A Bigger Man

Dear __________________,

This is going to seem a little unusual, but hopefully not too much so. Even though this letter is for you, I wanted to write probably more for myself than anything, so forgive me if it comes across at points as a little too direct or even graphic. Because of our circumstance, I will likely never see any of what I want to say come to pass, so perhaps I'm just trying to "get it out of my system."

I think back to our early conversations about what we both like and look for in life, what kind of people we both are, and I am still a little amazed at how quickly I became intellectually and emotionally attracted to you. Never would have thought it when you came on board after your predecessor moved up. And I knew within two weeks that I wanted us to at least be real friends. And I think we are; but I also still get a little warm inside remembering when we were joking around about sexual harassment the day before my birthday and you pulled me into the closet in your office to kiss me for the first time; you smiled when you whispered "Promise me you won't press charges." I knew from the first touch of our lips and flicks of our tongues that it would not be the last. I wouldn't let it.

Of course, opportunities to have our special "talks" have been...limited. But the times I've had the pleasure of holding you, caressing what should have been your naked body through layers of clothing, had the luxury of spreading my hands over your back, your thighs, your butt, your breasts, have been small but intense pockets of momentary pleasure etched into my memory. Those minutes hidden away at work -- the thrill of making sure we weren't seen -- have only been enhanced by the episodes, through the magic of cell phones, especially after we exchanged pictures, of me "talking you to sleep" by having vivid, detailed verbal love-making sessions.

I won't even go back through those scenarios --I'm about go into more of the same in just a short while. But hearing your aroused whimpers while telling you how many fingers to use definitely made me "burst with joy" (you know what I mean).

As you know, I'm moving on. It's a lot sooner than I expected, but sometimes life takes different turns. It's definitely a good step for me, though. I never would have predicted I would have such a great friend and "playmate" in such an intense work environment. With that said, please allow me to indulge my sense of "what if" for just a little while.

What if we were the last two people in the office? If the CEO, the account managers, even the janitors, were all gone for the night?

I start by pulling down all the blinds in my office and spread out air mattress I keep for late night emergencies ever since we got snowed in last year, then I light the glade candle I keep stashed in my drawer for when no one's around and I want to clear the atmosphere in the room after having folks in and out all day with their complaints and issues. Anyway, facing each other, finally alone again, we both smile without needing to speak. I reach out one hand to you and you take it, willingly stepping forward and interlocking your fingers behind my neck. You are the one who encourages my head -- my lips -- to move toward yours. We gently nibble on each other's pliant flesh as we share the same air.

I inhale at your neck, marveling at how you always manage to smell so damn good, and realize just how much I have missed the taste of your honey-molasses skin on the tip of my tongue. You release a small moan from somewhere at the base of your throat and begin to lick, then to nibble, my neck. My hand moves from your waist to your butt, pulling you closer as we press our torsos together and I can tell you are getting warmer inside. You step back just a couple of inches and breathe heavily, then take one of my hands and place it on your right breast.

I give a gentle squeeze and caress the outside edge, frustrated with so much fabric being in the way. As if reading my mind, you quickly and protectively glance around with your peripheral vision and then glance down at your shirt. I begin to unbutton it, exposing my enemy the sports bra. I peel the shirt from your shoulders and reach around to release the breasts I've been longing to see from their unnecessary captivity.

For a moment, I take them in with my eyes, appreciating that we have finally reached this point, and then take one nipple in my mouth while my hands enjoy the other specimen of hanging rounded perfection before I move them down your sides and stroke your stomach as I get down on one knee. I casually feel the place between your thighs because I want to know if you are already wet. You are.

Without pausing, I start to undo the button on your flair pants and you mumble something like "mm-mmmm," trying to tell me no, but I quickly convince you otherwise.

"I told you I wanted to know what you taste like. Please let me," I whisper with some urgency.

"OK," you breathe, as I pull you over to my desk, pull off your pumps, and remove your pants completely. You are leaning against the edge of my desk, and I am now facing the glistening holy grail of my past two months' worth of fantasies. I lean in to give "her" a kiss through the fabric of your lace panties and push that aside to coat my tongue with your thick juices. Before I even start tapping, nibbling, and gently sucking on your precious button, I have plunged my tongue deep into the recess of your womanhood, trying to drain you of every drop, which is impossible because you keep getting wetter.

After going back and forth between inside and out, you stop me by wrapping your legs around my shoulders and squeeze my face with your thick, toned thighs as you shake. You put your feet back on the ground after a minute, shaking your head, your hair falling out of its bun. You pull me up, push me back into the position you had just occupied, pull my zipper down and pull out my brown six inches.

"Hope you're not disappointed," I start to apologize.

"Shut up." You reach down with two fingers and use your own wetness to lubricate me as you start to stroke and take me in your mouth completely, expertly and tightly engulfing me, changing the rhythm slightly so that I don't come too quickly. You feel me tighten up and pull back, my tip still in your mouth while you use your hand until I erupt in your mouth and you swallow most of it, wiping from your lips whatever is left.

We both stand up, breathing deeply and evenly, look at each other and laugh at the strange comfort of it all.

"Why are you naked and I'm not?" I pose the question as if it was something you decided on last Tuesday and failed to take action.

"That's a good question." It's very unfair, now that you mention it," you respond with a good-natured smirk.

"Well, I certainly don't want to be unfair." I hold my arms out at the side, palms forward. You take the hinted invitation and step toward me, standing so that I can smell your perfume and hair oil; I rest my hands on your hips while you undo the buttons on my pink oxford shirt, then my khakis, until we are both in our underwear, me in my checkered boxers, you in your black lace boy-shorts.

Reaching forward, you push me on my chest, forcing me to walk backward, and gently shove me onto the firmness of the inflated rubber. I happily oblige, laying back with my hands behind my head. I watch lazily but intently as you settle on top of me, straddling my legs, and caress my chest hairs. You close your eyes.

"You OK?" I ask, just above a whisper.

"Yeah," you explain. "I just can't believe we're actually doing this."

Instead of responding verbally, I place my hands on your stomach, tracing out to your hips, then intertwine your fingers in mind and pull you on top of me so that I can bury my face between your breasts, absorbing the sweet complexities of your scent by drowning in it. I listen to you giggle and then watch you straighten up. I see you sigh purposefully, shoulders rising and falling slightly as if you want to ask a question.

I sit up on my elbows. "Get up for just a second. I didn't forget." I feel your eyes on me as I reach into the top draw of my desk to pull out the condom.

"I actually have a couple, just in case...but there was no way I was going to mess that part up." I lay back down but before I rip the foil on the prophylactic, you roll me over and begin to massage my shoulders, then my back, my butt, my legs, brushing your fingertips along my very alive skin as your hands migrate from place to place. As I groan when you hit certain spots and mumble "thank you," you simply respond with more gentle pressure.

"You work really hard. It's the least I can do. Now be quiet," you compliment and command all at once. It reinforces that I made the right decision.

My eyes are closed and my body completely awake and relaxed when I feel you pull on my hip, telling me to flip back over. You pull open the condom and roll it down my shaft after a couple of strokes to make sure all of me is awakened, and I thank God as I feel you lower yourself onto me and begin a slow-ride motion, making sure to let me know that are fully in control of what you're doing by staring me straight in the eyes as you balance yourself by holding your outstretched palms on my chest, then one on my stomach and one behind you on my thigh, until you finally lean all the way back to get full friction and we increase our speed.

I lift my rear end up to give you more room to use your legs and I feel your muscles first clench my manhood, followed by a small flood that trickles out of you. I still have not had an orgasm, thanks to the earlier deliciously expert oral treatment, so I lift you off of me, turn you on your back, put your legs over my shoulders, and pump and gyrate like it's my last time --because I know it might very well be.

I hear you ask me, "please come now, I want to come together, I can't hold it much longer."

That's all I need to know, and I let the waves wash over me and down the middle, giving one last push before I collapse on top of you.

After a minute of recovering breath and letting sweat dry in the office heat, you check in with me.

"Are you sure you still want to leave? This wasn't that hard to do." You speak in an honest, quiet tone that is not meant to be seductive but considering what we have just finished doing, can't be anythig but.

I pause and smile. "Yeah, I'm sure. I already committed to starting my HR Management masters program, but it's only an hour away. And," I pause again to kiss your forehead, your cheek, then your hand locked in mine, "that way you don't get in trouble and we can see what this is really capable of being. That can't happen with you as my boss. You're VP of Operations, but you haven't been here all that long. They can be pretty rough around here..."

"Shhhh," you cut me off. We lay there for some time, enjoying each other's warmth, until we reluctantly realize it's time to go. It is 11:24 PM.

He seals the envelope with a dampener, then reinforces it with invisible tape, kisses it, bends down, hesitates, breathes in deeply through his nose, exhales, freezes again, pushes the letter under her door. No one is around, save the young, tattooed janitor walking by with headphones, from which the faintest hint of a Nine Inch Nails vocal riff escapes.

The next morning, his cell phone vibrates while he sips a small cider with caramel.

"Hi," she opens.

"Hi." He feels his heart involuntarily increase its beat.

"I, uh, got your letter. It was very...creative."

He swallows, throat suddenly dry. "A little too creative?"

"Actually...not at all." She lets out a small chuckle, almost a sigh. "Hold on a moment, please." Through her speaker phone, he can hear another person in her office, then a door shutting. "I was going to say, since it's not at your desk, I think you have something at home that I need for that ... project we were discussing. I'll be working late tomorrow night, so why don't you come by and bring it. I'll let you in and we can take care of all the details. Although things obviously have to be fleshed out more and I have some modifications in mind, I think you have some good ideas and I appreciate you for wanting to work on it just for the experience."

"No problem. I appreciate you for riding me so hard and I admire how you're able to so expertly spread yourself out. It definitely...makes me a bigger man. It's the least I can do."

He smiles to himself, taps his phone's screen to end the call, and sips his cider, which suddenly tastes a lot sweeter.