Just Go with It, Sandy

Bryce laughs at her as she coughs and gets back under control.

"I dunno," he says. "A finger and a half, then another finger and a half, now you've got three fingers in you," and then he makes a face, teasing her with it, "pretty stretched out."

"Hey," Sandra replies. "Rude!"

"Aww, don't be grumpy. Three fingers means good and open, all warm and lubed up. Easy in and out."

"Bryce, be decent," Sandra cautions him.

"It's not like being in the Navy, sailor," Bryce teases her. "This isn't anything like that commitment. But it's a commitment. Are you ready to make that commitment?"

"Is this what this is about? Did Derek send you to talk to me about—"

"Derek said he talked to you. He's been talking to you. And he talked to you, made it real clear and asked real nice the other night. He didn't say anything more. Derek was in the Navy, too, if you know what I mean."

Sandra listened and saw Bryce's face, strangely sober-looking, his breath fine and whiskey-smelling.

"I . . . I don't know," Sandra said.

Bryce looked at her, and Sandra felt the first way of intoxication, of somnolent, nap-craving intoxication. "Bed would feel so good right now," went the sudden thought in Sandra's brain, and she could feel herself craving someplace soft and safe to lie down and sleep it all away.

Bryce smiled. "Just go with it, Sandy."

For a second, Sandra thought that sounded like a great idea.

She felt Bryce's hands back on her, on her shoulders, on her arms, on her hips—guiding her up and out of her desk chair, guiding her to bend over her desk, laying her atop her piles of case briefs and memo drafts, her half-buttoned shirt letting her feel the coolness of papers and desk on her exposed skin.

"I'm so glad you wore a skirt today," Bryce told her, and Sandra felt the older man's hands lifting her A-line gray skirt over her hips, tucking it under her waist that he was insuring was pressed low against the desktop—against her desktop, her own desktop, Sandra thinks—and she feels Bryce pull her grey wool tights down her bottom and hips, stooping to pull them past the place where her thighs touch the edge of her own desk, and Sandra feels that Bryce has gotten the waist-band of her simple, canary yellow, full-back, bikini-cut cotton panties together with the tights and has pulled them both down together, together but not off, down to her knees and ankles, cuffing her legs together while Bryce steps himself between them and forces her thighs to part—as wide as he can make her spread them—and that means her feet walk further apart—her feet in only the stockings that have now been bunched at her ankles that she has to pull and stretch apart while she pulls herself apart and is pulled apart by this man for what this man, this older coworker of hers, is about to do to her, with her, and for her.

Sandra feels Bryce's cock, thin and short but hard, at her entrance without any sort of protection and Sandra thinks "yes, it's more right this way, even thought he's already married and has kids, and it is probably better because he's already had kids a long time ago," and then just as Sandra is thinking Bryce might need lube because all of Sandra's boyfriends, ever (both of them), each needed lube to get her openable and pleasurable for them, Bryce proves to her that no, she is perfectly capable of smooth, intense, highly-sensational penetration of her little-used lawyer's cunt with nothing more than all-natural methods.

Sandra hears him spit and then feels his spit dripping down the crack of her ass. As Bryce becomes the third name on her bodycount, Sandra is only thinking about how good it feels, and not about numbers or names or cases at all.

Bryce thinks for a second about his wife and remembers something from an intimate encounter at her work twenty years ago, but then lets it pass and savors the paleness of this prudish, repressed, reserved whore's ass, feeling like he is dominating two women at once; one present, one not.

"Don't worry," Bryce tells Sandra, his hands settling into a comfortable grip on her hips, and his hips settling into a comfortable pumping of his cock into her pussy, "you can bill this as 'Office Administration-Mentoring'," but when a moan escapes Sandra's mouth, she begs Bryce to stop again.

"No, no, no," Bryce tell her, holding her in place by her hips and placing a hand on her lower back for emphasis: hold this position and don't get up.

"Don't worry, Sandy. This won't take long. Just go with it." His hand moves up to between her shoulder blades.

Sandra feels it as reassuring. She also knows that it is true: even if she's been heard, they are not going to be disturbed, and no one is going to come in to this office until Bryce comes out, and no one is going to talk—to her face at least—about what is happening in this office unless Sandra decides to make a literal Federal Case about this and drag her entire career and the careers of her once-prospective-law-partners through the mud of truth, when all that would likely happen would be she and Bryce would be fired for drinking and screwing on the job, the firm's insurance might pay a pittance of out-of-court settlements, and the Managing Partner and the firm would roll on, stacking up millions with neither Sandra nor Bryce there to take their share for helping him.

Sandra braces herself more solidly against her desk, giving Bryce something he can pound into harder and faster, so he can feel as good as he can as fast as he can and finish in her and finish their mentoring session as fast as she can.

His rhythmic exertions start making the desk bounce and shake.

"C'mon," Sandra calls to him in a sharp whisper. "Before they catch you and I tell them you forced me!"

"Oh my goooooddddddddddddd!" Bryce calls out, but the passion and the situation and him coming inside her is pure sin, he knows, and that is why it feels necessary and good.

Sandra feels Bryce's short afterglow as he holds himself deep into her for ten, twenty seconds—then she feels the older man withdraw, and feels the literal hot mess he left in her begin deluging out of her, dampening her thighs with sticky droplets she can feel and imagine will soon be ruining her panties and her tights.

"But she will be going home early," Sandra realizes to herself.

"That was great," Bryce says, and Sandra hears him zip himself up. "Gotta say I like your commitment. To the firm, I mean." He is breathing hard. That makes Sandra smile.

"Sure," she says, from her position bent-over and freshly-fucked over her own paper-covered desk, in the middle of another bland Tuesday afternoon.

"I'll let Derek and the rest of the team," Bryce pauses to catch his breath, "let them know that you're on board. That you're ready to, to prove your commitment to the partnership."

Sandra took a breath. "Sure," she said again, thinking to herself that Derek had made it clear to her, that other night when he creeped on her, but that Bryce had made it easy for her.

"It's easier to decide without having to decide," Bryce told her.

"Navy wisdom?" Sandra asked from a submissive space, her desk beneath her like it is the planet earth, and she's holding on lightly to keep from floating off.

"Navy and law firms," Bryce answered. "But don't worry, sugar," he said, smiling at her, who still had not moved. Bryce grabbed the handle of her office door, but before he left and closed it behind her, he said to blandly thirtysomething Sandra:

"Don't worry, sugar, I'm sure you'll be the most popular girl in the fleet."