My morning at work had been so hectic and draining that when noon rolled around, I didn’t have the time or the energy to go to lunch. I was deep into a financial report, double-checking the numbers by calculator, when my supervisor knocked on the open door of my office and walked in.
“Why are you still at your desk?” he asked.
“I’ve got too much to do,” I said, surprised by his visit.
“That’s no excuse for not taking the time to eat. What do you want people to think, that I’m some sort of slave driver?”
“No,” I stammered. “I just wanted to make sure…”
He chuckled softly at my nervousness, clearly making sport of me. My eyes were immediately drawn to his dimples, which were so deep, I could have fallen in. He was gorgeous, well built, and tall, easily six-foot-five. It was the perfect recipe for the Boss From Hell, a label not referring to how he treated his employees but rather what it meant to be anywhere near someone so attractive. Everyone in the office, men and women alike, secretly lusted after him. I’d always played it smart, maintaining a professional distance, but he was undeniably sexy and charismatic. As he stood before me now, I couldn’t look away.
“Come on, let’s go,” he said, with a wave of his hand.
“Go where?” I asked, startled.
“I’m taking you to lunch.”
“No,” I began, “I can’t. I’d love to, but I really do have to finish this report. Otherwise I won’t be able to make any headway with the rest of this paperwork and I’ll end up spending another late night here at the office. It’ll be my fourth one in a row.”
“Well,” he said somberly, rubbing his cleft chin. “That’s not good. We wouldn’t want your life to be all work and no play.”
I couldn’t tell if he was mocking or serious. Maybe I was reading too much into his words. My energy was running way low. I took a sip of the room-temperature Red Bull I’d been nursing for the last two hours.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I had breakfast, so I’m good.”
“What, Red Bull? That constitutes breakfast?”
“It gets the job done.”
“Are you sure?” he said, laughing. “Because right now, you clearly look like you’re running out of gas.”
I laughed along with him, charmed by his dancing dimples.
“All right,” he said finally. “I’ll leave you alone. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of you spending another late night here at the office.”
“Thanks for the offer, though,” I said.
“Of course. Maybe we can do it another time. I like to make a point of getting to know everyone in the office individually, and I haven’t had the chance to do that with you.”
“Sure,” I said. “I think that’d be great.”
I watched him walk out of my office. He glanced back, catching my eyes on his ass. I shuffled the papers on my desk awkwardly, pretending as if I hadn’t just been ogling him, but I’d been caught. Embarrassed, I returned my attention to the report. The numbers and line items were a blur, all washed together. I took another drink of Red Bull, yawned, stretched, rubbed my eyes, and resumed crunching numbers.
It wasn’t even ten minutes later when I was distracted by another knock at the door. I looked up. It was my supervisor once again, standing in my doorway. This time, he was holding a large brown paper bag.
“I got sandwiches and chips. Do you like corned beef?”
I could barely think of anything to say.
“Of course you do,” he said, coming in. “Who doesn’t like a good corned beef sandwich?”
He walked over to my desk, opened the bag, and pulled out a large sandwich wrapped in waxed paper, along with chips.
“It’s nice and hot, straight from the deli across the street.” He lifted a bottle from the bag. “Some refreshing Snapple.” Then he held up something fat and long, wrapped in waxed paper.
“I even got you a pickle.”
His eyes twinkled with mischief. I laughed.
“Wow. I can’t believe you did this for me.”
The delicious scent of corned beef filled the room, awakening my hungry stomach. I was so appreciative of what he’d done that, without thinking, I stood from my desk, went over to him, and thanked him with a hug.
“You’re the nicest boss I’ve ever had,” I said.
Our bodies pressed close as I felt him pull me in a little tighter. His hand ran softly, discreetly, down the small of my back, and I tingled with satisfaction at knowing I wasn’t alone in my repressed lust. He apparently wanted me just as much as I wanted him. I stood there in a sensuous daze, savoring his touch, when reason suddenly kicked in. This was my boss. What was I thinking?
Blushing furiously, I pulled away from his embrace and rushed out of my office. My door had been wide open the whole time. I wondered who might’ve seen us. The last thing I wanted to risk was being labeled the office tramp. I’d worked hard for my position. I didn’t need anyone thinking I’d gotten there on my back.
Fortunately, everyone had already left for lunch and the phones had been forwarded to our messaging service. I’d been so caught up in work, I hadn’t even noticed. He and I were all alone. My hands shook slightly as I got myself a drink of cool water, then crumpled the paper cone and threw it away.
I lingered near the watercooler, expecting him to walk out of my office and head back to his own. He didn’t. I leaned back slightly, trying to get a better view. He was sitting at my desk with his pants down at his ankles, his boxers around his calves. He was holding his dick in his right hand, jerking it slightly. I stepped closer, shocked at his brazenness. He licked his lips as he watched me approach, his dimples beckoning me in.
“You know you want me,” he said. “So get over here. That’s an order.”
Hypnotized with lust, I obediently walked back into my office, stopping just inside the door.
“Closer,” he directed.
I moved toward him, stopping barely a foot away, my eyes glued to his hand yanking his beautiful instrument. Suddenly I remembered something and glanced up toward the back right corner of the ceiling. “There’s a camera trained on this room, recording everything.”
“I know,” he said. “I shut it off on my way back from the deli.”
“Oh,” I replied, shocked. “So you…”
“Had this planned all along?” He smiled devilishly. “Something like that.”
He reached out for me with his free hand, pulling me in. He placed my hand on his dick. I instinctively dropped to my knees, wrapping both my hands around it in a full-on squeeze. It was hard, firm, solid, pulsating. He let go of his grip, leaving his penis all to me.
He pressed gently on the back of my head in a not-so-subtle hint. I licked my lips and lowered them onto his hardness, breathing him in as I tasted his manhood.
I moved my hot, wet mouth up and down his shaft, his hand pressing my head farther, coaxing me to take in more. Holding the base of his dick with my left hand, I teased the tip of his dick, glazing it, then gliding it in and out, taking him in deeper each time, until all of him finally disappeared inside. He groaned with pleasure.
“You’re good,” he said, his breath coming fast.
I bobbed faster, increasing my pace.
“I take that back. You’re great.”
I cupped his balls and squeezed them gently, massaging them as my mouth and tongue worked over his throbbing rod. He reached inside my blouse and wrestled with the front of my bra, freeing my breasts from their cups. He massaged their fullness, then ran his fingers delicately around the nipples, setting me on fire. I kept sucking his dick, harder this time, forcing it toward the back of my throat. As I lathered his piece with my warm saliva, he abruptly grabbed the back of my head and pulled me away. I was confused, embarrassed. Was it over, just like that? Had I fallen for the okey-doke, the oldest trick in the book… giving my boss great head, only to be dismissed like a common whore?
“What’s wrong?” I asked, mortified. “What just happened?”
He was silent as he pulled up his boxers and pants, straightening his clothes.
“Get up,” he said, not even looking at me. “I can’t do this. We can’t do this.”
I was beyond ashamed as I got up from my knees, my heart thumping inside my chest. I should never have let this happen, I thought. He has lost all respect for me.
He hurriedly stepped past me without a word, exiting my office. My pussy was hot and my heart was heavy. I was both turned on and humiliated. It was an overload of emotion that I couldn’t even begin to know how to process. I’d been hit by a train. As I stood there catatonic, he suddenly walked back in, grabbed my hand, and led me away.
We rushed down the hall, stopping at his office. He pushed me inside, took a quick glance down the hall in both directions, stepped in after me, and closed the door. He locked the bolt.
“I thought you changed your…”
He put his finger over my lips, shaking his head.
“Never,” he said. “I’ve wanted this from the moment I met you.”
He guided me over to a large mahogany armoire. Was he going to fuck me against it? I couldn’t wait, my pussy hot and wanting.
He opened the cabinet’s double doors, revealed a large television.
“Let me show you something,” he said, his expression sheepish and cryptic.
He picked up the remote and turned on the television. My office immediately appeared on his screen, complete with the image of me on my knees, going down on him. He was staring directly at the camera as he pushed down on my head.
I was furious. “I thought you said you’d turned the camera off.”
“I know.” He glanced at the floor, then up at me, holding my gaze in his own. “I wanted to see us together. I think about you so much, I just wanted something of my own to watch in private. You and me.”
My eyes were flames.
“I know it was wrong,” he explained, feeling the heat of my ire. “That’s why I stopped things. As much as I want to hold you, taste you, feel you, fuck you…” His breath was hot against my neck. “I don’t want it under false pretenses. Me telling you I had turned off the tape was a false pretense. It was a lie that I couldn’t go through with.”
“Is this the first time you’ve ever taped me?” I asked, my blood rising to a slow boil.
“Honestly?” he replied.
“Yes.”
“No. It’s not.”
He opened a drawer in the armoire, revealing a stack of DVDs with handwritten scrawl in black, permanent ink. He handed them to me. I rifled through them, half horrified and half aroused. Melinda, 2/14, one read. Melinda, 3/21 was the label on another. Melinda, 6/4 had four stars. I glanced up at him.
“You were wearing a tight red skirt that day that hugged your ass and exposed it in perfect form. Your breasts were so full and ripe; I could taste them through the screen. You were bent over your desk a lot that afternoon. I’ve jacked off to 6/4 more than any of the others.”
“You say 6/4 so casually, like it’s the name of a close friend.”
“It is. You are. At least, that’s how you feel now that I’ve watched you so much.”
“Surprisingly, I feel dirty. Violated. Raped. I wonder why that is?”
I put the DVDs back in the drawer and headed for the door.
I was halfway there when he came up behind me, both hands covering my breasts. He massaged them, squeezing the nipples between his fingers. I felt heady, drunk with passion and rage. He spun me around, pushed me toward his desk, and bent me over the hard wood. He unzipped his pants, pushed them and his boxers down, and hiked up my skirt. His finger slid along my wetness. He brought it up to his mouth, sucking on my juices.
He rammed his cock inside me, all the way up to the balls.
I moaned in exquisite agony.
He pulled all the way out, and then thrust in again. He dropped to his knees behind me and fastened his mouth on my pussy and clit, licking and sucking at my nectar like a man in the desert stumbling upon a luscious oasis.
I held on to the desk, my knees weak and quivering. He ate and ate, his tongue plunging in and out of my aching slit. I rubbed my breasts, lifting my ass higher into his face. He squeezed my cheeks tight with both hands as he devoured my nether region. I began to gyrate. He flicked his tongue against my clit with rapid-fire strokes.
“Is there a camera in here?” I asked, my words short and clipped.
“Yes,” he answered between licks.
“Is it on?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” I replied. “Now fuck me.”
He stood, gripping my ass firmly. He parted my legs with his own. I could feel the tip of his hardness at the door of my heat. He moved it up and down, burrowing his way in, then pumped, slow and rhythmic at first, shifting quickly to hurried strokes. He hunched over me, thrusting with desperation, his rushed movements electrifying the walls of my pussy.
He pulled out, flipped me over, and leaned me all the way back against the desktop, entering me from the front. I was so hot, so aroused, my head felt light. He squeezed my breasts and his eyes held mine as he downshifted into a long stroke, stirring my flowing juices with his stick.
“I’m going to faint,” I whispered
“I’m going to fuck you till you faint,” he said.
He bent over me, still pounding my pussy, fastening his mouth on my right nipple, first flicking his tongue over it, and then fastening down. I was so turned on I could barely breathe. His thrusts sped up. I wrapped my legs around his waist. He moved to the other nipple, flicking and sucking. His hand made its way down below, between my legs clamped around his body, and he began to rub my clit—first slowly, then in time with his thrusts. I couldn’t take it. Too much pleasure had begun to build. As he pumped and rubbed and sucked me, the room began to spin. The combination of being overworked, hungry, and on the downside of a Red Bull energy high collided with the splendid thrashing he was giving me. The sensation ballooned in my loins until I couldn’t hold back anymore. I burst, cumming hard against him, my juices gushing around his cock as he continued to pump and rub and suck. I squeezed my legs tighter and clung to him desperately. I couldn’t stop cumming, as wave after wave after wave of pleasure roller-coastered through me. The room spun like I was on a carousel, a ride I never wanted to get off. I stared at the ceiling as he kept on fucking and I kept on cumming. The fluorescent lights above me flickered teasingly. My heart felt like it would burst from my chest. The light grew brighter and brighter and brighter, and suddenly… the ceiling went black.
He was wiping between my legs with a moist cloth when I came to. I smelled the delicious scent of corned beef. He’d brought the sandwiches back to his office.
“What happened?” I asked, sitting up.
“Um, you fainted, my dear,” he replied with a grin.
“I did?”
“I told you I was going to make it happen. You really shouldn’t go without eating breakfast, you know. A Red Bull will never replace a well-balanced meal.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Whatever. I noticed you didn’t have breakfast before we left the house this morning, either.”
“That’s because I was planning on making you faint today.”
“I see. Did you shut off the camera already?” I asked.
“Right after I got mine. I waited a few minutes, of course. You know, so I could get my bearings.”
“Of course.”
We both chuckled.
I got up from my husband’s desk and smoothed down my skirt, patting him on the butt as I passed. We loved this game, especially since we owned our own business. We played Fuck The Boss at least once a week. Sometimes I was in charge; sometimes he was the one who took charge over me. Sometimes the game was Fuck The Employee. It didn’t matter what we called it; the result was the same. We always took the tapes home and watched them together. We burned a spare set onto DVDs that we kept in his office, just so we could see ourselves in the act and get turned on for each other all over again.
And now we get to one of the most popular ways that couples choose to spice up their sex lives: video voyeurism—or, in layman’s terms, making a sex tape. These days, we’re living in what could be called The Golden Age of the Sex Tape. Make a movie with your man, find a way to leak it, or claim that it is stolen, and watch your fame shoot through the roof. It might be a brief, meteoric rise, but a rise nonetheless. That’s if you’re trying to be famous, and trying to garner that fame without putting in legitimate work. But that’s not what we’re here to talk about. What we’re discussing now is making home movies for the sole purpose of enhancing your relationship. Starring in your own porno is the ultimate way to become the object of your man’s visual and physical desire.
Why send him off to the basement to get aroused watching flicks starring Jenna Jameson or Mary Carey—only to return hot and ready to make love to you with a boner brought on by their images in his head—when he could be jacking off to the sight of you and him getting it on or a video of you pleasuring yourself for him? Why have him fixate on some porn producer’s take on what’s considered sexy when he’s got his own version right at home? He did marry you, after all. You are his ideal. If you’re not, then you should be. This is the perfect way to make that a reality.
First things first, and this is big: the trust factor.
Hopefully, both you and the person you are married to have a real level of trust rooted in a genuine desire to never do each other any harm, no matter the situation. That means that even if, heaven forbid, your marriage fails, neither of you would ever use the tapes you made together as a means to threaten, hurt, or embarrass the other. If you and he honestly believe, deep down in your hearts, that this kind of do-no-harm policy exists between you, then by all means crack out the camera!
If, however, you or your mate harbors even an iota of vindictiveness, the potential for sour grapes, or a plain old mean streak, stop now. Skip this chapter. Go, on… scat! Many lives, too many to count, have been damaged by exes trying to humiliate or control others by threatening to release highly personal and potentially embarrassing material such as this via social network sites and on the Internet. The first and most obvious example of this phenomenon was the infamous Jayne Kennedy sex tape that was viciously leaked by her ex-husband as they were going through a divorce. This kind of malicious act is different from some starlet or up-and-coming entertainer leaking a tape in order to gain fame. We live in an age of camera phones that can capture embarrassing moments on the sneak, YouTube, YouPorn, and videos going viral. Someone intent on ruining the reputation of an ex can destroy lives in an instant. Exposing, or threatening to expose, explicit photographic material created consensually by two people in love with the intent to degrade either party is both criminally and morally wrong. It is emotional extortion, and if you’re planning on releasing the tapes unless your ex pays you not to, well, that’s actual extortion, prosecutable by law. I would never recommend voyeuristic videotaping for any person who would use a moment of open and shared intimacy as a tool to hurt someone else. If this is you, you should move on. Seriously. I’ll give you a few moments to gather yourself and go.
*Jeopardy! theme song*
Still here? So does that mean you plan on playing fair? Hold up your hand. Scout’s honor? All right, then. Put your hand down. Moving on.
Now that we’ve addressed that, there’s one other thing we need to get out of the way: the body consciousness issue. While it is a good idea to always be vigilant about your weight and to exercise and eat right as a part of a healthy lifestyle, filming yourself in the act of making love doesn’t require that you be Hollywood-thin and perfect or that your husband be built like Will Smith or Brad Pitt. This tape will be for your private viewing pleasure, not the masses, so a little (or a lot of) extra poundage here and there shouldn’t matter in the end. If you and your husband are both comfortable with your bodies and able to watch each other on screen without feeling embarrassed, judgmental, and insecure, this is a more-than-viable way to keep your marriage sizzling hot!
If you’ve never seen yourself, or liked seeing yourself, on tape, it is going to take some getting used to at first. Trust me, though, you’ll quickly adjust and will find this to be a very fun addition to your marital sex life. Once you’ve agreed as a couple to make a sex tape, test the waters by filming yourselves individually, just to become at ease with being on camera. If neither of you is camera-shy or modest about being filmed while making love, make it a true voyeuristic adventure. Make masturbation tapes for each other. That might mean a video where your husband films you cleaning the house in nothing but an apron and heels, so he can watch it at another time, either with or without you, and jack off to the image of the woman he loves. Film your husband lathered up in the shower, closing in on his hands soaping up his balls and penis, massaging his chest, foam running down his butt and legs, and finally rinsing himself clean. Or make one of him, hot and sweaty, working in the backyard, removing items of clothing one by one as the heat becomes more unbearable, until he ultimately ends up naked. Finish with him holding his own penis, looking directly into the camera at you. Pull that tape out and watch it when you’re missing him, getting yourself in the mood for his imminent arrival home, or just because. No reason necessary.
I’m sure I don’t need to strongly recommend that you make these erotic tapes when your children are out of the house and you’re shielded from prying eyes of the neighbors. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that. But I’m telling you anyway. Just in case.
The more the two of you build your sex life and fantasies around images of each other, the stronger you can become against outside forces, even common marital distractions such as the seemingly limitless amounts of online porn. When you become each other’s favorite porn stars, your passion can potentially go into overdrive, and that’s exactly what we want, ladies. Am I right?
Lights! Camera! Action!
Party like a porn star!
Starring in your own porno is the ultimate way to become the object of your man’s visual and physical desire.
Hopefully, both you and the person you are married to have a level of trust rooted in a genuine desire to never do each other any harm, no matter the situation.
I would never recommend voyeuristic videotaping for any person who would use a moment of open and shared intimacy as a tool to hurt someone else.
Filming yourself in the act of making love doesn’t require that you be Hollywood-thin and perfect or that your husband be built like Will Smith or Brad Pitt.
Make masturbation tapes for each other.
Who doesn’t love a good sex tape? Certainly not you. Certainly not your husband. We know this because you guys made a sex tape. You did a bona fide video voyeur fantasy according to the guidelines I detailed in the prior chapter. There was role-playing, dramatic acting, and the works. None of that boss-employee business like in my example, though. Nuh-uh. My example was pedestrian compared with what you laid out. You guys got all Cecil B. DeMille with it, shooting an epic outdoor scene where you pretended to be Cleopatra and he was your Marc Antony. You geared up for it and everything, with full-on makeup and attire from the era. Not that the outfits were on for very long. The sex was hot. The sex was steamy. Your husband did some pretty freaky things. We don’t even want to talk about the stuff that you did. It made for excellent viewing again and again and again, so much so that, in addition to having DVDs of the event, you both kept digital copies loaded on your computers so you could watch it whenever you needed a quick thrill.
And then your husband let one of his friends borrow his laptop and, in less than twenty-four hours, all hell and evidence of Egyptian kinkiness coincidentally broke loose.
Of course your husband’s friend denies being the one who stole the video from the laptop, and there’s no way you can prove that he did it. Now things are really jacked up. The video has anonymously been uploaded to YouPorn and, as of the last time you checked, had over a million viewings. It shows up all across the blogosphere, and people are beginning to acknowledge that they recognize you. The video makes its way to the inboxes of your family and friends, and is inevitably discovered by people at your job. Your boss has even seen it. You know this because he keeps showing up at your office door, asking for information about things for which you’re not even responsible. Your boss never comes to you in person for information. Ever. He sends emails. He’s notorious for it. These days, however, he’s at your door. That’s surely the sign of a man who has gotten a glimpse of your naked body and seen you in explicit action.
And now you’re beefing with your husband. You want him to do something about this. File a lawsuit for defamation of character or something. Your guy insists that his friend—a buddy he has known since college—would never do something as vile as leak such a sensitive video. He thinks maybe someone hacked through the firewall at your house and stole it off his computer. You don’t believe it. The problem didn’t rear its head until after his friend used the laptop. Things grow strained between you and your man. He is not nearly as freaked out about the video leaking as you are. He runs a web design company from home and has no fear of his clients getting wind of it. Besides, he comes across as a stallion in the video, something that he is actually quite proud of. You, however, have so much more at stake. Your colleagues have seen it and now they know that you and your hubby like to get freaky. They also now know that you’ve got skills not listed on your résumé.
Ladies, this is why it’s critical that you take the necessary precautions with this kind of fantasy. Even though we live in a time when sex tapes seem to leak every other week, it can still be very damaging and humiliating to have your personal sexual capers seen by the world, especially if you’re in a profession that demands a certain level of gravity and decorum to do business. Also, in case you’re still not getting it, there’s one thing you should remember: The Internet is forever. A video of you that leaks onto the World Wide Web will always be out there hiding, long past when the hoopla dies down. The second someone goes to Google you, up you will pop in all your spread-eagled, lined-eyes, asp-holding glory. Thus your primary goal should be making sure that never happens. A video in digital format, residing on a computer, can easily get away from you. Before you even turn on the camera, make sure all the necessary precautions have been addressed.
As I noted elsewhere, if you and your man decide to record yourselves, there must be enough trust between you to ensure that this video is for your eyes and your eyes only, unless you mutually agree to share it with others. That’s not to say that it’s your man’s fault that your video just leaked. You both are responsible for not making it secure enough. Keep the DVD version locked away in a cabinet for which only you and he have the key. Never leave that cabinet unlocked, not even casually. How many times have we heard of sex tapes being stolen by visiting friends? As for digital files kept on computers, require a password to be entered before any action—from viewing to copying—can be done. You can even make it so that only those with administrator rights on your computer can access the file. This keeps just anyone from getting a gander at it.
For optimum safety, do not keep the file in a digital format at all. The DVD should be enough. Digital files resident on computers can always be hacked. For every safeguard you set to protect digital data, there’s a techie out there who can take it down in record time. Odds are, your husband’s friend was just such a guy. He probably went exploring around your man’s laptop and found it sitting right there in plain sight. Who could resist double-clicking something named Cleopatra Bones? It was sitting right there on his desktop, no password required. Once his friend got an eyeful of the two of you going at it, all he had to do was drag it onto a flash drive or, even easier, email it to himself.
Don’t make it easy to show your ass to the world. The collateral damage simply isn’t worth it. And don’t think that by having the video leaked to the world, it will turn you into an instant celebrity. Even though it may seem like that happens all the time, it really is much more rare than you think. Don’t believe me? Visit YouPorn.com, if you dare. There are thousands, nay, hundreds of thousands of videos uploaded to the site every day, every hour, of people doing some really freaky things. Most of those people will seem foreign to you… they are just regular people who like showing off what they do. Yes, they have their fans, the people who visit the site and click on their videos again and again, so, in that regard, you will be famous. But you won’t be reality show/celebrity boyfriend/People magazine famous. You won’t be invited to go on Letterman to giggle, act silly, and talk about your plans for a clothing line. You won’t be on the Today show flipping your hair as you promote your new perfume. You won’t walk the red carpet at the Emmys and the VMAs. Designers won’t fight to dress you. Free clothes and shoes won’t arrive at your door. You won’t have a stylist, a PR person, and a makeup artist. Your phone won’t be ringing with an offer of a fifty-thousand-dollar appearance fee just for showing up at Tao in Las Vegas and pretending to party for a couple of hours. No, honey. You won’t be having any of that. You’ll just be really, really popular with the hand-job-and-lotion-loving folks who prowl for porn. You and your husband will have the go-to video for getting off. That is, until the next video leaks, which will be any minute. It’s being uploaded right now.
So please, take precautions. And if your husband insists on having files in the wide open on his computer desktop, make him give it a name as repulsive and uninteresting as possible. Something like Grandma’s Wart Removal or Our Baby’s Birth. No grown man wants to see either of those things. Grandmas, warts, and babies covered in afterbirth are about as safe from prying eyes as you can get.