Message-ID: <13018eli$9807141238@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Subject: {ASS} Mat Twassel: Office Affair Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit Content-type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: Office Affair by Mat Twassel =========== In a way my wife started it. We were making love one bedtime, not an unusual activity for us, but not so frequent as I'd prefer. Maybe one of the major regrets of my marriage is that we're not half as carnal as I'd like us to be. No where near half. But I'd never been unfaithful. My wife doesn't initiate fucking. Once it starts, usually she doesn't seem to mind it much, but often I think her pleasure is minimal. I know she comes sometimes. I know she doesn't come very often. No doubt the fault, if that's the right word, is mine. This time we'd been making love for . . . well, long enough. I stopped. "Honey, you're not really liking this, are you?" I asked. "Why do you say that?" she said. "Well, it just seems . . ." She gave me a big hug, a squeeze. I was still inside her, and felt the squeeze there, too. The hug was in some ways sexier than all the stuff that had gone on before . . . or after. "If you were having an affair, you'd tell me about it, wouldn't you?" she said softly. "What do you mean?" I said. "You know, an affair. Love affair. Like with someone in the office." "The office?" I said, somewhat dumbly. "Yeah, maybe one of those secretaries on the tenth floor. Maybe that pretty one?" "Oh yes," I said, "The pretty one." "So you know who I mean?" "There's only one pretty secretary on ten," I said. "I think she has a crush on you," my wife said. "I think she wants you." "She's engaged to be married," I said. "All the more reason," my wife said. Then she kissed me. Hard. Sometime during this discussion I had gotten soft, slipped out. "What makes you think she has a crush on me?" I asked. "Why wouldn't she?" my wife said. Then she gave me a little smile. "Come on," she said, "Sit on my chest and fuck my mouth. Just like you would your little secretary. I want to taste her cunt on your cock." She'd said this mildly, and for a moment I wasn't sure what to do, but then I moved up the bed. I had my knees on either side of her, my hands on top of the headboard. My wife had her hands behind her head, a relaxed smile on her lips. My cock swayed against her chin, her lower lip. "C'mon," she said. "Stuff it in and fuck." She had her eyes on mine all through. When I started coming, I was afraid she'd choke, but she didn't. With my cock still in her mouth, she swallowed the seed, all but the stuff which had bubbled out around her lips; and she never let go of my eyes. She seemed interested. Amused. "There," she said, "That was good. Maybe you should invite her over for dinner sometime. I could make my special meat loaf." Then with a small, innocent laugh, almost a giggle, she turned away, and soon she was asleep. I slept well, and the next morning as I showered, my mind played over what happened the night before. It's not that my wife never sucks my cock, but always before I'd have to ask her. And for the act I'd invariably be lying on my back in bed, and she'd curl next to me to do the work. She'd arrange herself in such a way that I couldn't see anything. Yes, it was exciting, but not as exciting as it could have been. Sometimes I wanted to come just to get it over with. As was my custom, just before leaving the house I stopped back at our bedroom to give my wife a little kiss. She seemed to be sleeping contentedly, so I just touched the side of her face with my lips. I was tempted to whisper something in her ear, something like, "I really liked last night." But I'm not very good at little endearments, if that's what that was, and anyway she was sleeping so peacefully. At the same time I wouldn't have minded taking her whole ear into my mouth. I'd stood up and was about to turn away when she said, "Mm, you're not leaving already?" "I have to get to work," I said quietly. "It's..." I looked at the digital clock on the dresser. "How about a little goodbye fuck first?" she said. "There's time, isn't there?" Never before had she been amorous in the mornings. Her voice was sleepy, but she was sitting up, her cheek was nuzzling the front of my taupe suit pants. Normally I think she sleeps until nine, has a light breakfast while reading the newspaper, maybe does some errands or shopping or exercises, and then teaches her afternoon kindergarten class. "What about my suit?" I said somewhat stupidly. She'd already unzipped me and taken out my penis. "Such a little cutie," she said, springing her forefinger against the tip. "I'm sure if you're careful you can manage. Maybe if you put it in from the back." No sooner had she said these words than she swiveled so she was facing away from me, on her arms and knees, her bottom at the edge of the bed raised and ready. "Put it in," she said. "Put it in quick and hard." I didn't seem to have much choice. My prick was just at the right height. I had to push it down with my forefinger to get the angle right, but once at the entrance, it slid in easily. She was snug but slippery and hot. Rarely do we make love from the back. Her womb is tipped forward slightly, and normally it's very hard to get in from behind. "Mm," she said. "Is this how you do it with that secretary-- her leaning against your desk looking out the window at the trees and traffic?" She pushed her bottom back against me. She wiggled. "What's this about the secretary?" I asked. "When did you ever even see her?" My wife and I were rocking gently against each other. I thought about the seaside, the shore and waves and then small birds flying into picture windows. "At the picnic--last summer," my wife answered, pausing before slamming back onto me. "Everybody was looking at her ass in those tight blue jeans. Good tits, too. Marla, that's her name, isn't it?" "Yes, Marla," I said, thinking that the word sounded like nice breasts. "Marla." "Your suit feels fuzzy," my wife said. "Come in me deep so you don't get it wet." She must have known that would do it. She pressed firm and kept there and I splashed, as full and fine and emptying a come as I'd ever had. "Good boy," she said. "Next time you can play with my asshole while you do it. Maybe even put a finger in a little way." She giggled and I popped out. Before I could do anything else she'd swiveled back around and had me in her mouth. She went all the way down and drew out slow, taking whatever was left of me. "There," she said, "All clean now." She gave the tip a final kiss and pushed my penis back into my pants, zipped them up, and patted the taupe bulge. "Better get going," she said. "You don't want to be late on your first day." I had no idea what she meant by "first day." I was about to ask her when she stood up, kissed me. More than a peck, but not everything more. She still had mischief in her eyes. "Bye, sweetie," she said, and then she added, "I wonder what a finger in Marla's ass would feel like when she's coming. Now get going." And she swatted me on my bottom. The drive to work was strangely serene. I was more into the rush hour than usual, but the slower traffic didn't bother me. My mind cruised. I couldn't keep everything straight; I just drifted over the episode of the morning, letting good feelings wash over me. Twenty minutes later as I neared the office, I still couldn't figure out what had come over my wife. And why was her mind filled with all this stuff about Marla? Walking towards the building from the parking lot, I tried to picture Marla, but I'm not very good at mental pictures. "Just imagine her tongue," I heard my wife say. Her voice was very real inside my head. I'm good at recalling voices. But Marla's tongue was a mystery to me. I thought about it as I pressed the button for the elevator. Marla's tongue. I could see the point of it. It just touched the tip of my wife's clitoris. Her legs were spread wide, knees up. I had my own thumb and forefinger pinching the protective skin at the top of her sex. I could feel the nodule, the firm little length of clit, a tiny, tight morsel inside the sweet fleshy covering. The pea end was exposed, smooth but for the cute, nubbly crinkle at the front. "Lick her lightly there," I told Marla. "It'll make her come in an instant. And when she does, push your tongue all the way into her cunt. She'll like that." I was hard in my pants thinking of such things. Luckily, all the other people in the car were in front of me, facing the door. I had seven floors to recover. But I couldn't help myself: I brought my hand up to my mouth, touched my tongue briefly against the gap between my thumb and forefinger right near the tip, and then worked my tongue slowly all the way to the webbing. I wondered if that's what Marla's tongue would feel like as she tasted my wife's clit. My hand smelled clean. I wished it still smelled of my wife's sex. Suddenly I missed her. I missed her more than I ever had before. I wanted to go home. To spend all morning just fucking her. Fucking her and fucking her. Nothing unusual at my desk. I logged on to the corporate web and checked for email while listening to phone messages. The last one was from my wife. "Hi, my little cutie," she said. "Don't forget about inviting Marla for dinner tonight." That was all. I replayed the message six or seven times. I paid especial attention to the way she said "Marla." I tried to imagine my wife's expression as the word issued from her lips. I thought about my wife kissing Marla's breasts. The image came easily into my mind. Her lips lingered at each tiny pink nipple, pulling it out full and fat. I even saw the stretch of spittle. This is ridiculous, I said to myself. I'll never get any work done. My erection was bulging against the front of my trousers. I forced myself to calm down. The supplies were kept up on ten in a storage room not far from Marla's cube. That's where I went. She was in charge of unlocking the room. She looked better than ever. "I just need some pencils," I said. "No problem," she said, and in a jiffy she had the door unlocked. "Hard or soft?" she asked. Her eyes gleamed. "Oh," I said, "Maybe a little of each." She knew right where they were. She drew out two green boxes. "There," she said with a smile, handing me the boxes. "That should do you." She smiled again. Those gleamy eyes. And I blushed. I'd been thinking about her tongue. "Anything else?" she said. "Before I lock up?" "No, not really," I said. "Well, there is one thing. This is going to sound really strange." "Oh?" she said. "My wife and I were wondering... Would you like to come for dinner tonight?" For a long moment she didn't say anything. She was looking right into my eyes, but there was no way I could tell what she was thinking. "Tonight, eh?" she answered at last. "Well, I might. Will we be having your wife's special meat loaf?" =========== Office Affair copyright 1998 by Mat Twassel Author's note: The first time I read this story was at the Symposium of Erotic Arts (SEA) held that year in Cobleskill, New York. After the reading and a brief question and answer session, two of the sculptors (a man and a woman) and a filmmaker (woman) fell into step with me as we strolled back to the cabins. "I liked your story, Mr. Twassel," the sculptress said, "but the ending made me uneasy. It didn't seem, you know, like finished?" She'd pronounced Twassel as if it rhymed with frazzle, a fairly common mistake. "Twassel," I said lightly. "Mat Twassel as in 'go t'hell.'" "Oh," said the sculptress, in a tone which led me to believe she may have mistaken my words for a slap. She was a short woman, neither dainty nor stout, and she had remarkably smooth, red-brown hair which glinted in the afternoon light, like quartz jasper. Her face was plain and yet impish. Her partner was a tall, thin man with a narrow face and a long nose--a stork, except he had a rugged beard. They made an interesting couple, if they were a couple. All I really knew was that they were both sculptors because that's what their name tags said. "I didn't mean to abandon your question," I said. "It's just some people are affronted if I don't correct the name right away, and then later they find out and they're upset with me or embarrassed because I didn't correct it right at the outset." I felt a little foolish going on this way. "Anyhow," I continued, "the story is supposed to make you a little uneasy. It's supposed to open up a lot of possibilities, like suddenly getting a jolt of pure oxygen." "Possibilities, but not understanding?" the sculptor said. "Maybe a hint of understanding," I said. "But if you don't know...?" said the jasper-haired woman. "Something must have caused his wife to change," said the man. We'd reached a place where the path diverged to different cabins. I was in the guest lodge with my own room. They might have been part of the full workshop--I didn't really know. At any rate, we stopped. We stood in a little circle. The sculptors were almost but not quite holding hands. "It doesn't seem fair not to know," the short woman said. "You mean 'know what happens next?'" I asked. "Well, that, but also whether he'd been having an affair with the secretary. Or whether his wife had been. And what made her suddenly change." "I guess those could be flaws," I said. "But the guy didn't know. He probably wasn't having an affair with the secretary, at least not at the start, but even if he were, he might not be telling. And even if he told, he might not tell the truth. As for the rest of it, who knows?" "But you, the writer, should know," said the woman. "Shouldn't you?" I smiled. "Well, what do you think happened next, if you had to take your best guess?" This was the other woman, the filmmaker. She was big and blonde, and either aloof of shy or both. "When I make a film you can see everything." She laughed a little at her little joke, a shy, soft laugh, not quite a titter. I was immediately looking forward to the screening of her film. I wondered if she acted in it, or just worked behind the camera. "Okay, here's what I think could have happened." I'd been tempted to ask them to tell me their thoughts, but maybe I could save that for later. I told them. They seemed only partially satisfied... maybe because I'm not really very good telling stories off the page. I'm embarrassed to use sex words, for one thing. The stork-man was shielding his eyes from the sun. "We're thinking about getting some dinner," he said. "You want to come with us?" I did. I wanted to know these people better. To find out more about them. About their art and their relationships with each other. But for some reason I declined. "I've got to make some phone calls," I said. "Wife and kids, you know." In fact I did want very much to talk to my family. I'm always lonely when away from home. But the guest lodge didn't have a telephone in the rooms. I wondered if this trio knew that. "Well, if you feel like some wine later," the sculptress said. "We're in cabin B." She gave me a frank, mirthful stare. "Mister Mat Twassel." I smiled and nodded and watched them stroll down the path, the stork man in the middle, his large hands upon the bottoms of both women as they walked. ============= Another note: If you liked this story, you might enjoy other stories at my webpage: http://members.aol.com/Mmtwassel/index.html Finally, comments always welcome: mmtwassel@aol.com -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----