by Kell
(6/6/01)
It wasn't that I would have seduced the intern under normal circumstances. (My job does matter to me, thank you very much.) It's just that we'd been trapped more or less alone in the cages for days, setting up the latest and greatest data center, never more than a few feet apart; I could feel body heat radiate from him, and I could smell skin and soap and faint, light wisps of deodorant when he moved. The occasional discreet slide of my gaze down his thick back had boiled in me until it burst into a seething, panty-drenching, clawing-at-walls case of all-out lust.
He was adorable -- stocky German body, my height, barrel chest and thick arms (he was a wrestler back in high school, he'd told me shyly, as domination fantasies multiplied instantly in my mind). A geek guy with dimples and no idea how cute he was; his hairline was just barely beginning to creep backward. He could talk to me about the Linux kernel, human genome research, or Japanese animation, not the least bit self-conscious at talking to me about stuff chicks his age usually find wrist-slittingly dull.
There was something he did all the time, the littlest thing...he'd be scowling at the network diagram or thumbing through the config settings, and he'd reach for a sip of water, the only beverage we'd managed to sneak into the cages. He used a Big Hug Mug some other engineer had left behind to hold pencils; he'd pull it up and drink without making a single sound, dipping his head back only slightly, his eyes never leaving the page he was reading. It seemed the entire room went silent during his sips.
It made me want to crawl onto his back and bite at his neck, devour him like a flash of sugar.
These fluorescent-lit days were crammed with circuit boards and boxes of ethernet cable. Acres of humming, buzzing computers locked in room-sized black mesh cages, diagonal steel earthquake beams a foot and a half in diameter impaling the floors. Plastic tie strips restraining yards of looped wire.
I pushed my luck a time or two, in moments where scratching the itch seemed more important than the risk -- brushing a breast against him when I reached past to grab the tester, that sort of thing. It became a game, trying to make him stiffen and share some of the hormonal burden I bore.
We were both staying in the hotel next door (separate rooms, of course, per company policy), which did little to diffuse the parallel-universe aspect of the week. Without my junk and my Escher quilt and the faint scent of sandalwood from incense I'd burned days before, there was no way to ground myself, and the lust began to feel like possibility. I fragged myself numb every night on top of the beige bedspread, under the beige-and-blue impressionist painting, next to the beige-tone Formica bed table with the beige phone on top. I sank, exhausted, after my lame attempts to finally get completely off, and my breath blew the little service card a few inches further away.
"Please Let Us Know What We Can Do to Make Your Stay a Pleasant One," it said.
I huffed and tried to fall asleep, thinking about humping an earthquake beam while he wasn't looking.
The data cave let day slip into night without warning us. We'd been there too long, in one of those fast, hard, can't-stop streams of productivity. Our eyes were red, and we were both dazed and twitchy from working so long without a break. I'd been watching him pick up and shove around heavy units all day. He had a way with unshielded twisted-pair cable, twiddling the tiny wires into place in a mere second, squeezing the crimper with one squarish hand. Tendons rippled in his forearm, under the rolled-up sleeve cuff.
We lounged in the staging area, amid boxes of tech junk, stacks of RAID controller units, tools strewn about, an empty six-foot machine rack in the corner. He leaned his chair back against the cage door and gazed into the distance, legs akimbo. I tried not to eyeball his lap.
"You know what?" he said, huskily. I hadn't heard his voice in a few hours.
"What?"
"A friend of mine went to another data center not long ago. He said he actually touched Yahoo." He pulled off his glasses and gazed at me.
I swallowed, tried to inhale, contemplating the sheer magnitude of all that raw computer power. My vagina and the back of my brain were screaming at each other. I couldn't decide whether to think with the commiserate geek-woody, straining the front of my proverbial trousers, or with the waves rolling up from my twitching Kegel parts.
Time halted. Our eyes met. His were brown, lovely deep brown. He licked his lips, and suddenly I noticed the faintest hint of a smirk, maybe even a dare.
Then, after a few excruciating seconds, he did it. He reached for the Big Hug Mug.
I was on him in an instant, flying across the room and into his lap, grabbing the front of his shirt, pulling him in. We dove at each other with our mouths, the kiss long and deep and wet and everything a kiss should be without being too sweet, all respect and desire and pent-up hunger and tasting faintly of cinnamon. My fingers sang in his hair.
The mug thumped against my ribs when his arms closed around me. I gasped and flicked my tongue across his teeth, sucking at his lower lip.
"God, you feel good," he murmured.
Mug still in hand, he tugged at my T-shirt. I yanked it off and tossed it, not caring where, shivering when those brown eyes traced the line of my bra, just where the fabric met flesh.
Pushing me out of his lap, but not breaking the fever of kisses, he stood and crushed me in those hard arms again, the fabric of his shirt rasping over my skin. I jerked it out of his waistband and undid the buttons, pulling it off his shoulders and down his arms, until the mug halted the effort.
I paused the mad déshabillage and reached slowly behind him to take the mug out of his hand, then set it quietly on the shelf, looking brazenly over his lightly furred chest and the trail leading down from his navel. He giggled, blushing a little.
I turned him around, pulled the shirt off, and pushed his hands over his head; he entwined his fingers in the cage mesh, shivering. I was free to roam him with my hands and my mouth, stroking down the front of his body while I trailed kisses along his spine. I gathered his pecs in my small hands and squeezed, working them the way men play with breasts, and nipped at his shoulder blades, extorting a thick moan I could feel through his skin.
I kept nibbling down and undid his belt, hooked my thumbs in his boxers, and pulled down, easing the material out over his cock, not allowing myself to peek; from the feel of the pants moving across it, it was considerable, already very hard, and stood out straight from his body. Oh, God.
His hips were tight, and my fingers played across the thick oblique muscles. I caressed the cup just inside his left hip, almost where his belly met his pubes, and he started to pant aloud; I mashed myself against his back, unsure of my ability to stand on my trembling knees. I felt up his pecs again and stroked downward with the heels of my hands, fingers curled so the tips barely grazed the skin. Every delicious inch of him was hot and smooth, down over his stomach and into the thicker, wiry hair below. Then, on autopilot, my hand closed around his shaft, the other reaching below to his balls. I squeezed lightly and stroked, so slowly, still moaning into his back, the velvet texture in my palm setting fire to the nerve endings between my legs.
He shuddered and throbbed in my hand.
Too soon, he swatted my hand away and turned, kicking his jeans off his ankles, pulling me in for another kiss. His deft fingers undid my fly and slid immediately down the front of my panties, with no hint of pause or unspoken request. It knocked the breath right out of me; I hadn't expected him to know how to manhandle me.
In the snug wet depths he curled one finger to press against my clit and stopped there, not moving it, slowing the kiss. His other arm around my waist tightened just a little, barely detectable, then released; tightened again, released again, and I started to sway a little with his groove, rubbing my pussy against that glorious finger, millimeter by millimeter.
The tingling came too soon, tiny wires scratching from my scalp and fingers and toes, inward, toward my core. I clutched him and moved harder against his hand, unable to beg and unwilling to stop. He kissed along my jaw with slow tenderness that made me want to sob, his warm damp lips under my ear.
He buried his face in my neck and held me there, breathing hard. "Yeah," he breathed, just barely. "Yeah." All I could think of was that finger, not moving, supporting my weight.
And then we were moving again; he was pulling my jeans and panties down, I was kicking them off, he was pushing me across the cage to our last empty machine rack. He was unsnapping my bra, on his knees in front of me; my tits were in his hands, warm hands, and my nipple was in his mouth. He held the tip between his teeth and strummed it with his tongue, and I shuddered against him.
He stood and pulled my hands up, guiding them to the support bars at the sides of the rack, sliding his hands down my ribs and over my hips. When he cupped my ass in those big, warm hands and knelt again -- oh God, he's really going to do it -- kissing his way down my stomach, pulling my legs over his shoulders, my weight balanced on him and on the rack where I dangled from it. Oh, God. Thoughts of security cameras and catastrophes fell away, and the entire room blacked out except for the heat radiating from my pussy, infrared, guiding him in.
He hovered over me, breathing just enough for me to feel it playing across my wet labia. Resting his mouth very lightly over my vulva, he inhaled slowly, pulling the cold from the air-conditioned room across my quivering clit. I cried out, a long, agonized, raspy sound I hadn't made in years.
And finally, finally, his pointed tongue played down one side, then the other. He darted it into the opening, then dragged it slowly up and across my clit. I nearly lost my grip on the rack when he pushed his tongue as far inside as he could, wriggling it just so. Thus began a rhythm: slide his tongue into me, draw it up, pull it flat and slowly over my clit, sucking a little, then start over. He was moving his head and moaning, like he loved it as much as I did. Through the mental haze of trying to memorize every detail of this, I could feel his hands, fanned out and clutching my bucking hips, holding me right where he wanted me.
Even with all the sucking, the wet licking -- and I was gushing wet -- his mouth never made a sound. I held my breath and the orgasm surged and pressed in me, and when I was shivering too hard for him to keep going, he replaced his tongue with two abrupt fingers, pressing in and up. God, it's good to be a woman. I was grinding against his face with my head thrown back and my mouth open and my ribs heaving, and he stroked his tongue flat over my clit again and again, in time with his fingers fucking into me, oh God, oh God -- and I came. He kept up the rhythm, perfectly, just what I needed, what I'd daydreamed about him doing while I jerked off in my beige-drenched hotel room. I cried and begged and thrashed and rode the wave for what felt like hours.
When I was finally spent, white-knuckled, he extricated himself from my legs and pushed them down so I could stand, gently unclenching my hands from the rack. I kissed him deep, sucking at his breath and feeling his cock throb against my thigh. He halted for a split second, surprised, then kissed back with much tongue, dusky sounds coming from his throat. I'm probably the first woman who's ever licked her own juice from his mouth, I thought. The thrill of it left me giddy.
A pile of cables lay near the shelf holding the Big Hug Mug. I grabbed one, snapping it playfully like a whip, hungrily eyeing his waiting prong.
His eyes widened. He laughed, and reached for the mug.
