Problems in the Office

My pelvis thrusting into a guy who really knew what he was doing.

"Is he still there?"

"Who?" I mumbled, trying to catch up with the phone.

"Frank Finlay?"

"Oh. Him. Yes," I said, because I couldn't think of anything else to say. And didn't have any free breath for anything more expansive. Not right now. Besides, it was true. He was still here. About six or seven inches, in fact. Not to mention the finger round the back, doing what I think the French call, 'Exploration de la derriere'. Or something.

Peter doesn't do that. I don't normally let people do it.

But Finlay had a way with things like this. Just goes ahead and does it whether you like it or not. Whether I do, or not. On that, in fact, the jury's out. But it sure as hell wasn't making it worse! I groaned again, then yelped. But that was okay. Peter was talking to someone else. I heard them come up. Someone in HR, I think. Maybe a third person now. I could hear voices in the background on the phone. Pete didn't want me to ring off.

The phone was by my head on the desk.

I had come. Twice. The first time a bright explosive orgasm which came just after the guy from HR came up to Pete, and Pete told me not to ring off as he'd be right back, and then the phone slipped out of my hand to the desk by my ear, and the feelings of relief did a deal with the feelings of carnal lust and sprayed my inside with a combination of lily-livered surrender and gut thrusting ecstasy as I knew I no longer had my husband as a audile interloper into what was going on in his office to be. I came like an express train. Holding the cry in the back of my throat until my pelvis reared off the desk and lifted mister boss man high in the air.

Peter came back onto the phone and asked if I was okay.

He thought he heard a scream. What had happened? Was it me?

Which is when Frank had come to my aid and said it was an ambulance going past the office, down on the street.

Why do people believe such piffle?

Because he's the boss, I suppose.

The second time I came was when he started pumping his great rod into me in a deceptively languid fashion. As if it was a dance. But his prick is so big and wide in the girth that even moving in and out as slowly as that, set me off. And I flipped. This time I had good warning. And Frank took the phone off the desk. And as I bucked and reared and groaned and bit the knuckle of my hand Frank waffled away about something or other either to Pete, or the HR guy. Hell, or the other guy there -- who knew! I exploded again.

Once I was finished with this time, and my gasps had abated, and I'd stopped behaving like a landed fish on the desk beneath him, he handed me back the phone, and got on with fucking me. So this, what was happening right now, was the third time. I tapped him on the shoulder with the phone. I looked at him, once his mouth came up off my breast, and his thrusts slowed momentarily, so that he could see what the problem was. I think he figured that as long as I was reacting with such enthusiastic ardour to everything he was doing then I wasn't objecting. But that if I tapped him on the shoulder with my phone it meant there was a problem taking shape. In this case, and give him his due he was quick on the uptake, it was the imminent arrival of yet another mind-blowing orgasm from the more lightly-built partner in this erotic and sweaty exchange.

He took the phone.

I came, with my ankles locked around him, clasped atop his driving buttocks, as my pelvis made a home for all that went on. And Jesus, that was a lot. I'm not even sure I got the phone back after that. Frank may have said our joint good-byes.

I came to. I must have passed out. I was on my back, on the desk. Length wise rather than across it. Chest glistening with sweat. So hot between the legs I sent a nervous hand gingerly down to investigate. But that was not the solution I'd been looking for.