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05-24-2007, 09:51 AM | #31 | |
Ownz
Location: Puerto Rico
Posts: 710
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Quote:
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05-24-2007, 03:36 PM | #32 |
Braindead
Location: Portland, OR
Posts: 15,132
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Happy 50,000th Birthday, Mike.
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05-24-2007, 03:56 PM | #33 |
bitch please.
Location: wicked witch of the east coast
Posts: 5,682
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The first time they have sex in the office, it's her idea.
It's long past quitting time, but David Wallace is on the West Coast for a shareholder's meeting and wants to conference call with the regional managers. Since Michael is constitutionally incapable of behaving himself on what he thinks is the equivalent of network television, Jim volunteers to sit in as Michael's number two. Which is fine, except that Michael has no earthly idea how to take a conference call and Jim can't remember the login password. "Please?" he whispers urgently to Pam. She's putting on her sweater and looking for her bag. It's been three weeks since they started dating, but no one officially knows about it yet. Jim took enough shit from his coworkers over Karen; he doesn't want Dwight giving him that look about Pam. So he can't actually come over and kiss her as a bribe, but she can tell from the look on his face that he wants to. He's sitting at her desk, phone to one ear, an anxious look on his face. The sunlight streaming through the conference room and Michael's office is almost horizontal; it's near sunset. Which means midafternoon in San Francisco, and the conference call started five minutes ago. "Got it all hooked up out there, Jim?" Michael calls from his office. Pam glances from Jim to Michael's door, frowning. "Please?" Jim gives her the puppy dog eyes, and that does it for her. She's learned that he uses that look to get out of everything from doing the dishes to eating at a pizza joint instead of a fine restaurant. She turns around and takes off her coat. Jim's look mingles smugness and relief as she turns back to the reception desk. Jim starts to get up to give her back her chair, but she puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him back down. "You have to stay on the line," she murmurs, deliberately placing her lips next to his ear. She notices the way his hair is starting to curl at his collar again, and smiles. He's letting The Haircut grow out, like she asked him. "How do I do this?" he whispers, hand over the mouthpiece. She puts her hand on top of his, guiding his fingers. "This is the Conference button. Now press number 1, that's Michael. Okay. Wait until you hear David Wallace." Jim clears his throat, looks at Michael's office. "I hear Michael." "Sure." She guides his fingers (so long, and she remembers how they made her come last night, between the front door and the couch) to the speaker button. Suddenly the sound of Michael's chatter fills the air. "--said to Jan that we really shouldn't be competing with one another, that people who love each other shouldn't--" "Michael, you're not on yet," Jim says suddenly. "Oh." Pause. "Now?" "Not yet," Jim says, giving Pam an "am I right?" look. He puts his hand over the mouthpiece again and mouths help me! Pam sits on the counter, feet swinging, hands on either side of her hips, looking down at Jim. His tie is loose, his sleeves rolled up. She remembers being cradled in those arms last night, how strong they felt around her waist, how alive and speaking his hands on her body in the dark can be. The speaker beeps and they hear: "--Coast online. Oh. Is someone on now?" David Wallace's voice comes from the speaker. Jim leans forward and hangs up the handset; the speaker remains on. "Jim Halpert here, David." "I'm here!" Michael chimes in. "Can you hear me?" There's a thunking sound and Jim winces. "Hey, is this thing on?" Michael laughs. "Okay, I'll get off now," Jim says. "No, no," Wallace says. "I need to talk to Michael's number two." Which everyone but Michael knows means I need you to rein in Michael. "Right," Jim says. He looks up at Pam, shrugs helplessly, gives her the puppy dog look again. He's boyish and adorable and silly when he does that. She's amused by his manipulations, his using her attraction for him to get her to do what he wants, even though she doesn't think he's doing it deliberately. So she decides What the hell; two can play at that. She glances over and sees that the blinds in Michael's office are closed. His door is open, but he can't see them. Catching Jim's eye, she licks her lips. Slowly. His eyes widen. "So, okay," Wallace is saying. The speakerphone makes his voice sound tinny and distorted. "I've been looking at the budgets for Q4 and really, guys, we need to tighten up these projected revenues. Sam, can you tell me about this new item for recycled memo pads?" Another voice comes on, starts talking. Pam reaches up and unbuttons the highest button on her shirt. Jim looks alarmed. And excited. One hand, holding a pencil, starts tapping it against the desk. She leans forward, puts a hand on top of his to stop him. Gives him a good look. He knows what she looks like naked, this is not a tease. It's a reminder. His look tells her he remembers. "Hey, that was totally my idea," Michael says. It's weird to hear him on the speakerphone and from his office. "Sam, I gave you that idea during the paper convention last fall. Remember when Josh and I were sitting around talking about it?" "No, I remember that Josh mentioned it, not you," Sam replies. An argument ensues. Pam shifts on the counter she's been leaning on. She leans forward, hooks a leg around the chair, draws him closer. He doesn't resist when she puts a leg on either side of him, trapping him in her chair, between her knees. "I don't get this training budget," Wallace is saying. Static drowns his voice but he comes back. "...sustainable innovation in the face of so much technology driven change." "Whaddida whadda?" Michael laughs. "David, can you say that again? It sounded like Klingon." Jim's gaze locks with hers, hot with understanding, with passion. With yes. He puts his hands on her knees. Just resting them there, warm with promise. She leans forward, slowly, watching him watch her mouth come closer, closer, until it's on his. Lips a little chapped, but warm. Full. Smiling under hers. Then opening, and his tongue is hot and wet. He tastes of jellybeans, of course. She discovered that in the break room two hours ago, in a furtive kiss in front of the Coke machine. Now she twines her tongue with his, a luscious exploration of that laughing mouth. She used to think Roy was a good kisser. Now she knows she was just inexperienced. Jim was a revelation from the first kiss to this--he could kiss her a million times and it would never be the same twice. But it would always leave her breathless and a little flushed. Maybe it's the way he gives it his whole attention, as though worlds could collide next to him and he'd never notice. Maybe it's the sheer sensuality of it, the way he seems to absolutely revel in her mouth, her lips. Maybe it's the sense of timelessness, the knowledge that he will take as long as he needs to taste her, tease her, arouse her, never hurried. Whatever. Right now he's sucking on her lower lip and she's feeling very hot, feeling her pulse pound in her neck, feeling the sweet heavy fullness in her lower belly and between her legs that tell her she's aroused. "...I just don't know. Jim? What do you think?" Wallace is asking. "Do you think all that spending data is really going to make a difference in vendor negotiations?" He breaks away from her to answer Wallace's question, looking flushed himself. "Uh. I think Michael's idea is the right one," he says. He doesn't take his eyes off of her. "Michael? What idea?" Wallace says. They can hear frustration in his voice. "Oh. Uh. What was the question again?" Michael stutters. Jim's hair has fallen over his forehead and his lips are wet from hers. She unbuttons another button and now his gaze drops to her cleavage and his mouth makes a tight line. She knows that tight mouth. It means he's trying really, really hard not to say something. Or to kiss her. There's a new voice on the line, one they know well. "...takes forever with an ordinary spreadsheet," Ryan is saying. Pam thinks of him in his steel and glass office in New York, then forgets about him. Better things to think about here. "I think we need that new budgeting software, David." "Wow, Temp, you really went whole hog for this technology thing," Michael says. Pam can hear the edge of satire in his voice; Michael has never really gotten over Ryan's "betrayal" when he took the job Michael had interviewed for. The fact that Michael had withdrawn his name didn't affect the fact that Michael viewed all departures from the Office nest as betrayals. "Sure you don't want to replace all of us with computers? I...am...Hal...Cannot...turn...me...off..." Pam squeezes her knees together, compressing Jim's thighs, and he winces slightly. She looks down and sees the bulge in his crotch. She looks up and his eyes are laughing. They drop to her cleavage, and this time he licks his lips like she did. Slowly. Oh, this will be fun. She leans forward and down, presses her hand to his crotch. He gasps, covers with a fake cough, and glares at her. But there's something else in the glare--respect? Lust? Challenge? She keeps her hand where it is, strokes him once or twice through the cloth. "Jimbo, back me up here," Michael is saying. "We don't need no stinkin' programs, do we?" "Ah, I don't know, Michael," he says. His voice is almost normal; only Pam can hear the note of strain in it. "Ryan makes a lot of sense." "No, he doesn't! He's never even made a sale! How can he know anything about budgets and sales and--" "I think we're getting off topic," Wallace cuts in. "Ryan, what's your projected return on the budgeting software?" As Ryan drones on with facts and figures, Jim's hands slide up from Pam's knees to her thighs, higher, now sliding under the hem of her skirt. His eyes are locked on hers, daring her. He doesn't think she means this. It's so on. She strokes him, defining his erection under the cloth. He slides his hands higher, finds the edge of her panties. She finds his zipper and pulls it down--quietly, so that the open microphone won't pick up the sound. He closes his eyes, briefly. Opens them to meet hers, even as his fingers curl under the elastic and tug. "So it will make the whole process more efficient," Ryan says. "Jim? You agree?" "Absolutely," Jim replies shortly. Breathlessly. "Well, I don't!" Michaels sounds petulant. "And I outvote Jim, he's only my number two!" "It good to get everyone's voice on this," Wallace says patiently. Pam puts her hands on either side of her hips, lifts herself. The counter creaks a little as her weight shifts. His hands pull the satin panties off her in one quick tug as she kicks off her flats. He doesn't even look at her when he drops the panties into the trash under the desk. She reaches into his open fly and finds him hard, and he makes a strangled sound which is fortunately drowned by Michael's outrage at something Ryan just said. There is a sound from the Annex--is someone back there? Or is that another of Kelly's new desk toys falling off? His eyes dart to the kitchen, the conference room door, back to her. They may not be alone, they could be discovered at any moment. She looks at him. Should they stop? His eyes say no just as his fingers reach her center and find her so wet, so soft, so ready. "I don't care," Michael is saying. "Let the other branches switch over to it. I ... we just don't have the time. Busy pushing paper here, you know? No time for this whole training thing." "But it will free you up to do more selling," Wallace is saying. Jim strokes her once, twice, and she throws her head back and jams her fist into her mouth to keep from moaning because he figured out a long time ago (twenty minutes into their First Time) exactly and precisely where and how hard and how fast to stroke, and god she's close to coming. But sitting at the edge of the desk makes it hard for his fingers to do their best work, so he withdraws his hand. He grabs her hips and brings her forward, lifting her. Her knees are already on either side of his legs, so when he pulls her into his lap she's straddling him. There is an alarming metallic squeal from the overburdened chair; they ignore it. She feels his cock against her, feels him lifting her, reaches forward to balance herself with a hand on each of his shoulder. The chair squeaks and wobbles alarmingly as she impales herself in one sweet slide onto him. He buries his face in her shoulder to silence himself and her fist is in her mouth again as he fills her. "Jim? Do you think you can handle the training? Maybe come to a one-day seminar in New York?" Ryan is asking. "Yes!" he says forcefully. "No need to yell," Michael says, irritated. "We can hear you just fine." Pam rocks forward, but sitting on his lap like this lifts her too high off the floor; her feet cannot gain enough purchase. She wriggles, trying to find enough traction to really rock on him, but only succeeds in pushing the wheeled chair further away from the desk. Jim buries his face in her breasts and inhales deeply, his body trembling under hers. Her pulse is pounding in her ears but she can't come, can't help him. She's almost helpless, flushed and hot and thrumming with him inside her. Dimly, she's aware of the conversation going on, the argument building as Wallace and Ryan work on the reluctant Michael. She tunes them out, focusing on the feel of him so hard inside her, insistent. Jim. His hands settle on her hips, press her downward onto him, pull her up again. Deeper, rougher. Stroking against her, opening her. His hips rock upward under hers, his hands pull her downward onto him, she can feel the muscles of his shoulders and biceps working under her hands. He makes a small soft grunting sound, something between a growl and a sob. Pulls her downward again. Her heart is hammering against his face, he is panting into her cleavage, and the chair is tilting dangerously. He shifts their center of gravity to keep them from tipping over, and suddenly he hits the target dead center. At the last possible second she buries her face in his hair, wrapping her arms around his head and silently screaming her release. She trembles as the orgasm engulfs her, focusing everything on the place where they are joined. His face is trapped in her cleavage and he's panting, whether from the effort of holding her or from oxygen deprivation, but she hears no complaints. He heaves, thrusts, and then she feels him break, feels him shudder into her, knows he's coming hard, with everything he has, holding nothing back. Like always. He's gasping into her breasts and she feels his chest heaving so she releases him, leans back a little, and he looks up at her with love and passion and pride in his eyes--and laughter. "...tomorrow. And I'll fax you the details in about an hour," Wallace is saying. He's got that winding-up sound in his voice that says the call is ending. "Michael? Can I count on your cooperation? Michael?" "Sure," Michael says shortly. "But I think I ought to talk it over with Jan." "Michael, that is not appropriate," Wallace says testily. "Jan is no longer part of Dunder Mifflin." "Well, she's part of me!" Michael says. "And I'm part of Dunder-Mifflin. So she's part of it too." Jim rests his forehead against hers for a moment. "He's going to catch us?" he whispers. Pam kisses him. He tastes like sweat. Like jellybeans. Like Jim. "Can't have that," she agrees. She wriggles, and he pushes her slightly, so her feet come down on the floor. She stands and her skirt falls around her thighs. He's got one hand in his lap, zipping up, as she struggles to put her hair back up. "...goodbye!" Michael says. A click from the speakerphone tells them he's hung up. In two steps she's at the file cabinet, pulling out the top drawer, pretending to search for something. Jim is still in her chair, punching buttons (static, dial tone, silence) when Michael emerges from his office. He doesn't seem surprised to see Pam still here; he doesn't seem aware of her at all. "Pam? There's a fax coming through from David Wallace a little later. Do you mind staying until it comes in? Very important." Jim stands. "Can't you stay?" "No, no. Jan's expecting me. In fact--" he glances at his watch, and a look of panic crosses his face. "I'm late. Gotta go! Get that fax, Pam!" He rushes out the door. Jim turns to face her. His gaze is hot, full of mischief. "Looks like we're working late," he says. Steps toward her. The second time they have sex in the office, it's his idea. You can’t really breathe as you step into the water because you feel exhilarated and completely terrified at the same time. Your feet hurt and your chest feels tight and it’s quite possible that you’ve never felt so alive. The glow of the firelight disappears as you round the corner of the bank, and for the first time tonight you feel like you’re actually alone. You don’t have to take notes and you don’t have to watch everyone else having fun and you’re finally able to take a moment to just think. You can hear silence and crickets and wind in the grass along the shore. You’re pulling off your hoodie and tank top and capris and you’re before you realize it, you’re suddenly under water. It’s cold and pressing and even quieter than before, and when you open your eyes, everything is dark. Soon your lungs are starting to ache, so you break the surface, and it takes a moment to notice that you’re laughing. Loudly and helplessly. Because the man you love isn’t even your friend any longer. And your job is going nowhere. And you live alone and you feel alone and it seems like no one cares. And you’ve spilled it all to everyone you work with. And your feet are burnt. And suddenly, none of it matters, because now you finally feel free. You gaze up at the sky and see the stars and the moon and your laughter dies slowly until all you can hear is quiet. You let the current pull at you, drifting against you and around you and you want to just stay like this forever. By the time you make your way back to the beach, you’ve got goosebumps and your teeth are chattering and you wonder briefly if they’ve left without you. And when you look up to find your hoodie, you see him sitting next to your clothes, and his eyes flash in the darkness. You wonder if you should still feel bold, after everything that’s happened. You decide that you do, and you sit down in the sand next to him, turning your head back towards the stars. It’s silent for a bit too long, and you can feel him looking at you, but you’re still looking up at the sky, trying to find the Big Dipper, or Orion, and you can’t remember which one is visible this time of year or if they both are. He’s untied the top of your swimsuit by the time you find the North Star, and his breath is hot against the back of your neck. His fingers are delicate as they push the halter straps forward and pull your wet hair away from your shoulders, passing so lightly over your collarbones that it’s almost like a breeze. Your head falls forward as his hands slip down, following the path the ties of your swimsuit have taken until his palms are resting against your ribs. His lips press once and then again along your right shoulder and you shudder when he pulls your bikini top down, down. Your hands are brazen and pull at his fingers, placing them on your chest and pressing, and you arch towards them sharply. He’s kneeling behind you and you can feel him leaning forward, his cheek against yours, and he’s whispering words you can’t quite hear; something about bravery and cowardice and need. You groan in frustration when his hands move away, but it dissolves into a gasp when his thumbs start tracing your hipbones. You can feel him hard against your back and Jesus. His left index finger is slipping below your bikini bottoms and you push back against him, wanting to feel him even closer. His hips move of their own accord and his breath is ragged against your neck. And his finger has dipped further beneath your suit until it’s there and you whimper helplessly. “Please,” he whispers harshly. “I need …” You’re nodding your head and grasping his forearm, holding him against you as your other hand reaches blindly behind you, your fingers threading through his hair, feeling softness and sweat and oh God. His lips are brushing your ear and his hand is moving against you and you’re already there. He stops abruptly and you let out a strange, strangled sort of cry because you’re so close but you hear him fumbling behind you and the sound of his zipper is almost piercing in the darkness. Then he’s pulling you against his chest again and panting into your hair and asking you and begging you and all you can do is say “Yes, Jim-” because you can’t think any more. One arm is around your waist and the other is pulling at your swimsuit and then he’s pushing forward and deep and you call his name a little too loudly because fuck. And you turn your head and he finally kisses you, hard, like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do. Then his hand dips and his middle finger presses against you through the fabric of your swimsuit and you breathe out “I’m gonna … oh God.” You close your eyes as you tense and open them when you finally shudder around him, whimpering his name over and over until you can’t say anything else. And he’s grunting in your ear and gasping and rocking against you once and then again before he stills, a low moan that sounds like maybe your name reverberating through him and then you. Once your breathing slows, you can hear the crickets again. He’s handing you your clothes and running a hand through his hair as he cranes his neck to stare up into the night. You stand near the water’s edge and feel him come to stand behind you, and your heart jumps when you hear the cracking of twigs behind you. The jostling of camera equipment is unmistakable, and you sigh quietly. “How are your feet?” he asks. “Medium rare. Thanks,” you quip, afraid to look up at him, because you know it’ll make it that much harder to pretend. And when you get home, you finally let yourself cry. She’s holding his hand as they walk and he sneaks his free hand around and swats her on the back just above her ass. “Hey!” She laughs and spins to face him. “I missed,” he shrugs. “Can’t you wait till we get home, Halpert? Or at least until I don’t smell like your tennis shoes,” she sticks out her tongue at him. “Maybe, but probably not.” He chuckles. “Just, hurry up at least, because,” he gestures discreetly at his crotch before pressing his hips against hers. She swallows audibly and her eyelids lower almost imperceptibly. “I’m already looking forward to it, a little.” She raises an eyebrow at him and makes a show about looking down at his already visible erection. When she turns to face the locker room door, her hand brushes against him. “Don’t worry then, because I’ll just be a minute,” she winks and he moans. Karen pushes open the door to the locker room, releasing a cloud of steam. Then she’s starting to pull off her shirt and sports bra before the door’s all the way shut and he catches just a flash of her breast and fuck, these mesh shorts don’t really hide anything. He takes a seat on a bench outside the door and crosses and uncrosses his legs, thinks about Michael, thinks about basketball, thinks about roadkill and Dwight but there isn’t much to be done about his current situation. It’s more than a minute, he tries to assure himself, before he decides to follow her. He’s not one of those guys that freaks out when his girlfriend is a few seconds late; but he is one of those guys that gets more than a little turned on when she runs next to him on the treadmill at the gym and her face gets pink and when he knows that the only thing between him and her, naked under the spray of the shower, is this fucking door that he’s currently walking through. The steam is really overpowering and he hears her before he sees her, she’s laughing somewhere over there, and wow, this looks a lot like his high school locker room, but there’s no sweaty guys (thank god) and it’s a lot cleaner, and kind of reminds him of a movie he saw once on the Skinemax channel when his older brother convinced his parents that they were old enough for their own hotel room that vacation (they probably weren’t). He thinks he hears someone else for a moment, but his hearing isn’t really working as strongly right now as other parts of him. And when he turns the corner to the showers, there…they are, standing under the spray and everything stops except that dark curl that rolls through his lower stomach and the groan that becomes caught in his throat. Pam’s hands are pressed hard against Karen’s naked back, one of them dipping down over her smooth wet skin, cupping her ass and he hears Karen growl in that sexy way that she does when she really wants to be touched. He’s kind of mad at her for a second, since she promised him a pretty fantastic time when they get home and if she’s going to go and wear herself out now then he’s just going to-- but then Pam moves one leg between Karen’s, sliding it back and forth against her and now he’s just wondering if he can actually come without being touched. Pam’s laughing against Karen’s mouth when Karen runs her hands up Pam’s sides, over her breasts (oh god) and brushes her wet hair away from her face and to the side, and Pam tilts her head so Karen can reach her neck and she’s licking and biting until Pam whimpers something like the word please and Jim is so hard he can feel the pulsing and he can’t hardly stand to not touch himself. “Please what, Pam? What do you want?” She’d asked him that last night, after an impromptu (and slightly vulgar) striptease following a game of Call of Duty and several beers, and he presses a palm hard against his cock at the memory and the sight before him. “You’re not touching me,” Pam tries to pout but she looks more like she’s going to sneeze and they both dissolve into giggles before Karen’s hand is gone and Pam gasping and squeezing her shoulders, moving her hips in time with a rhythm he desperately tries to match with just his palm. Karen’s tongue trails down over Pam’s collarbone and then she has one of her nipples in her mouth and Pam is arched towards her under the spray, whimpering. Now he’s really hard as fuck when he finally gives in and reaches under the elastic on his basketball shorts, gripping tight enough to hurt if he weren’t so goddamned ready. As if on cue: “Are you ready?” Karen looks over her shoulder. At him. Shit. The side of her face is pressed against Pam’s chest. Shit. His hand freezes, his eyes grow huge and all he can do is stare back at her. Neither of them speaks. She doesn’t repeat her question and he doesn’t answer. “Fuck, Jim, please,” Pam looks at him through heavy-lidded eyes, her fingers tangled in Karen’s hair, pulling her back to her breasts. “You just gonna leave her like this?” Karen smirks at him, there’s a tiny dare in her smile, and her tongue snakes out and licks Pam’s nipple again. His shirt is off and his shorts and boxers tossed any which way in a matter of moments. He walks over under the water and reaches to touch but Karen shoots him a look and he knows better. “Not yet. Sit,” she nods her head towards a bench just beyond the spray of the shower head and his dick throbs when he realizes why she can’t point with her hands. “Wait.” “For?” He barely recognizes the growl of his voice. She gets that look again and turns back to Pam. He can see the muscles in her arm rippling and his hand finds his cock again, stroking himself with her movements. Pam bites her lip so hard he wonders briefly if she’ll break the skin. She’s holding on to Karen for dear life, her hips moving blindly against her hand. Karen is watching his reactions but he’s only seeing Pam, her hair falling with the stream down her back and she tilts her head backward, water running down her neck between her breasts and then she drops her head forward quickly, forehead against Karen’s shoulder and she’s shouting into Karen’s chest ‘stop please please stop I need I need’ and it’s barely words when Karen abruptly stops touching her and guides her over to Jim. His hands are out at his sides, supporting himself when Karen leads Pam to straddle his lap. Karen’s hands are in his hair and then she’s kissing him, her tongue running over his lip before she slinks her hands down his chest, winding briefly in the hair there, and then she has him in her hands stroking him and just when he’s going to tell her to stop or it’ll all be over, she’s pressing his tip against Pam’s entrance and waiting for something while he’s making the most desperate sounds and wondering if now she’s going to make him beg. Then Pam’s sinking down and he’s in her so deep before be can even speak and it’s so good and she’s so tight and wet that he wants to let go, but he moans instead, something like her name and fuck and Karen is standing there behind Pam, smiling at the both of them, with her hands on Pam’s breasts and a look on her face like the cat that killed the canary. But Pam starts moving over him and he’s not thinking anything but “Fuck!” And it’s his turn to bite his lip when Karen’s licking at Pam’s shoulder and staring into his eyes like a challenge. “She’s good, isn’t she?” Karen’s hands slip down Pam’s stomach and her fingers skip over where they meet, disrupting their rhythm in an amazing way and he bucks up to meet the feather-light touch, causing Pam to moan loudly and fall back against Karen. “You close, baby?” Her lips are against Pam’s ear and Pam’s nodding more than necessary. Jim leans all of his and Pam’s weight on the one hand, and he swears the prospect of an orgasm must give you superman strength because he barely feels it. And his free thumb is rubbing circles over Pam’s clit and Karen bites her earlobe and then she’s cursing a blue streak and clenching around him hard. One of her hands is snaked around Karen’s head, gripping her hair and the other is digging deep into his shoulder and it bites in the best way, and he has to pray not to lose it just yet when he feels her insides contract around him again and again. When he feels her muscles begin to relax, Pam’s eyes slip open and stare right at him, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Karen looking at him, too and she whispers something to Pam and they’re both grinning when he feels her squeeze herself around him over and over as Karen helps her move over him again and “The fuck?” Is all he can get out because oh my god she feels so fucking good and did they plan this? And then suddenly everything in him tenses, he swears he’s never come so hard in his life and who’s name should he yell? But it all just comes out as a loud grunt anyway. He’s surprised that he’s still right-side in when his eyes finally open, but he starts to think that maybe the world isn’t so much because Karen’s got a hand between her legs and Pam is still hot and clenching herself around him and she’s leaning against Karen, looking up at her and whispering filthy things and Karen is nodding nodding nodding along, and he thinks they don’t even need him anymore. “Help her,” Pam shoots him a stern look and they might be hanging out (platonically) too much because she’s picking up Karen’s no-nonsense tone and the mannerisms, but he wants to help her because, god she’s so pretty when she comes. Pam lifts herself off of him and moves to stand next to Karen. She pushes her forward between his knees and Karen’s hand moves from between her legs to tangle in his hair and she’s pulling. Hard. He looks up to see her kissing Pam, sucking on her bottom lip while Pam runs her hands up the flat skin between Karen’s breasts and Karen breaks the kiss to groan in frustration because both of them are not touching the right places. His hands move up her thighs and spread her legs wider ‘till all of her is right there and she gasps when it’s his tongue on her, flat and hot and running along her opening. “She likes it when,” Pam speaks softly, but her sentence ends there. She reaches for his right hand and shows him how those two fingers curled and stroking justrightthere inside her and his left hand on the small of her back pulling her forward and his mouth sucking on her clit make her scream, and how does she know this and not him? It only takes a few moments before Karen’s fluttering around his fingers and then tightening wildly and she has that look like when she’s keeping stride next to him on the treadmill, all flushed and smiling and he sees Pam watching her, too and “She’s beautiful,” Pam says to no one in particular. And he has to agree. They separate slowly and he’s suddenly shy, wants to ask them how long? And when? And can they meet up in a few days (because he needs to recover a little)? But they don’t act like anything completely mind-blowing has just happened and Pam smiles like how she does when she’s leaving the office on Friday and disappearing around the corner. Then Karen grabs his hand and pulls him standing and shakes him “Karen, what’s…?” Shakes him Shakes him until he’s blinking against the light and looking around because where the fuck is he now that smells like sea salt and roses and peppermint tea? Karen laughs as her hand closes around him and he jerks up (how is he still hard?). “Morning,” she grins impishly. “Wood.” And she winks at him as her fingers slide against his length and he moans and bucks up toward her hand. “You were making a lot of sex noises there, Halpert. Good dream?” “Uhn, fuck. Yes.” He looks over at her, still naked from the previous night, sheets falling around her waist. “Looks like it, too. Want to tell me about it?” He grins at her when she throws one leg over him until she’s straddling his hips. Her hands press into the mattress on either side of his head and she leans down until her nipples are against his chest. He tells her about it, stopping briefly when she moves to lower herself onto him, and she doesn’t get mad or even frown when he tells about Pam, just grins wildly and stops him a few times to ask for more details (“Show me what I did to her.”). Her hair is knotted from sleep and she’s looking to all the world like she’s just been fucked (is in the middle of being fucked) and she leans down and licks his ear and whispers “She’s really hot, maybe we can ask her about it tomorrow.” And he comes. |
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05-24-2007, 03:57 PM | #34 |
Quaid Hates You
Location: Hollywood
Posts: 14,155
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rison rape
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia Jump to: navigation, search Please help improve this article or section by expanding it. Further information might be found on the talk page or at requests for expansion. This article has been tagged since January 2007. Globe icon This article or section deals primarily with the United States and does not represent a worldwide view of the subject. Please improve this article or discuss the issue on the talk page. Prison rape commonly refers to the rape of inmates in prison by other inmates or prison staff. According to Human Rights Watch, there is a significant variation in the rates of prison rape by race. Stop Prisoner Rape, Inc. statistics indicate that there are more men raped in U.S. prisons than non-incarcerated women similarly assaulted. They estimate that 25,000 inmates are raped each year; that young men are five times more likely to be attacked; and that the prison rape victims are ten times more likely to contract a deadly disease. Contents [hide] * 1 Racial dimensions of prison rape * 2 Prison rape and sexuality * 3 U.S. cultural attitudes * 4 U.S. law * 5 Other countries o 5.1 Russia * 6 See also * 7 References * 8 External links [edit] Racial dimensions of prison rape According to a detailed study of prison rape in US prisons by Human Rights Watch, white prisoners are disproportionately targeted in terms of victimization statistics. The report stated: Past studies have documented the prevalence of black on white sexual aggression in prison.(213) These findings are further confirmed by Human Rights Watch's own research. Overall, our correspondence and interviews with white, black, and Hispanic inmates convince us that white inmates are disproportionately targeted for abuse. Although many whites reported being raped by white inmates, black on white abuse appears to be more common.[1] [edit] Prison rape and sexuality In prison rape, the perpetrator and victim are generally the same sex (due to the gender-segregated nature of prison confinement). As such, a host of issues regarding sexual orientation and gender roles are associated with the topic. In U.S. male prisons, rapists generally identify as heterosexual and confine themselves to non-receptive sexual acts. Victims, commonly referred to as "punks" or "charlon" or "bitches," may or may not be seen as homosexual. Punks are generally confined to performing receptive sexual acts. Moreover, though "punks" sometimes agree to a sexual arrangement with an aggressor, these men generally consider themselves heterosexual. Transgendered inmates face further difficulties, and Stop Prisoner Rape asserts that such inmates have an almost certain chance of being sexually assaulted in prison. Some prisons separate homosexuals, bisexuals, and transgenders from the general prison population to prevent rape and violence against them.[citation needed] Shame regarding perceived homosexuality may contribute to the underreporting of prison rape by victims. Prison rape statistics are higher than reported, as many victims are afraid to report, being threatened with physical violence by rapists if reported. [edit] U.S. cultural attitudes Many human rights groups, such as the Human Rights Watch and Stop Prisoner Rape, claim that prison staff tolerate rape as a means of controlling the prison population in general. Suicide among rape victims is a problem of unknown proportions.[citation needed] The topic of prison rape is relatively common in American humor. Jokes such as "don't drop the soap" seem to suggest that prison rape is an acceptable consequence of being sent to prison. This phenomenon is exemplified by the 2006 U.S. feature film Let's Go to Prison. Prison rape cases have drastically risen in recent years, mostly attributed to an increase in counseling and reporting. The threat of AIDS, which affects many of those raped in prison, has resulted in the increase of reported cases for the benefit of medical assistance. [edit] U.S. law U.S. Federal law, under the Prison Rape Elimination Act of 2003, calls for the compilation of national prison rape statistics, annual hearings by a review panel, and the provision of grants to the states to address prison rape. [edit] Other countries [edit] Russia In Russian male prisons, prison rape is quite common. There are many taboos in Russian prison culture associated with this topic. Victims of rape belong to the very bottom of prison hierarchy, to the layer called "opushchennye" (Russian: опущенные; literally, "those who were moved down", singular "opushchennyi") or "petookhi" (Russian: петухи; literally, "roosters", singular "petookh"). The circumstances of rape doesn't matter; the very fact of homosexual contact in passive mode makes prisoner a "petookh"; thus, if a prisoner had a homosexual contact before prison and this fact becomes known to other inmates, he is also moved to this group. "Petookhs" are untouchables: other prisoners may touch them only during the rape; they live in a separate corner of a prison cell, every object that is touched by a "petookh" is befouled: if another inmate touches it, he becomes a "petookh" too; it is even forbidden to beat "petookhs" with hands (only beating with legs is permitted). "Petookhs" are forced to do the most filthy job: to clean toilets, to empty trash cans, etc. When another prisoner requests sex, a "petookh" must obey or he will be beaten. "Petookhs" are often given female names (Sveta, Masha, Tanya etc.) and must respond when they are called by these names. When a "petookh" is transferred to another prison where nobody knows him, he must immediately inform other inmates about his status. Failure to do this may lead to very severe consequences to the "petookh" including his murder when his status becomes known. According to "proper" traditions, there are very few reasons of raping a prisoners: lodging information against other inmates to authorities, theft of other prisoners' property, failure to pay debt in time. The status of "petookh" is life-long, there is no way to get out of this layer (At least untill the inmate is released or paroled; but if he will be jailed again, he will again be considered as a "petukh".) The very word "petookh" is a taboo: inmates tend to use it as little as possible. To call a "petookh" somebody who is not the one is a very hard insult that may lead to death. See http://ru.wikipedia.org/wiki/Опущенный |
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05-24-2007, 04:00 PM | #35 |
bitch please.
Location: wicked witch of the east coast
Posts: 5,682
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"How are you, Jan?"
As a rule, her therapist, Carol, has to ask that question at the beginning of every session and every time Jan has this burning urge to tell her she's horribly depressed and throw herself at her feet. She never does. "I'm good. You? How are the kids, Carol?" It's a successful diversion and works eight out of ten times. She asks about the children, the husband, everything she has yet to acquire on a permanent basis, and they spend fifteen minutes out of the scheduled hour talking about someone other than herself. She's nodding, beating out the rhythm of a Stevie Nicks song that was on the radio this morning with her heel, and realizes that Carol isn't speaking anymore and instead is staring intently at her. Her ten minutes are up. "It's nice of you to ask, Jan, and I hold your concern in the highest regard, I do, but we're here to talk about you, not me." It goes like this all the time. She remembers that they're on paid time, her paid time, and gives her a stern look above the Chanel horn-rimmed glasses. She bought them for her last Christmas, replacing the hideous, circa 1960, Coca Cola bottle ones she'd been wearing for the past five years. The way Jan sees it, if she has to spend a significant amount of time with this woman, she might as well be wearing fashionable eye wear during the visits. Carol cups a hand under her chin, her psychoanalyst pose, and continues to stare her down. "So what's new?" I may have coerced my twenty-five year old assistant into sex last night runs through her mind, but she just gives her a tight smile and shrugs. She's talking again about borders and self-control and apparently all the other ways Jan isolates herself from the outside world, and she happily tunes out her spiel, letting her eyes glaze over as she remembers the night before. Hunter, despite his age or maybe because of it, had been surprisingly cooperative. She didn't have to coach him or tell him where to go, but it wasn't at all what she had expected. - "Oh, Ms. Levinson. I thought you left." She had left. She drove an hour out of her way to reassure her boyfriend, Michael, and he was already breaking up with her. She needed some Vidocin. "I need Vidocin." Hunter merely blinked and nodded, going behind her desk, and fetching a water bottle from the small fridge at the back. The fact that she could very well be his mother, and that she actually met the woman when he began his internship two years back, didn't bother as much as it should have. The pill slipped down her throat and her palms stopped sweating after a couple minutes. She had a very large desk. She'd always hated it. It took up more space than she wanted, but for once, she grateful for it. It was easier with a large desk. "Ms. Levinson?" He had brown eyes, guileless, cattle brown eyes. She didn't know why she was noticing this now, now when had him backed up against the edge of her desk, catching his lips between her teeth. Michael always wanted to do things the regular way. Missionary and some action flick bought off her Pay-Per-View later and he was happy. The thing was that Jan never actually found herself satisfied after sex. Her first husband didn't know what to do with his hands, and for the most part, didn't really care if she came or not, and with Michael it was better, but she always felt lacking for some reason. Carol said it was because she couldn't release the control she upheld in every other aspect of her life, but if she just laid back and didn't do anything, they would hardly know what to do. His pants landed at her feet, tickling her toes, and she surprised herself when she came not once, but twice in the span of thirty minutes. Toby's voice entered her head post-coital: That's cause for a sexual harassment case right there, Jan. - "We've made a lot of progress today." She has the urge to snort, or something else unbecoming of her image, because she's just spent the last half hour fantasizing about Hunter going down on her at the office. She needs serious help. He's perfectly professional the next day, and when he comes to drop off some folders she needed without her asking, she thinks she might've found the perfect man. Except he's a boy, and if he so as much says a word, she could fire him. That night she has disturbing dreams revolving around Hunter's mother and several people dragging her to be burned at the stake. She wakes up, swallows down a couple prescription drugs, she technically isn't supposed to be taking anymore, and goes back to sleep, plans to call in sick the next day. Her hand is holding the phone and she almost has the words I'm sick at the tip of her tongue, but it's weakness and her mother, Mrs. Levinson, never took a sick day all her life. Her mother was also a senior kindergarten teacher not that means anything one way or another. It's just that this is Corporate America, and women have finally started to have more influence and she wasn't going to let the next generation down by calling in sick. Yeah…she was doing this for the future daughters of America. - She's not sure what the future daughters of America would think of her at the moment. Hunter runs a hand back through his hair making it stick up in a way that's mildly comical and reminiscent of a cartoon she watched when she was a kid. He's been reduced to his boxers and his tie somehow is still looped around his neck. Their building it happens has many rooms. Many rooms no one ever uses and their convenience is invaluable. Every once and a while she'll be absently undoing the row of buttons on his shirt, well the times she goes slow, she usually just pulls and lets the glassy nubs scatter across the floor, but every now and then, she'll think of Michael and some ridiculous thing he said, and there's a pang somewhere deep in her gut for a minute. She lets those moments pass and tries not to let the guilt itch at her skin. - "Michael!" "Hi, Mr. Scott." He's standing in the doorway wearing something akin to her uncle's Fourth of July apparel, and Hunter's standing behind her...oh crap. She snaps on her bra, and rushes Hunter, half naked, out into the hall. She knew she shouldn't have ever brought him home. "Michael..." He's rubbing at his temple, and she can see a vein throbbing underneath his hairline and sincerely hopes he doesn't have a stroke in her bedroom. "You and Hunter? Jan!" He looks at her in exasperation and she turns to pull her blouse over herself. He's hurt. This is good. He should be hurt. "I know my breaking up with you broke your heart, but this-" What on earth was he- "Michael Scott, you did not break my heart." "Oh Jan. I think you and I both know the truth." He tilts his head, and watches her quickly reddening face in the opposite mirror. "My ex-husband broke my heart. My first boyfriend, Jimmy Something..." "Now that's just ridiculous. He couldn't have broken your heart if you can't remember his last name." Michael says matter-of-factly. "Well, he did!" She's indignant and it's completely useless because he's seriously convinced himself that this is the case here. If she was honest with herself, she might admit it was not entirely untruthful, but the denial stage is still pending. He sits down on the edge of the mattress and engulfs her in a bear hug. He looks like he's laughing when she pushes him off a moment later. "What?" "You know what Toby would say if he was here?" "Sexual harassment." They say it in unison and he shakes his head, sighing into her hair. "God, I hate Toby." She smothers her laughter into his shoulder. |
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05-24-2007, 04:05 PM | #36 |
bitch please.
Location: wicked witch of the east coast
Posts: 5,682
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“And I mean seriously, does she think that moving from a back up dancer to a musician that no one knows is going to help. She should try to get back with Justin, or oh oh she should totally steal John Mayer from Jessica Simpson. He is sooo cute.”
Ryan took another deep breath and tried to convince himself not to slam his head against his desk. When he’d moved back here with Kelly it had taken less than a day for him to realize that something serious needed to be done if he was going to survive. So, he had done the only thing that made Kelly shut up for any length of time—kissing. Other people in the office got a soda when they needed a break. In his case, he’d listen to Kelly for as long as he could, pray she got lots of sale calls, but usually by the afternoon he’d find himself backing her up against her desk, or he’d let her back him up against his. Knowing that when he finally pulled away to get back to work her breath would be shallow and her eyes would be glazed over and he’d have at least twenty uninterrupted minutes to try to and sell paper. Of course then those twenty minutes would end and she’d be telling him what model should leave and why Tyra wasn’t really a shrew. And the process would start all over again. But nothing was working today. He’d kissed her for a good fifteen minutes and she’d just gone straight back to talking. Plus she was now sitting on his desk, legs crossed and almost covering his keyboard so he couldn’t even type the report that desperately needed to be done by 5 pm. And it was 4:15 now and did he mention it was also a Friday. He was not leaving late. He was leaving at time, collapsing on his coach, playing his Xbox and putting this entire week behind him. Something major needed to be done right now. Leaning back he glanced around. Toby wasn’t at his desk. He’d been called into the conference room an hour ago to deal with something stupid Michael had done. Smiling to himself when he realized that no one was close enough to see or hear them he rested his hand on Kelly’s knee. She was wearing a short loose skirt today and it was simple to push it up and glide his hand up her thigh. “Ryan!” she squealed, and he stood and kissed her. “Shhh,” he told her and smiled at her. She uncrossed her legs and spread them so he could stand between them. He kissed her again and his hand ran further up her leg, moving to the inside of her thigh until his fingers just brushed her panties, by the feel of them they were her lacy red ones. He had great affection for her underwear. He drew one finger along her slit, feeling her panties grow wet, her hips lifting against his fingers. At the same time his other hand slipped under her peasant top, her clothes were perfect for desk almost-sex. He cupped one of her breasts in his hand, tugging the fabric down so he could finger her nipple, knowing how fast that got to her. Sure enough she let him know she liked it, gasping out a breathy little, “R-yan.” He covered her mouth with his again swallowing her cries as his fingers press into her through her thin panties. He can feel her heat around his fingers; feel himself go hard as her hips move, as her pants into his mouth. Finally she can not longer take it and her head falls back. He kissed her again, not wanting anyone to hear her as he slipped his fingers inside her. His thumb pressed hard against her clit and she came. Her whole body trembled as he swallowed her cry of pleasure. As Kelly leaned back against the partition, eyes closed, he finished his work with a whole 15 minutes to spare. Kelly congratulated him by crawling under his desk and giving him a blow job. And at 5 o’clock he left the office, his work done, his mind and body relaxed, his arms around a gorgeous woman and his Xbox waiting for him at home. As Kelly said, “Orgasm breaks are totally awesome.” |
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