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Subject: {ASS} Mat Twassel: Office Affair
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Office Affair
by Mat Twassel
===========

In a way my wife started it.  We were making love one 
bedtime, not an unusual activity for us, but not so frequent 
as I'd prefer.  Maybe one of the major regrets of my 
marriage is that we're not half as carnal as I'd like us to 
be.  No where near half. But I'd never been unfaithful.

My wife doesn't initiate fucking.  Once it starts, usually 
she doesn't seem to mind it much, but often I think her 
pleasure is minimal.  I know she comes sometimes.  I know 
she doesn't come very often.  No doubt the fault, if that's 
the right word, is mine.

This time we'd been making love for . . .  well, long 
enough.  I stopped.

"Honey, you're not really liking this, are you?" I asked.

"Why do you say that?" she said.

"Well, it just seems . . ."

She gave me a big hug, a squeeze.  I was still inside her, 
and felt the squeeze there, too.  The hug was in some ways 
sexier than all the stuff that had gone on before . . . or 
after.

"If you were having an affair, you'd tell me about it, 
wouldn't you?" she said softly.

"What do you mean?" I said.

"You know, an affair.  Love affair.  Like with someone in 
the office."

"The office?" I said, somewhat dumbly.

"Yeah, maybe one of those secretaries on the tenth floor.  
Maybe that pretty one?"

"Oh yes," I said, "The pretty one."

"So you know who I mean?"

"There's only one pretty secretary on ten," I said.

"I think she has a crush on you," my wife said.  "I think 
she wants you."

"She's engaged to be married," I said.

"All the more reason," my wife said.  Then she kissed me.  
Hard.

Sometime during this discussion I had gotten soft, slipped 
out.

"What makes you think she has a crush on me?" I asked.

"Why wouldn't she?" my wife said.  Then she gave me a little 
smile.  "Come on," she said, "Sit on my chest and fuck my 
mouth.  Just like you would your little secretary.  I want 
to taste her cunt on your cock."

She'd said this mildly, and for a moment I wasn't sure what 
to do, but then I moved up the bed.  I had my knees on 
either side of her, my hands on top of the headboard.  My 
wife had her hands behind her head, a relaxed smile on her 
lips.  My cock swayed against her chin, her lower lip.

"C'mon," she said.  "Stuff it in and fuck."

She had her eyes on mine all through.  When I started 
coming, I was afraid she'd choke, but she didn't.  With my 
cock still in her mouth, she swallowed the seed, all but the 
stuff which had bubbled out around her lips; and she never 
let go of my eyes.  She seemed interested. Amused.

"There," she said, "That was good.  Maybe you should invite 
her over for dinner sometime.  I could make my special 
meat loaf."  Then with a small, innocent laugh, almost a 
giggle, she turned away, and soon she was asleep.

I slept well, and the next morning as I showered, my mind 
played over what happened the night before.  It's not that 
my wife never sucks my cock, but always before I'd have to 
ask her.  And for the act I'd invariably be lying on my back 
in bed, and she'd curl next to me to do the work.  She'd 
arrange herself in such a way that I couldn't see anything.  
Yes, it was exciting, but not as exciting as it could have 
been.  Sometimes I wanted to come just to get it over with.

As was my custom, just before leaving the house I stopped 
back at our bedroom to give my wife a little kiss.  She 
seemed to be sleeping contentedly, so I just touched the 
side of her face with my lips.  I was tempted to whisper 
something in her ear, something like, "I really liked last 
night."  But I'm not very good at little endearments, if 
that's what that was, and anyway she was sleeping so 
peacefully.  At the same time I wouldn't have minded taking 
her whole ear into my mouth.

I'd stood up and was about to turn away when she said, "Mm, 
you're not leaving already?"

"I have to get to work," I said quietly.  "It's..."  I 
looked at the digital clock on the dresser.

"How about a little goodbye fuck first?" she said.  "There's 
time, isn't there?"  

Never before had she been amorous in the mornings.  Her 
voice was sleepy, but she was sitting up, her cheek was 
nuzzling the front of my taupe suit pants.  Normally I think 
she sleeps until nine, has a light breakfast while reading 
the newspaper, maybe does some errands or shopping or 
exercises, and then teaches her afternoon kindergarten 
class.

"What about my suit?" I said somewhat stupidly.  She'd 
already unzipped me and taken out my penis.

"Such a little cutie," she said, springing her forefinger 
against the tip.  "I'm sure if you're careful you can 
manage. Maybe if you put it in from the back."  No sooner 
had she said these words than she swiveled so she was facing 
away from me, on her arms and knees, her bottom at the edge 
of the bed raised and ready.  "Put it in," she said.  "Put 
it in quick and hard."

I didn't seem to have much choice.  My prick was just at the 
right height.  I had to push it down with my forefinger to 
get the angle right, but once at the entrance, it slid in 
easily.  She was snug but slippery and hot.  Rarely do we 
make love from the back.  Her womb is tipped forward 
slightly, and normally it's very hard to get in from behind.

"Mm," she said.  "Is this how you do it with that secretary--
her leaning against your desk looking out the window at the 
trees and traffic?"  She pushed her bottom back against me.  
She wiggled.

"What's this about the secretary?" I asked.  "When did you 
ever even see her?"

My wife and I were rocking gently against each other.  I 
thought about the seaside, the shore and waves and then 
small birds flying into picture windows.

"At the picnic--last summer," my wife answered, pausing 
before slamming back onto me.  "Everybody was looking at her 
ass in those tight blue jeans.  Good tits, too.  Marla, 
that's her name, isn't it?"

"Yes, Marla," I said, thinking that the word sounded like 
nice breasts.  "Marla."

"Your suit feels fuzzy," my wife said.  "Come in me deep so 
you don't get it wet."  She must have known that would do 
it.  She pressed firm and kept there and I splashed, as full 
and fine and emptying a come as I'd ever had.

"Good boy," she said.  "Next time you can play with my 
asshole while you do it.  Maybe even put a finger in a 
little way."  She giggled and I popped out.  Before I could 
do anything else she'd swiveled back around and had me in 
her mouth.  She went all the way down and drew out slow, 
taking whatever was left of me.  "There," she said, "All 
clean now."  She gave the tip a final kiss and pushed my 
penis back into my pants, zipped them up, and patted the 
taupe bulge.  "Better get going," she said.  "You don't want 
to be late on your first day."  I had no idea what she meant 
by "first day." I was about to ask her when she stood up,  
kissed me. More than a peck, but not everything more.  She 
still had mischief in her eyes.  "Bye, sweetie," she said, 
and then she added, "I wonder what a finger in Marla's ass 
would feel like when she's coming. Now get going." And she 
swatted me on my bottom.

The drive to work was strangely serene.  I was more into the 
rush hour than usual, but the slower traffic didn't bother 
me.  My mind cruised.  I couldn't keep everything straight; 
I just drifted over the episode of the morning, letting good 
feelings wash over me.

Twenty minutes later as I neared the office, I still 
couldn't figure out what had come over my wife.  And why was 
her mind filled with all this stuff about Marla?  Walking 
towards the building from the parking lot, I tried to 
picture Marla, but I'm not very good at mental pictures.  
"Just imagine her tongue," I heard my wife say.  Her voice 
was very real inside my head.  I'm good at recalling voices.  
But Marla's tongue was a mystery to me.  I thought about it 
as I pressed the button for the elevator.  Marla's tongue.  
I could see the point of it.  It just touched the tip of my 
wife's clitoris.  Her legs were spread wide, knees up.  I 
had my own thumb and forefinger pinching the protective skin 
at the top of her sex.  I could feel the nodule, the firm 
little length of clit, a tiny, tight morsel inside the sweet 
fleshy covering.  The pea end was exposed, smooth but for 
the cute, nubbly crinkle at the front.  "Lick her lightly 
there," I told Marla.  "It'll make her come in an instant.  
And when she does, push your tongue all the way into her 
cunt.  She'll like that."

I was hard in my pants thinking of such things.  Luckily, 
all the other people in the car were in front of me, facing 
the door.  I had seven floors to recover.  But I couldn't 
help myself:  I brought my hand up to my mouth, touched my 
tongue briefly against the gap between my thumb and 
forefinger right near the tip, and then worked my tongue 
slowly all the way to the webbing.  I wondered if that's 
what Marla's tongue would feel like as she tasted my wife's 
clit.  My hand smelled clean.  I wished it still smelled of 
my wife's sex.  Suddenly I missed her.  I missed her more 
than I ever had before.  I wanted to go home.  To spend all 
morning just fucking her.  Fucking her and fucking her.

Nothing unusual at my desk.  I logged on to the corporate 
web and checked for email while listening to phone messages.  
The last one was from my wife.  "Hi, my little cutie," she 
said. "Don't forget about inviting Marla for dinner 
tonight."  That was all.  I replayed the message six or 
seven times.  I paid especial attention to the way she said 
"Marla."  I tried to imagine my wife's expression as the 
word issued from her lips.  I thought about my wife kissing 
Marla's breasts.  The image came easily into my mind.  Her 
lips lingered at each tiny pink nipple, pulling it out full 
and fat.  I even saw the stretch of spittle.  This is 
ridiculous, I said to myself.  I'll never get any work done.  
My erection was bulging against the front of my trousers.  I 
forced myself to calm down.

The supplies were kept up on ten in a storage room not far 
from Marla's cube.  That's where I went.  She was in charge 
of unlocking the room.  She looked better than ever.

"I just need some pencils," I said.

"No problem," she said, and in a jiffy she had the door 
unlocked.  "Hard or soft?" she asked. Her eyes gleamed.

"Oh," I said, "Maybe a little of each."

She knew right where they were.  She drew out two green 
boxes.  "There," she said with a smile, handing me the 
boxes.  "That should do you."

She smiled again.  Those gleamy eyes. And I blushed.  I'd 
been thinking about her tongue.  "Anything else?" she said.  
"Before I lock up?"

"No, not really," I said.  "Well, there is one thing. This 
is going to sound really strange."

"Oh?" she said.

"My wife and I were wondering... Would you like to come for 
dinner tonight?"

For a long moment she didn't say anything.  She was looking 
right into my eyes, but there was no way I could tell what 
she was thinking.  "Tonight, eh?" she answered at last.  
"Well, I might.  Will we be having your wife's special meat 
loaf?"

===========
Office Affair
copyright 1998 by Mat Twassel

Author's note:  The first time I read this story was at the 
Symposium of Erotic Arts (SEA) held that year in Cobleskill, 
New York.  After the reading and a brief question and answer 
session, two of the sculptors (a man and a woman) and a 
filmmaker (woman) fell into step with me as we strolled back 
to the cabins.

"I liked your story, Mr. Twassel," the sculptress said, "but 
the ending made me uneasy.  It didn't seem, you know, like 
finished?"  She'd pronounced Twassel as if it rhymed with 
frazzle, a fairly common mistake.

"Twassel," I said lightly.  "Mat Twassel as in 'go t'hell.'"

"Oh," said the sculptress, in a tone which led me to believe 
she may have mistaken my words for a slap. She was a short 
woman, neither dainty nor stout, and she had remarkably 
smooth, red-brown hair which glinted in the afternoon light, 
like quartz jasper.  Her face was plain and yet impish. Her 
partner was a tall, thin man with a narrow face and a long 
nose--a stork, except he had a rugged beard.  They made an 
interesting couple, if they were a couple.  All I really 
knew was that they were both sculptors because that's what 
their name tags said.

"I didn't mean to abandon your question," I said.  "It's 
just some people are affronted if I don't correct the name 
right away, and then later they find out and they're upset 
with me or embarrassed because I didn't correct it right at 
the outset." I felt a little foolish going on this way.

"Anyhow," I continued, "the story is supposed to make you a 
little uneasy.  It's supposed to open up a lot of 
possibilities, like suddenly getting a jolt of pure oxygen."

"Possibilities, but not understanding?" the sculptor said.

"Maybe a hint of understanding," I said.

"But if you don't know...?" said the jasper-haired woman.

"Something must have caused his wife to change," said the 
man.

We'd reached a place where the path diverged to different 
cabins.  I was in the guest lodge with my own room.  They 
might have been part of the full workshop--I didn't really 
know.  At any rate, we stopped.  We stood in a little 
circle.  The sculptors were almost but not quite holding 
hands.

"It doesn't seem fair not to know," the short woman said.

"You mean 'know what happens next?'" I asked.

"Well, that, but also whether he'd been having an affair 
with the secretary. Or whether his wife had been.  And what 
made her suddenly change."

"I guess those could be flaws," I said.  "But the guy didn't 
know. He probably wasn't having an affair with the 
secretary, at least not at the start, but even if he were, 
he might not be telling.  And even if he told, he might not 
tell the truth.  As for the rest of it, who knows?"

"But you, the writer, should know," said the woman. 
"Shouldn't you?"

I smiled.

"Well, what do you think happened next, if you had to take 
your best guess?"  This was the other woman, the filmmaker.  
She was big and blonde, and either aloof of shy or both.  
"When I make a film you can see everything."  She laughed a 
little at her little joke, a shy, soft laugh, not quite a 
titter.  I was immediately looking forward to the screening 
of her film.  I wondered if she acted in it, or just worked 
behind the camera.

"Okay, here's what I think could have happened."  I'd been 
tempted to ask them to tell me their thoughts, but maybe I 
could save that for later.  I told them.  They seemed only 
partially satisfied... maybe because I'm not really very 
good telling stories off the page.  I'm embarrassed to use 
sex words, for one thing.

The stork-man was shielding his eyes from the sun. "We're 
thinking about getting some dinner," he said. "You want to 
come with us?"

I did.  I wanted to know these people better.  To find out 
more about them. About their art and their relationships 
with each other.  But for some reason I declined.  "I've got 
to make some phone calls," I said.  "Wife and kids, you 
know."  In fact I did want very much to talk to my family.  
I'm always lonely when away from home.  But the guest lodge 
didn't have a telephone in the rooms. I wondered if this 
trio knew that.

"Well, if you feel like some wine later," the sculptress 
said.  "We're in cabin B."  She gave me a frank, mirthful 
stare. "Mister Mat Twassel."

I smiled and nodded and watched them stroll down the path, 
the stork man in the middle, his large hands upon the 
bottoms of both women as they walked.

=============

Another note: If you liked this story, you might enjoy
other stories at my webpage:

http://members.aol.com/Mmtwassel/index.html

Finally, comments always welcome:

mmtwassel@aol.com


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