Thank you, Ms. Sharon.”

She stood, placing her hands on my shoulders.

“You really are the best seamstress we have, Mags.” She massaged my shoulders, thumbs brushing my neck. “Every stitch perfect.”

I trembled. “Thank you.”

“Are you a perfectionist in all that you do?”

I ignored her question and pressed my foot against the pedal. Sharon squeezed my shoulders lightly and then took the garter and panties and returned to her office. She looked over her shoulder in the doorway, letting her shirt fall down her back to her elbows.

“Bring the bra in when you finish.”

I nodded, trying to keep my eyes on my work.

Three more minutes and I would be done. Away from Sharon’s heels. Free of her perfume. Not near the lace that would be cupping her breasts and pussy as my hands ached to.

I would take the subway home to my little apartment in Brooklyn and sit in front of my air conditioner. I’d get out my Rabbit and take care of the heat Sharon created. A little time with the intense buzz of those little ears would banish this need.

I pulled the bra from under the foot of the machine. I snipped the loose threads with my scissors and held it in front of me. Sharon was right. Perfect.

I turned off my machine, straightened my sewing table and returned the thread to the shelves before heading to her office.

Sharon’s back was to me, her weight on one leg as she examined the design illustrations on the wall in front of her. She had removed her blouse and skirt. The thong and garter I had sewn licked her curves.

My mouth watered.

Her stockings were neatly in place, exposing a stretch of creamy thigh and ass.

I cleared my throat. Her shoulder blades shifted, muscles moving delicately beneath her skin.

Sharon smiled over her shoulder, adjusting the glasses perched on the end of her nose.

“Mags,” her smile grew wider. She came toward me, removing her specs. “That was quick.”

My eyes focused on her breasts. No bra necessary. Round, full, succulent. Nipples, pale blushing shadows, hardening at my stare. Or from the air-conditioning. I shook my head, fighting my desire.

“Thank you,” Sharon said. She stood closer than I would have liked. My skin flushed by her nearness. She took the bra from my hand and leaned into me, her lips grazing my cheek. “You’re an artist.”

I turned my head, my lips brushing hers.

My coverall’s met her breasts and a blush traveled up her chest to her cheeks.

She hesitated.

I didn’t.

My tongue traced her glossy pout.

Sharon’s tongue answered tentatively.

That was all the permission I needed.

I pressed her back against her desk, design markers rolling onto the floor as my tongue plundered her mouth. She moaned, her arms circling my neck and pulling the rubber band from my hair. My pony-tail slipped free and my black hair fell around our shoulders.

My fingers glided beneath the flimsy bit of silk covering her pussy and slid through her smooth folds. Wetness clung to my fingers, spreading the ache in my cunt. She gasped my name. I massaged her mound, my thumb circling her clit.

Sharon’s neck tasted like talcum. I kissed my way down to her breasts. Under my tongue, her nipples were hard little buttons. I sucked her into my mouth, her moans milking my pussy.

My panties were soaked.

Sharon’s hands fumbled with the hooks on my overalls, and the denim bunched up between us. My finger inched inside, then two, pushing along her silky walls. She bucked against my calloused hands.

Papers flew from her desk.

I kicked off my sneakers and climbed up with her in nothing but my white wife beater.

“Mags?” she gasped. I took a seat on her knee, rubbing my cunt against the smooth silk stocking.

“Ms. Sharon?”

“What are you doing?” Her thigh moved under me and I began to ride, keeping time with my hand in her cunt.

“Fucking you.”

Sharon laughed and I leaned in close to her wet box. I blew against her clit. Her wet pearl grew bold, peaking out from behind its curtain. I licked and it danced, taking hold of my tongue in an unfamiliar beat. My taste buds popped.

Sweet, bitter, tart, salty.

Her fingers slid through my hair, her pretty nails skimming my scalp in a tingling caress.

I found her spot. Sharon’s fingers yanked my tresses, knotting in my hair.

My thumb met my fingers. I serviced her hot cunt, sliding deeper with each flick of my tongue. Her moans were crazy love sounds, begging me to stop, pleading with me to take her. Her pussy grabbed the widest part of my hand protesting for a moment, before sighing around my palm.

Embracing my wrist.

I froze, my lips holding her clit between them.

Our eyes met.

Sharon’s hips moved.

My fingers separated.

Her eyes closed.

I began to work, the job I had wanted since I had first seen Sharon in her Prada suit and Jimmy Choo pumps. My tongue nipped and tucked between her folds, smoothing the goose bumps that rose beneath my taste buds. Stroking, lapping. I measured the length of her slit with my hand, draping the curves and angles of her pussy. Her cunt squeezed my fingers, tested my fit, pulled me deeper, bruising my knuckles.

Wet my panties.

Sharon’s voice rang off the ceiling of the office, nearly setting me off. I pulled my hand from her and slid her wet juices through the hairs of my sex, my eyes squeezing shut.

“No!” she sat up, wrapping an arms around me. Her lips captured mine as her hand interlaced with my fingers between our bodies.

“Show me,” she whispered.

I put her hand under mine and played her fingers like I did a needle and thread, pushing and flowing together. Slipping and sliding in our juices. My abs clenched and I began to rock on our hands, our thumbs circling my clit one way then the next.

Dark red kisses were falling on my cheeks and eyelids, nibbling my chin and neck. Her tongue flicked my ear and told me how hot I was.

I was her Mags.

Sexy.

Talented.

Sharon’s artist, her little perfectionist.

My come flooded my pussy, our hands, her desk.

Sharon groaned, locking lips.

We wrapped our legs around each other, cunt meeting bush. Tongue sucking tongue.
Her hands slid up my tank, palms circling my hard knotted nipples; aching for her teeth. Sharon pushed the white cotton up around my armpits and her head dropped to my breasts. She pinched my nubbins between her pearly white teeth. My hips ground into hers, heat building again. Her hand cradled my pussy, rubbing in slow smooth circles; nails catching on the curly hairs sending pings of desire to my center.

Her blue eyes caught my brown. With a gentle hand, she pushed me back onto the desk and nibbled down my body. She nuzzled my ribs and sampled my navel. My giggles filled the office as she played, kissing her way over my belly and rubbing her cheeks against my bush.
Laughter was replaced by moans when her tongue slipped from between her lips and began to lap at my clit like a kitty at her saucer. She kept her tongue wide and flat, hitting every knit in my fabric. I could hardly breathe.

“Is this right?” she whispered, picking up tempo. “Or how about this?” Her fingers sank into me, twisting so that her hand could hit my g-spot. My eyes crossed.

The phone rang.

Like a pro, she replaced her tongue with her thumb and picked up the receiver with her free hand. She never lost the beat.

“Hello?”

My eyes focused on her face. Sharon’s lipstick was smeared across her cheeks, her lips and nose glossy with my juices.

“I’m so sorry.”

Her voice was rusty with desire.

“I won’t be able to come.”

Sex hair. A fuzzy ball at the back of her head.

“No, I’ll call you.”

She thrummed my clit.

I bit my lip.

The heat overwhelmed me.

Thighs clenched.

I cried out her name.

Sharon dropped the phone and crawled up my body, breasts meeting breasts. Our lips melded as my body arched off the desk, lifting her as I came. We collapsed against the teak, polished with our sweat.

We lay, catching our breath, her head in the crook of my arm; Sharon’s stocking clad thigh across my bare ones.

“Ms. Sharon?”

Our temples met.

“Mags?”

I reached for her hand and brought it to my lips.

“Ever take the subway to Brooklyn?”

“No.” She slid her hand along my cheek, turning my face to hers. “But I’ll take a taxi.”