An Anniversary to Remember

Chapter One – A Long Day, A Friend's Debauchery, & A Wooden Anniversary

It was well after six o'clock on a warm September evening when – from her perspective in a sparkling glass tower high above the angry and gridlocked traffic below – an exhausted, smart, buxom redhead finally leaned back in her chair, looked at her watch, sighed as she closed her laptop, and tidied her desk. She paused for a moment and looked around her empty office wearily before rubbing her eyes, lifting her taut body from her chair for the first time in uncounted hours, and straightening her rumpled clothing with quick, brisk strokes from her long fingers. The last email had been sent and the server was mirroring the week's work from each of the empty stations around her own. Nothing remained for Katherine to do but turn on the security system and lock the office doors before she could finally turn her attention to the less than six hours that remained of her fifth wedding anniversary.

The day had been an absolute and unforgiving bitch. Every member of the senior management team had left a day in advance of the long weekend for client meetings conveniently held at their lakeside cottages – a deeply flawed decision that had resulted in half as many people doing twice as much work in the midst of an ongoing and poorly implemented corporate restructuring – and half of those who remained in the office were, in the absence of any meaningful supervision, experts at fucking the proverbial and oft-abused dog. Two of her male coworkers had been so bold as to spend the morning with their feet on their desks, sending text messages back and forth from their office computers regarding the size, shape, and curb appeal of each pair of breasts that passed by, with footnotes on depth and breadth of cleavage, erect nipple size, and which set of ripe mammaries would ultimately prove to be the best titfuck.

Katherine wasn't offended by the raw content of their exchange. It was a simple fact that she and her female coworkers took pride in their appearance, that Katherine's large, firm breasts were divinely fuckable, and that she had with some regularity earned a warm and glistening pearl necklace by mashing her firm tits together, around, and over a well-lubricated, bucking, semen-spraying cock. She might have even felt flattered under other circumstances. What so deeply offended her was not any inaccuracy or vulgarity in their digital dialogue, but their unrepentant and patronizing sloth while she worked her beautiful and professional ass off in front of them.

Had they been working as hard as she, they would have been entitled to look down her blouse and distract themselves from the drudgery of the day with the thought of her well-oiled, ample tits sliding up and down their industrious peckers. Hell, she might have even undone an extra button or two and leaned forward over their desks beyond the limits of decorum to borrow a stapler in gratitude to encourage them if they had bothered to lend a badly needed hand. But they hadn't, so she didn't, and they all deserved more and better from each other. It wasn't until they disappeared for a two hour lunch that Katherine had accessed their vulgar and virtual exchange on the local server – with administrator's privileges provided by senior management but not disclosed to her peers – printed a hardcopy of their electronic dialogue, and placed it on their desks. The guilty, frightened looks on their faces when they returned and picked up the obscenity-laden documents were gratifying, but were in no way sufficient redress for their indolence.

Katherine had resolved to speak to them later, both about the professionalism she expected from them and about how quickly a beautiful and intelligent woman can make the workday fly by when a man earns her sincere and interest-bearing gratitude. She knew which men in the office enjoyed a certain skirt, brassiere, posture, or scent, and tried as best as she was able, within the confines of her wedding vows, to reward excellence in the way men preferred – by extending certain platonic but nonetheless risqué liberties to her male peers who proved themselves worthy of a generous flash of cleavage, a prolonged look at her heart-shaped ass as she intentionally spent more time than necessary bent at the waist over a desk, a thorough examination of her ample breasts as she yawned and stretched, or the rarely employed but remarkably effective "I-know-you-can-see-my-panties-but-as-long-as-you-pretend-you-can't-I-won't-close-my-knees" reveal if a coworker had been particularly helpful – but the hours had slipped by and she had postponed the conversation. Katherine was disappointed for her own personal and professional reasons – the discussion, by necessity, would have involved a cheerfully donated sample of the look-but-don't-touch currency she had to exchange for an improvement in their work ethic, and could have set the pattern for months of helpful, playful, productive work for all of them.

It was now, however, well after six and George had been alone at a private table for two, holding their reservation, since just after five. Katherine knew that he enjoyed the fresh bread at the Armory, but after an hour alone, chewing pumpernickel, he would be bored and justifiably impatient with her unexplained absence. She suspected that more than one of the restaurant's pretty cocktail waitresses had already stopped by to simper and flirt with him – covert sexual reconnaissance under the pretense of topping up his water glass. Katherine knew that it was never wise to keep a handsome middle-aged man waiting, even if that man was your adoring husband, and that it was a serious mistake to underestimate what a cocktail waitress – or any other woman who enjoyed a well-made and professionally applied cock, for that matter – might be willing to suggest and discreetly do in a dimly-lit back room of a restaurant in return for a three-figure tip and future prospects.

A graphic image slipped into her mind of a seated George's improbably large penis protruding upward from the unzipped fly of his trousers, slowly vanishing under the descending rear hem of a tight black rolled-up server's skirt, pressing aside the thin strip of a delicate black silk thong, and parting the eager, pink, cuntlips of an astonished and delighted young waitress who had straddled George's chair and was reclining slowly from her standing position backward onto George's glorious cock. Her remarkably expressive eyes and enviably plush lips were perfect circles of both delight and consternation as she felt her tight little vagina stretched to its limits by the soft, broad head of George's warm, throbbing flesh. The moving mental picture – complete with an audio track of her husband's soft bass groans as the wet heat of a rapaciously hungry young cumhole slowly engulfed his cock, and the waitress' tiny stifled whimpers of rapturous encouragement as she wedged his massive cock inch by fulfilling inch up her slick and snug spermtrap – captured her imagination completely for a couple of seconds before she dismissed it as unworthy of consideration and banished the image to the land of paranoid supposition from whence it had come. She knew that George would call and ask for permission first – both in respect for his wife and in fear for his life – if he found himself in a situation that could only be resolved by a liberal application of extra-marital semen. She would do the same. It hadn't happened yet, but only fools and the dead say "never".

Although ultimately confident in her husband's fidelity, an old saying had been on her mind of late about mature men and mature women – and how they tend to age, in order, like single malt scotch and sour milk. On hearing her repeat the anecdote, George had kissed her with an enthusiasm that simply can't be faked between lovers, and insisted that his wife was, if she insisted on being compared to a dairy product, like a smooth, rich cheese that sharpens on the tongue as it ripens – and that in spite of his mild intolerance to lactose, he both loved her and wanted her more every year. She believed him in spite of her fears. He showered her so enthusiastically with gentle compliments, small gifts, and volumes of semen on such a regular basis that she had ample evidence of his affection. But when one's gorgeous, nubile, barely-legal cousin makes an almost-successful run at one's husband one begins to pay attention – and if it ever happened again she was going to bitchslap her mother's younger brother's daughter Liz to within an inch of her stoned, giggling life. George had never said anything about what had happened that day, but Katherine was a smart cookie and had done the math. Not that she was complaining too loudly – that night, after rejecting Liz's advances, he had fucked, tongued, and fingered Katherine with such unbridled and remarkable enthusiasm that she had shuddered through three intense orgasms before the wealth of semen in his balls was ultimately spent inside her eager mouth and grateful cunt and he fell asleep, spooned behind her, with his semi-rigid cock still buried in her warm, sperm-soaked, thoroughly sated pussy. The knowledge that George's mind had been focused on the imagined reality of Liz's tight little twenty-year-old cunt instead of Katherine's slightly more experienced purse as he sent his seed tumbling joyfully into her welcoming body had been more amusing than irritating when weighed against the wonderful feeling of his warm breath on her neck as he slept, curled up behind her with his softening penis still nestled in the slick warmth of her well-bruised and semen-stained snatch.

Hurrying through the corridors in the cold, empty skyscraper that had been abandoned by everyone else save the janitors, she pushed the button to summon the elevator and waited, impatiently tapping the thin, leather-bound wedge of her foot, as it rose from the third floor to her office on the seventeenth. When it arrived she stepped inside, turned around and – immediately after the doors closed for the sixty-four second ride to the parking garage – slumped wearily against the elevator's rear wall. After parking her bored and heart-shaped ass in an office chair for ten straight hours, the romantic dinner that George had planned seemed more like business than pleasure. Professional dissatisfaction with her coworkers had only added insult to injury, and she was still somewhat fatigued by a mild but unusually persistent flu bug that had lasted almost a month. Dr. Talbot had suggested, more than three weeks prior, that she avoid caffeine and alcohol, and had advised that he would send word if the lab results showed anything other than influenza,. In the absence of any follow-up Katherine had waited out the fatigue and nausea, knowing that there was nothing the good doctor could do except offer an antibiotic placebo that would have no real effect on the virus her body was struggling to evict. Her patience with both her body and her coworkers had both been tested, however, by the unexpected brutality of this specific day, and a part of her wished she could postpone their anniversary dinner until she was truly fit to enjoy it.

No mistake, she loved George truly and was sincerely looking forward to the Olympian debauchery that inevitably followed their anniversary repast, but all she craved after such a long day in hell was a long, hot bath and the sensation of a soft, warm, loving tongue sliding up the cleft of her pussy to settle on top of her silently singing clit until she came. After two or three mind-numbing orgasms on tongue, fingertips, and George's prodigious cock, she might, if she was lucky, even feel human again. Perhaps, if she was persistent – and offered to liberate George's penis in the car, suckling at it all the way home while he drove – she could persuade him to send regrets to the chef, tip their waiter in gratitude for his patience, and do dinner another time. After such a difficult day, and in spite of the special nature of this particular day, even celebrating an anniversary seemed like another chore. She knew, in spite of her momentary malaise, that five successful years of marriage were, without question, a cause for celebration. It hadn't been easy. Many of her friends had already divorced their "starter husbands" and had regressed, with an almost embarrassing enthusiasm, to the decidedly situational sexual morality of their unmarried days – and she had recently seen both shocking and arousing proof.

Chapter Two – Ending, Beginnings, & The Time Spent Between

One particularly libidinous and recently divorced female friend had booked a solo trip to a selective Hedonism resort – selective enough to require both a passport and a clean medical certificate that was confirmed onsite with blood tests before access was provided to the facilities – to celebrate her difficult separation and had proof, in the form of hundreds of high-resolution digital pictures that any reputable photolab would refuse to develop for fear of violating federal obscenity laws but that Linda shamelessly shared with her friends over lunch – that she had sucked and fucked her way through almost every man and, as the price of admission to their eager tongues and penises, a number of their marginally bisexual wives – who had entered her direct line of sight at the resort, with only the minor consequence of an inconvenient and communal infestation of sand lice. Linda and her twenty-two new friends had solved the problem by shaving each other nearly completely hairless and spending an entire afternoon slathering prescription ointment on every exposed body part that presented itself for application.

Some telescopic body parts, in the form of twelve eager-to-please penises of varying sizes, colors, and semen-carrying capacities, seemed to continue to itch after an initial application and were presented for a second – and even for a third – liberal but tight-fisted treatment. Subsequently, after confirming the water-soluble and non-toxic nature of the lotion with the resort's physician, eight of the ten women in the group subsequently developed urgent itches of their own and – claiming the need for immediate medical intervention – lay side by side, on their backs, in a line on lounge cushions, under the merciful shade of a pergola, with their knees raised to their chests and their shaved, sodden, swollen pussies bared to the humid tropical air, while nine of the twelve disinfected and damp cocks of varying lengths and girths that had not yet been satisfactorily purged took it upon themselves to move up and down the line at whim and on demand, as each woman noted and requested service from another implement that she felt might adequately scratch the insatiable itch in her famished and sperm-soaked vagina. Nine men moved from eager open cunt to eager open cunt on request and without hesitation, energetically communally and spontaneously filling cumhole after cumhole with bestially gleeful cockflesh and deeply injecting multiple doses of the rich seminal unguent that was evidently required to stop the incessant itch that had taken depraved residence in eight starving cunts. Other guests of the resort followed the spectacle through the evening, sometimes walking by and pausing at an invisible line in the sand around the group, lingering long enough to openly masturbate, drop to the sand to fuck in couples or small groups, or to take pictures or short videos with digital cameras.

Ultimately, each cock and cunt in attendance was sated, and the participants collapsed one by one on the patio until they were summoned en masse to the breakfast buffet the following morning by a wickedly grinning native bellhop with a tent in his pants who had been monitoring the debauchery from afar with open and shameless delight. On seeing the promising bulge in his slacks, the bellhop was, in turn, forcibly waylaid by a twenty-something, pleasingly plump, amply-freckled, red-headed housewife with full breasts, puffy pink nipples, a clitoris that constantly peeked out from the folds of her labia, and an insatiable libido, who liberated his silver tray and handed it to her grinning husband, gently forced the young bellhop onto his back on the ground, unzipped his pants, reached inside his trousers, grasped his incredulous cock, and hauled it out and into the light of day.

She lowered the warmth of her full red lips and bright white teeth around his semi-erect penis once to fully engorge him and lubricate the generous length of his cock with her spit, and promptly mounted it without so much as consulting its owner, burying his rigid and unbelieving cockflesh in the slippery depths of her pussy, while the remaining participants, including her grinning husband – who watched, fascinated, as his pale redheaded wife took the bellhop's mahogany-black cock in her right hand and lowered herself onto it until it slipped between the sodden, swollen lips of her pussy and entered the warm pit of her cunt as she moaned in honest and indecent delight – gorged themselves on fresh tropical fruit and listened to her ecstatic cries in British English and the young bellhop's astonished, joyful responses in Caribbean French as she efficiently and joyfully harvested his semen and planted it purposefully in her slick, rapaciously hungry cunt before joining the others, fresh warm semen trailing down her right leg onto the slate floor, for a quick bite to eat. Moments later, after consuming just a few mouthfuls of papaya and strawberries, she requested a bottle of tequila from the bar, waylaid a full breasted blonde acquaintance with whom her husband had been flirting but had not had the pleasure of inseminating the night before, and sequestered her husband in their room for the remainder of the morning to thank him properly for his chivalry in not only tolerating but encouraging her remarkable, memorable, cunt-bruising debauchery. Universal language, indeed.

The remarkably beautiful but unquestionably obscene digital image taken during the trip of Linda lying on her right side on the white, wet sand of the beach, knees drawn up, looking blissfully up at a camera lens while deeply vaginally impaled on one glistening cock from behind and sucking on a second one from the front that had just exploded in her mouth and sent a stream of white semen bubbling down her chin, as another well-veined pipe hung over her face and sprayed long, warm jets of white semen on her lips, teeth, nose, eyes, tits, and the ecstatically oblivious cock in her mouth, was the image that had struck Katherine as an appropriate photographic summary of the week. In many ways, it was an image both too beautiful and too vulgar to share. It was that specific photograph which Linda had sent by email to her cheating ex-husband. And Linda had already rebooked the same week at the same resort for the following year.

Katherine had shaken her head at the time, more at the indiscriminate and inherently dangerous nature of Linda's orgy in the Caribbean than at the digital pictures of her experiences which would – as digital pictures tend to do – end up posted on the internet, but she herself had pursued a remarkably liberated and incredibly active sexual life, memories of which still made her grin and shake her head in disbelief at her own youthful sexual degeneracy. A long series of short relationships had provided her with a degree of carnal variety and sexual fulfillment that longitudinal monogamy simply couldn't provide. Just before she met George she had, in fact, spent the better part of a July weekend field-testing condoms on the beach with his best friend Tim before "Tim" – whose last name she had never learned but whose eager young cock had already spilled billions of sperm into condoms nestled deep in her hungry, young cunt – had introduced her to his good friend and her future husband George. After dropping Tim at his apartment, George had graciously offered to take Katherine home instead of to the bus terminal. The subsequent disclosure that "home", for Katherine, was two hundred kilometers further east than George expected had fazed him for only a brief moment before his soft, bass laugh had rung through the interior of his old Mustang and his foot had hit the accelerator. Katherine had instantly felt sincere affection for his selflessness, his humor, and his chivalry. Love and sex didn't always coincide for Katherine, but – having already decided to thank him for the four hundred kilometer detour with the best and shiniest coin she had to offer – she hoped that this time would be different.