Anastasias's Story

This is the first in a collection of unconnected vignettes celebrating our love affair with office sex.

See you at work.

*****

His office isn't large or spacious. Its contents limited to a modest wood and chrome desk, a small leather couch, two mismatched chairs and a credenza. The short pile carpet is un-interesting and worn. Candid photos hang framed on the faux wood panel walls. There is a musty smell that arises from the presence of stacks of paper manuscripts.

Behind the desk is a medium sized balding man. His nose is crooked from a break long ago and he squints like Clint Eastwood. When he stands to greet his visitor his round belly brushes the desk even though he pushes the chair away.

Anastasia quickens her step as he comes around the desk and they greet each other with genuine affection. Both smile broadly as they hug. Terry kisses her forehead before breaking the embrace. She takes the seat nearest him as he sits on the desk corner. Late afternoon sunlight burns amber through the shuttered blinds.

"I'm so glad you stopped in today," Terry says. "I hear congratulations are in order. Boy or a girl?"

Anastasia beams, "A girl. She's three now." At twenty-nine she is still fair and trim. Her dancer's body handled the pregnancy well, returning quickly to its customary svelte shape. She gracefully crosses her legs as she turns in the chair to face her friend's father. Her fall brown skirt stops above the knee allowing her slightly bronzed legs freedom of movement. Her top is pale yellow, open at the collar, tucked in and not too snug. A choker rests lightly around her neck.

"Three! Where does the time go?" Terry, by contrast is a style abortion. Ratty, worn-out sandals at the end of furry stumps that pass for legs; Khaki cargo shorts cinched under his belly roll and a faded blue button-up, untucked, gives the impression of a carefree hippy surfer instead of the hardworking owner/producer of an independent studio. His bristling beard, though, can't hide his infectious smile and twinkling eyes.

"It's been longer than that. The last time was the year after our wedding when you came to get permission for the show."

"Right. I've been neglectful."

"Don't play. You haven't missed a single card giving occasion. And I can tell your hand writing from your secretary's." They both laugh as she lays one delicate hand on his knee. The other holds her clutch in her lap.

"You know me too well." Terry stands and moves two paces away unexpectedly uncomfortable. "Would you like a tour?"

She shakes her head.

He walks around her to the other chair. He sits leaning back comfortably. For a minute they watch each other. Neither feels uncomfortable in the momentary silence.

When she had entered, Terry watched as her dance training made it seem like she simply glided across the room. From his perch on the desk he'd noticed the slightly rounder contours of her birth enhanced breasts. His view now extends deeper into the shadow where her legs disappear under her skirt. Never a very subtle man, Terry doesn't bother to conceal his wondering gaze. His eyes canvas his guest before returning to her brown eyes.

"I see you cut your hair," he observes.

"With all the stuff I have to do now with the baby I just didn't have time to mess with hair that long anymore." With a small toss of her head, "do you like it," she asks, giving no indication she notices his roving eyes?

Her light brown hair is parted on the right and gently feathered to reveal her face. It comes only as low as her chin. She has a pixie nose, a narrow mouth with pouty lips and a round face. Though no longer soft and girlish she is still a vision of loveliness.

He nods assent.

They watch each other just enjoying being together. Their long friendship is apparent from the ease in which they slip in and out of conversation.

"I've watched the show," she says.

"Really! How do you like it?"

"It's fun." She pauses for a moment before going on, "I never thought that our lives could be so interesting...and funny."

"I've hired good writers," he deflects.

"You did all the writing that first season." There is more tension between them from this light verbal fencing. Anastasia smiles breaking the connection temporarily and then looks away. She rises from the chair to follow her gaze to the on-set pictures. Slowly she moves from one to the next farther away from Terry.

"She looks very much as I did," without looking at him, "don't you think?"

"It seemed the natural thing to do." Terry senses that there is more about this visit than a simple hello, "Still it was hard for me to separate the reality from the show's needs. I very nearly went with someone completely different."

"I'm glad you didn't."

"Why?"

She doesn't answer at first, just keeps moving around the room. "For people that know, that know you...us, it's obvious the love you have for the...material." He waits. "No, Mindy was the right choice to play me."

Terry senses that Anastasia is holding something back. From the chair he continues to watch her circle the room, waiting for her and enjoying the roll of her hips beneath her skirt with each step.

She stops as far away as the office will allow, next to the couch. It's only 12 feet but it seems farther. "Who takes these pictures?"

"I do."

"You have a preferred angle to shoot from." It's a statement.

"How do you mean?" Terry knows what she means. He long since stopped worrying about what others might think and now does what makes him happy.

"Oh, you know, there are a lot more of Mindy up here." She pauses as if thinking, "I noticed it when I was watching the show too."

"I don't think my bottom was ever that big," she continues.

Terry doesn't flinch. He glances swiftly at her ass turned toward him then back at her looking over her shoulder at him, "It wasn't. Her ass isn't that big, it's just well rounded," he says with a chuckle and stands.

Anastasia turns back to the pictures. She still has the dancer's body standing with her legs crossed studying the photos. The room feels close now. He knows that they are being drawn to one another. "No, it's always been just the right size." And he is there standing behind her.

They stand in front of the one picture of her in the collection. The small color photo is her as Capellia when she was eighteen. It wasn't her best, or even her favorite performance, but the amateur photo captured her characteristic abandon with which she danced. And with the photographer's customary preference for low from the rear angle shot even eleven years later her joy is apparent. Anastasia looks away before she can tear-up.

"So much promise...so little opportunity...," she whispers. They stand together silently, Anastasia looking at nothing; Terry at her.

Standing inches from her Terry smells her characteristic scent. It's a subtle combination of floral perfume, roses he thinks, and the Aussie bath products she's always preferred. His head spins from the familiar aroma and the fond memories they call forth. There is an immediate physical response. The old familiar burning he always used to feel when close to her.

The moment passes. Anastasia turns around to face Terry. Though less than six feet he is still nearly half a foot taller than her. She holds her clutch in both hands before her as she looks up into his eyes. She focuses on only his right eye as he taught her so her eyes don't flick back and forth. The old urge, unsatisfied, and his affection start twisting his gut into a knot.

"I had such a crush on you. Remember that night when I told you about Ellie and my conflict over Jessie?"

Terry only nods.

"I was still new at the studio. Only Ellie and Mary had been friendly to me. And then Ellie was taking Jessie. I felt alone. But you treated me like I was always part of the company. Sitting next to you right then I didn't feel alone anymore."

"You were never alone."

"You made me feel that more than anyone; more than my mom, certainly more than my dad, until Robert." Anastasia pauses as if reconsidering whether to say the rest. She holds herself from looking away, from fleeing from this confession. Inside her heart flutters uncertainly and her lip trembles. She goes on, "I wanted you right then. I wanted you to take me right there."

"You didn't know what you wanted," Terry says softly.

"I was ready."

"You were eighteen."

"I'm not eighteen anymore. And I still want you."

They stand so close together they share the same breath. Terry feels like he's falling into an endless tunnel through her eyes. He feels pulled to her, drawn by an irresistible cord that has always been between them.

With firm resolve Anastasia pulls the cord, "There's a couch right there. We don't have to wonder anymore about what could have been."

Terry's blood burns hot. His urgency strains against his fly as if he could reach out and touch her that way. "The time wasn't right then and it's past now." But he doesn't move away either.

She's made her purpose clear. This is no casual visit between friends. He aches for her. Longs to take her in his arms and crush her to his chest and press his lips to hers. He has lost count of the nights that he lay awake thinking of her. Lay thinking of how this moment could be but never would.

He tries one last deflection, "There is Robert and the baby." The excuse sounds weak and cowardly to his ears as he speaks it.

They look into each other's eyes. Terry wants so badly for her to say something that will make what's about to happen alright. Wants her to say Robert has been unfaithful, or that she loves him, or anything. But he knows she won't because none of it would be true. There is no other reason than her need. She didn't come looking for permission or escape or any other reason. She came for him. And for her.

Without another word Terry takes her in his arms. He grips her shoulders in strong loving hands and bends down to kiss the pink pouty lips he has dreamed about for more than a decade. He kisses her without apprehension. He kisses her tenderly. And he kisses her again deeply, their mouths opening to each other like they've kissed this way before though this is the first time. And she responds readily. Her lips part to taste his kiss, his lips on hers. He presses firmly against her mouth as he draws her into his embrace. She comes willingly moaning her acceptance into his mouth.

Terry holds Anastasia close. She is a dream, an epiphany that he must hold onto and never let escape again. His kiss becomes more urgent as if he could draw her into himself, to have her all to himself for always. Yet his embrace is gentle, his arms comforting.

And for her it is a coming home to the place she has always longed to be. She comes knowingly and with all the expectation she had as a bride to her nuptials. His arms are strong. His kisses are passionate. She feels his longing for her against her stomach. She aches for his touch.

When she opens her eyes Terry has carried her to the couch. He's reclining against the arm with her across his chest. His belly forms a small hill that she's draped over. She thinks it's funny and she loves him all the more for it. This time she kisses him.

Neither rushes the moment. Unlike hormonal teenagers whose passion is like a match flaring brightly then just as quickly burning out theirs is a banked fire now opened to the air. It finds in each of them fuel enough to burn a forest down. It will burn hot and long until there is nothing left of either of them. They have all the time they need to share with each other what they have kept locked away for all these years. There is no rushing to a finish line neither wishes to get to.

Terry presses his lips to hers firmly. He caresses the inside of her mouth with his tongue. Each receives then reciprocates.

They could stay that way for hours just breathing each other in. But neither wants to just sample what can be between them. So, at what seems just the right moment, Terry slides one large hand down her side to grip her ass. His hand is strong and covers more than half of her rounded bottom making it seem even smaller than it truly is. His thick fingers press the skirt and the underlying cotton panty into her crease. He draws her closer. She feels his thickness through his shorts against her belly.

Contentment fills Anastasias heart. Here in Terry's arms is where she belongs. She feels protected, loved, desired and she is happy.

He pulls her tighter to himself. Terry feels his hormonal insistency pressing his heart and against his zipper. But he will not let it run wild. No, too long have they been apart; too long has he yearned for her. This moment is a gift that he will not rush. She deserves better. He can feel her heart thrumming against him and he knows she feels the same.

Both feel the rightness of the moment. They could stay like this for days, but time is not their friend and with synchronistic clarity both know when the time has come to move forward. Terry pushes her back to her feet. He sits before her with his face pressed to her flat stomach. His large hands reach up her back then down to caress her buttocks and around her hips. His fingers find the zipper at her side and then lower it.

The cloth tube drops to the floor around her ankles. Only the light yellow cotton panty remains to shield her honor. His mouth moves lower where he presses it to her mound. He inhales deeply. She sighs in anticipation.

She's never been touched like this before. Touched by a man whose passion is for her. Touched like a goddess by her worshiper. Touched like an object. Touched by his bone deep need. She knows he will take her in ways she's never known. His thumbs hook her waistband and pull down.

His mouth rests against her delicately trimmed V. She can feel his hot breath rush over her now freed sex. She runs her fingers through his hair. He gently turns her in his hands so that she can recline on the couch. With their positions reversed he kneels at her knees.

Terry runs his big hands over her smooth tummy. He pushes her blouse up under her breasts as he gazes up her torso over her neatly trimmed strip.

Anastasia lies docile before him, calm and relaxed. She is confident and un-afraid under his control; under his power. She sighs.

His hands slide between her legs pushing against her opening before sliding to her knees and opening her to him. There is a thrill to lying exposed and vulnerable before this powerful man. She feels no shame. His hands roll over her thighs and then back up where he takes hold of her hips. She rejoices at his control.

He then moves between her legs kissing up her thigh from knee to her tiny slit. His approach is slow and gentle to begin with. As saliva coats her fleshy folds she begins opening to him. Her own lubricant begins in response to the direct probing at her opening. Like a flower when the sun rises blood rushes to her pussy. The tender flesh becomes inflamed and puffy in preparation. Her own juices starting as a trickle soon become a continuous flow. He laps at her fountain. His fingers wrap around her hips and knead her firm buttocks. They probe and press even as his tongue does likewise at her tender cunny.

His exploration is strong and confident. He isn't rough but he expertly works her up and down repeatedly before pushing her over the edge. She screams as the first orgasm explodes deep in her sex. She releases a sudden flood while simultaneously grabbing his head to hold his magical tongue to her vagina.

He doesn't resist nor does he hesitate to drink all that she pours into his mouth. When she comes down he begins the process again. Over and over he works her love button. His tongue swirls around and through and in her pussy. His fingers explore her rearward crease from spine to gash. They spread her so wide it hurts and press at her unyielding rectum until it begins to soften.

She no longer controls her body. It is all his. He turns her where he will. He raises her up to the heights of feminine ecstasy and holds her there impossibly long on the brink before granting her release. She has no say, no authority. There is only him; only his imperative. She commits herself totally into his power and is content.

Anastasia writhes and screams and cries thrashing on the couch pinned in place overcome by his strength where exhaustion begins to take its toll before he lifts his face from her hot box. His beard is a matted mess. His eyes twinkle mischievously when he smiles at her. He draws her to her feet.

His hands never leave her. They slide around her waist when he guides her toward the desk. On her hip, against the small of her back, wrapped around her waist and resting on her shoulder they are the expression of his will. She's turned to face the door she so lately entered his domain through. His palms slide down her arms pushing her forward with his weight at her back as he places her hands on the desk top. Then they run back up her arms. Goosebumps sprout and a shiver shakes her spine.

Terry moves his chair into place behind Anastasia. Gently he presses the small of her back. He sits and guides her legs farther apart to the perfect position. He again presses his mouth to her snatch.

Anastasia revels in the way he directs her. She thrills at the forbidden love that they are making. She squeals when his tongue circles her anus. No one has ever reamed her before and the new experience is thrilling. She pushes back. His tongue worms its way in past her tight rosebud. "Oh yes, please."

Terry presses his thumb against her hard button as he pushes his tongue into her ass. Again he takes his time. His attention is riveted on his subject like a fine craftsman. There is a love for the work itself as well as the object and he concentrates on the effect his ministrations have upon her. He probes and then withdraws. He rubs then taps. Always his hands move over her sensitive skin lightly stroking then firmly gripping. At one moment he holds her hips and buries his face in her crease jabbing at her tight opening; next his hands slide up pushing her bra over her small breasts.

When her knees start to weaken and her head hangs low he stands and steps back. The zipper sounds loud to their ears. His shorts make a rumpled sound like the man himself when they hit the floor. His hand touches the small of her back. She arches under it to present to him unimpeded access to her sacred place.

Pre-cum oozes from his piss slit. With a hand on her hip and the other around his cock he takes aim at her waiting vagina. He rubs his cock head up then down through her glistening folds smearing both his and her natural lubricants over the whole of his circumcised crown.

Anastasia bends deep at the knees moaning her anticipation. She is ready. She needs to feel him inside like she needs to breathe. An urge to push back rises. She longs to search for his pole with her lips. Longs to draw him inside, but she resists instead holding the position he placed her in at the start.

He places his head against her slit then grasps both rounded hips with his paw like hands. His entry is slow, measured and deliberate. Again he resists the amateur urge to rush to a conclusion. This is not about procreation. Not about the continuation of the species. This is about lovemaking for the joy of it. This is art.

The pace is so deliberate that his member feels like it is stretching her tight opening. So much of her mind is focused on the feeling of him entering her that he feels impossibly large to her fevered mind. She needs him inside. She needs to feel all of him. She moans loudly as his cock fills her up. When he stops pushing forward she is so reduced to just the sensations of her vaginal opening stretching around his pole that she thinks there has never been something so large inside her before. She gasps.