5 comments/ 51053 views/ 10 favorites An Office Romance By: Pussyrider What am I doing here? This isn't me. I'm not a -- God, at least have the courage to say the word - a lesbian. Neither am I the sort of person who indulges in extra-marital affairs. At least I haven't been until today. Christ, what a squalid little cliché -- the boss about to screw his cute young secretary. Except that, in this case, it's her secretary. About to screw her, me that is. Or whatever she's planning to do with me. It's not even as if Steve's done anything to deserve this; not really. Has he? I mean, he's not an evil, violent bastard or anything. It's just...what, my husband doesn't understand me? Lord help me, I've descended into the world of sexual cliché! I wasn't at all sure about Hannah when Human Resources sent her up to me. She looked a bit hippified with her flowery cheesecloth dress, like a set of curtains Laura Ashley had rejected, her explosion of frizzy ginger hair, huge bangle earrings -- like she'd lost her way en route to Marrakech in 1967 or something. But what the heck, she had the diplomas and the typing speeds, and I needed a temp to cover for my PA for six months until (please God) Janice returned from maternity leave. If she didn't work out it was no great loss. She'd come over from Ottawa in a mime act with a couple of friends for a Spring arts festival, she told me. When the friends returned she decided to stay on, to see somewhere different for a while. I didn't take to her at first. She could talk for Britain -- okay, Canada. She seemed to think she was an expert on everything, and was always happy to give me the benefit of all her towering 22 years' experience of the world. The first time she called me Karen I told her I'd prefer it if she used Mrs Waterlow. For the next two days, every time she buzzed me or put a call through it was, "Hi Mrs Waterlow, Ms McRobb here..." I got the point. The first time I called myself Karen when speaking to her it was through gritted teeth. But we began to gel, as people do who are thrust together on a daily basis. She was quick and efficient, and her perpetually sunny nature made it difficult not to like her. She was good at covering for me -- "I'm sorry, Mrs Waterlow's just stepped out, can I have her call you back, say this afternoon?" -- and she seemed to have this psychic ability to appear in my office with a cup of coffee every time I was about to press the intercom and ask her for one. She made an effort for me too. Within a day or so, without me having to actually say anything, the cheesecloth had been replaced by pastel T-shirts and a flowing white cotton skirt; the earrings by tiny jade studs, visible only because that hair was swept back into a stubby ponytail, held in place by a leather thong. The first time she decided to plonk herself down at my desk when she brought my morning coffee I was mildly put out; if she noticed, she ignored it. After that a daily ten minute chat while I sipped my coffee became a regular routine. To be honest, she did most of the talking. I learnt all about her idyllic childhood in Wrightville; her terrifyingly intellectual college lecturer parents, and the little brother she adored; how she thought her heart would never mend when Brandy, her golden retriever, died in her arms; the woman who had broken her heart for real...There was the hint of a challenge in her eyes when she mentioned that. Hey, why should it bother me -- I'm a modern 21st Century liberal feminist, whatever your lifestyle, that's cool with me. Of course, I was also quite possibly the last person left in London who didn't actually know anyone who admits to being gay. It was a couple of weeks after that little revelation that I slammed back into my office one afternoon from a meeting. One of my colleagues had royally fucked up, and I was the one who'd just spent the last half hour being shouted at over it. Basically, Hannah said the wrong thing -- at that moment anything would have been the wrong thing -- and I ripped her head off and spat it out. Instantly I saw tears of shock and wounded injustice spring to her eyes. I spent the rest of the day crippled with guilt at my desk, but too pissed off with the universe to go and apologise. Just before home time I heard a timid tap on my door and there stood Hannah, looking pale and hesitant. "Look Karen, I guess we've both had a pretty shitty day. I'm going to the wine bar on the corner to ease myself into the weekend. I wondered if you might want to come too?" She must have seen a shadow flicker across my face; she gave me a small, weary smile. "Look, I'm not asking you out on a date, okay? I just don't want to be the sad sack in the corner drowning my sorrows all alone. If you're not in the mood, I understand that." As she turned to leave I called her name. Feeling my face begin to flush, I apologised and explained that of course I hadn't thought that, it was just -- oh to hell with it, a drink would be nice. You stupid cow, I told myself. Don't flatter yourself -- why would a pretty young dyke have the slightest interest in a 35-year old, married, foul-tempered bitch? One drink would have been nice. Unfortunately, after the week I'd had, I was still demolishing the place's stock of Shiraz well after Hannah had switched to Perrier. And of course, when you get pissed you get stupid. That can be the only reason I was crass enough to ask her, rather too loudly, what being gay was about. "I don't mean what do you do, I mean obviously I can work that out, kind of. But when all the other girls are wetting their knickers over George Michael, sorry, I s'pose Justin Timberlake or someone these days, what is it that makes you realise that you'd rather be getting it on with Kylie Minogue or whoever?" Her freckled cheeks beginning to blush, she laughed "Hey, George is pretty cool! Anyway, I could ask you the question in reverse -- why George, why not Kylie?" I shrugged -- just natural I suppose. Still smiling, she stared into the depths of her drink. "Yeah, well, your natural's just different to my natural. In my case it wasn't Kylie -- it was Jennifer Pearson. Head cheerleader for the Chargers -- the school hockey team. Oh it was just as much worship form afar as if it had been Kylie, I never so much as spoke to her; but that was when I knew. Then there was another girl -- also a Jennifer actually -- and, well, we didn't find much time for talking. Girls smell nicer than boys, and they don't have anything to prove. They don't grab so much, their skin's softer, their lips taste sweeter..." The following Monday in the office, cringing with embarrassment, I apologised to Hannah as she walked through the door for my having behaved like a complete arsehole. She laughed it off. "Hey, at least you avoided all the really dumb questions people usually ask." Something changed between us after that -- I'm not sure what. We went to the wine bar most Fridays after work, just for a couple, but it was more than that. Now when we chatted over coffee it was me who did most of the talking. About how Steve and I had met on our first day at uni, how we were going to have 15 babies and a manor house in the Cotswolds...The babies never came -- nor did the manor house, come to that -- but it didn't bother me. I'm sure there was real fiery passion between us at one time, I just can't remember quite when it sputtered and went out. At times I'm not really sure what binds us together any more -- habit I suppose, and lacking the imagination to consider the alternative. We watch TV together because that's what couples do; go on holiday together, do the shopping on Saturday morning; make love once or twice a week, mechanically and distractedly, we know the moves off by heart now... Hannah was a good listener. It's a novel experience just sitting talking to someone; I mean about things other than workflow targets, year-end data and so on. Steve and I never seem to talk; when we do the conversation usually ends after about 30 seconds with "Look, do you want me to turn the football down so you can tell me about your meeting?" I told Hannah things about myself, about what's in my head, that I've never told anybody else, not even Steve -- God, especially not Steve! Those ten minutes started to become the highlight of my day -- isn't that sad? Sometimes I'd be watching a news item on TV at home and think "I must tell Hannah about that." Or I'd hear some unintentionally humorous comment in a meeting and think "I wish Hannah had been here to hear that." At weekends I even began to write myself little one- or two-word notes, so I wouldn't forget to mention this or that to her. We found we shared the same surreal sense of humour. We discovered an unexpected mutual pleasure in classic jazz: agreed we'd have to organise a girls' night out to Ronnie Scott's sometime. One day I went in to her room to ask her something and found her silently crying, huge tears rolling slowly down her cheeks. It was so un-Hannah like. I asked her what was up and she shook her head, refusing to tell me, angry at herself for letting me find her like that. As I made her a coffee for once I asked her if it was boy (fuck!), sorry, girl trouble. Wiping a cheek with the back of her hand, she sniffled. "No, not really." She sighed. "There is a woman but, well, she's not available." I clucked sympathetically -- Jesus, am I thick or what? Then, one day, I had another bad meeting. Stomping through Hannah's office to mine I managed to avoid taking it out on her by the simple expedient of completely ignoring her. Then I slumped into the visitor's chair, on the wrong side of my desk, buried my face in my hands and burst into tears. I didn't even know Hannah was there until I felt her cool fingers gently prying one of my hands away, pressing a cup of water into it. As I started to calm down she squatted beside me, balancing by resting her hand on my back, cooing in a soothing voice how it was okay, and those assholes in Strategy weren't worth getting upset over. As I smiled through the last of my tears she stood. Then I felt her hands press against the bare nape of my neck. Instantly I tensed. Hannah sensed my unease and withdrew her hands. Walking round to face me, she said softly, "Sorry Karen, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I was just going to give you a back rub. They're great for easing stress, and that's something you need right now. I'm sorry, I should have asked you first. Let me do this for you, I'm good at it. Unless you don't trust me of course." She laughed as she said it but, seeing some sceptical expression on my face, hers fell. She said, in a very small, slightly bruised, voice, "Karen? Don't you trust me?" I could see in her eyes how very much my answer mattered to her. Did I see her as the friend she thought she was, wanting to help me and stop me hurting; or just as some horny little dyke chancing her arm when opportunity knocked? I tried to smile reassuringly and nodded, flicking my head to give her permission to move behind me. Visibly relaxing, she returned my smile and resumed her position. To be honest I did feel uncomfortable with it -- nothing to do with her sexuality, I've just never really been that tactile. But she was right, she was good at it. As the knots in my neck began to untie, and her strong, gentle hands slipped to my shoulders, I could feel the tension flowing out of me, to be replaced by a glowing, rejuvenating warmth. After that Hannah gave me a chair massage maybe a couple of times a week. There were rarely words, I just slipped into the almost trance-like state her skilful manipulations induced in me. One time her fragrance, a heady, musky aroma, filled my nostrils. I said how much I liked it, and the next day I found a bottle of Tova Nights on my desk. She refused to let me pay for it; but her beaming smile lit up the office the whole day when, a couple of mornings later, she found a Charlie Mingus triple CD propped against her keyboard. Then, for my birthday, she left me a bottle of Shiraz and a photo torn from a pop magazine, with a biro dedication, 'Lots of love to Karen on her big day, from George xxx'. Saucy cow! One day, I glanced up as she worked at my back and saw her serene, almost sensual smile. I asked her why she so enjoyed doing this -- after all, it must be tiring. Her eyes still closed, she replied quietly "I enjoy doing things I'm good at. And I like giving pleasure to people I like." She was silent for a minute or so, then, almost whispering, added, "No, that's only half true Karen. I like making you happy. You're a very lovely, very...desirable woman. If circumstances were different, if you were different...but they're not and you're not, and I respect that. So I'm just happy to be your friend, for as long as you'll let me, and I enjoy doing nice things for friends." So there it was, out there. She did -- well, have a crush on me, I supposed. And of course I liked her -- a lot. I must admit, I didn't feel entirely comfortable the next time she massaged me, but we got over it. Her little confession didn't impact on our friendship, which I think relieved her, and we just carried on as normal. Until yesterday. And now here I am, perched on the edge of this rather lumpy second-hand sofa, waiting while she "goes to freshen up". At least she didn't say "slip into something more comfortable" -- one hoary old cliché we've managed to side-step. I've slipped my shoes off -- well, I suppose you have to start somewhere! I should go, I really should. She'll be hurt if I do, and that's a shame, I really do like her, but I'm a married middle-aged woman for God's sake, not some silly teenage slapper. I hope she'll stay on as my PA; I'd really miss her. Okay, that's it, I'm going to stand up and leave now. The massage yesterday, Friday, started out just as normal. It had been a very long week, my head was lolling a bit, I think I was actually drowsing, I barely realised that I had moaned softly with the sheer feline pleasure of Hannah's touch. At first I was only vaguely aware that her fingers had slipped under the collar of my blouse, across my collar bones, actually under the shoulder straps of my bra. Her long, supple fingers dug into the flesh of my shoulders and my upper chest, easing away the aches of the day. The shoulder straps rode up over her hands. I could barely breathe. Oh God, that felt so great! If, at that moment, she had slipped her hands downwards, under the material of my bra cups, around my breasts, onto my nipples...but she didn't. She just carried on massaging my shoulders, and my shoulder blades, then withdrew her hands. I sighed in, I wasn't sure, relief or disappointment. She bent her mouth to my ear and whispered, "Sorry Karen, it just felt like you needed that bit extra tonight." Then she touched her lips to the nape of my neck and left. That all seemed so natural, so -- okay, like something from a soft core porn movie filmed in soft focus when I just say it like that. But this, this just seems so cold and calculating by comparison. When I got home I walked straight into a row. Why hadn't I washed the polo shirt Steve "needed" for his golfing weekend? It had been sitting by the machine all week. Yeah, well, if in the past three years he'd ever bothered to learn so much as how to switch the fucking machine on...boiling tears of fury at the corners of my eyes, I hurled the shirt into the drum, swore its way through its cycle, spun and tumble-dried it, cursed it as I ironed it. All the while Jack sodding Nicklaus there scrunched down in front of the TV pretending he didn't realise my impression of the Wicked Witch of the West had anything to do with him. Then I stomped up to bed and had the most erotic dream of my life. After a frosty mutual farewell, before he and his mates drove off to Lytham, I lay in bed half the morning, trying to get that dream out of my head. I knew what I wanted to do. She'd mentioned that her girlfriend -- "my flatmate that is, I don't have a girlfriend" -- was away for the weekend, and she was going to repaint the place from top to bottom. So she'd be there, and alone. God, what a stupid idea. But as if in a dream I pulled on a boob-emphasising cut-off T shirt at least ten years too young for me, and a short denim skirt I haven't worn for two years -- I've got great legs, I don't show them off often enough. Dabbed my Tova Nights behind my ears. Then I left my home. I must have walked up and down that street half a dozen times, dressed up like some lost hooker, before I finally angered myself into pressing the buzzer, before courage deserted me. I pressed a second time, and was turning to go when the door swung open and there stood Hannah. Dressed in a blue serge coverall made for a much bigger man, and a huge pair of workboots, the red tide of her hair held back by a rolled scarf, tiny white flecks of paint smeared across one cheek. She was flustered at seeing me there. I should go. It was a bad idea, I didn't even know what I was doing there, and I was interrupting her work. She grabbed my arm. "No, please don't go, it's great to see you, really. Wow, you look fabulous." Taking my hand, her fingers intertwining with mine, she lead me through a gloomy hallway smelling vaguely of cat food and up two flights of stairs, her eyes checking my face every few seconds to see if this was okay. The flat smelled strongly of paint. She sat me on the sofa and offered me a white wine. She didn't ask what I was doing here -- I think she knew better than I did. We sipped our wine, she perching on a battered arm chair opposite me, as we chatted about nothing much. Charlie Mingus was playing on the stereo. An uneasy lull developed in the conversation. Smiling nervously, her eyes locked on mine, Hannah knelt in front of me; leaned in, her hands resting on my bare knees, and gently gave me a sisterly peck on the cheek. She leaned back, searching my eyes again. "I do love you -- you know that, don't you?" I nodded, swallowing nervously. And I -- liked her, very much. She leant in to me again, her eyes closing, and pressed her lips to mine. I felt her tongue skim lightly along my lips, with no attempt to penetrate them. Then she said it: "Look, why don't you wait here for a moment, while I go and freshen up a bit?" Okay, I'm really going now. Wait, the bathroom door's opened, and she's standing here before me -- she's pulled on a thigh length silk bed jacket, loosely belted. Nothing else. Christ, the sight of her. The short stocky legs, the muscled calves and thighs of an athlete; the mink-coloured pubic bush at the join of her thighs, highlighted by the very white bikini pant line compared to the light tan around it; the lowlands of her swelling breasts peeking between the lapels of the jacket. As she steps towards me I know exactly why I'm here. Because I want to be, and to stay as long as she'll let me; because I have fallen completely and utterly in love with this sweet, funny, caring girl. As her arms snake around my neck, as our lips part and our tongues meet, I know I have just embarked on probably the most significant relationship of my life. An Office Romance It was a late night, as most Thursdays usually are and I was just finishing up my work when my boss entered the room, checking on me before leaving as he usually does. As the Office Manager at a small Family Practice, it wasn't unusual for me to be the first to arrive and the last to leave, getting there even before my boss, the doctor. Most Thursdays he offers me a ride home or a cab because of how late in the day it is, so I can't hold it against him that I work a twelve-fourteen hour day once a week. I was so used to him stopping in to say good night, I didn't even look up when he walked in. "Hey hon, whatcha working on?" Mark asked as he walked behind me to look over my shoulder at the computer screen. "Just finishing up the billing for today's patients," I responded, stiffening slightly at how close he was standing. I continued typing in billing codes as he put his hands absently on my shoulders and began to rub them. My face burned as I refused to look at him. Every muscle in my body, so tense from his standing so close melted slightly at his touch. "Still at it? It's getting late and you must be tired. You've had a long day," Mark said sympathetically as he continued to rub my shoulders. I could feel myself beginning to moan and quickly stifled it as his hands moved from my shoulders to the center of my back, where most of the pain was located. "How did you know I needed this?" I asked, relaxing slightly at his touch. There was no one else in the world I trusted more than him. "I know you have a bad back, and I know it's bothering you today because I saw you wince a few times. You know Nicole, if it's really hurting you are welcome to the samples we have. I would never tell you no," Mark said as his hands worked the knots in my back. "Thanks Doc, but you know I hate taking stuff," I said simply, trying to hide the fact that the feel of his hands, so strong and skilled at the nuances of the human body, was making me wet. If he didn't stop rubbing my back soon, I was going to melt into a puddle on the floor... or worse, scream at him to take me right there on his desk. And, quite frankly, begging your boss for sex is a sure-fire way to earn "attention" you don't need, probably in the form of a sexual harassment lecture! "Hmmm, I hope you don't hate this too," He said in response, his voice taking on the flirty tone I had grown used to hearing when he and I went out for an after-work drink- usually after he had one too many of those drinks. Right at that moment his hands touched the spot on my back that carried the worst pain and I moaned loudly, earning a small laugh from him. "I guess not." I could hear the grin in his voice and smiled in response. I was no longer even seeing the computer screen, my eyes closing to better enjoy the feel of his hands on my aching back. I swear, the man's hands were a God-send. This was not the first time he had given me a world-class backrub. Nor was it the first time we had flirted with each other, but nothing had ever come of it. After five years of working extremely closely with him, the first three as his Medical Assistant and the last two as his Office Manager as well, we had become pretty good friends. When he needed someone to keep him company as the movers hauled his entire life from one apartment to the other, I was there. When I needed someone to console me over my poor grades or insane family drama, he was there. He bought me cough drops and chicken soup when I didn't feel well, even though it made him late to an important meeting. I gave up the Fourth of July to be with him as he slogged through mountains of paperwork, for no other reason than because he stated that he didn't want to be alone. We always talked or texted each other during baseball season, enjoying our Yankees/Mets rivalry, even as we compromised and rooted for the other's team when it counted. I couldn't count the number of things I owned that he had given me as a gift, and I doubt he could either. Somewhere along the way this became much more than a job to me: it was my home. Mark was more than just my boss, he was my best friend. And he is a great friend, compassionate, sweet, generous, funny as all hell, and incredibly interesting. He is a Renaissance Man who could drive/fly anything with an engine, speak two languages fluently and dabbled in two more, write poetry and is an amazingly talented photographer. And all of this in his SPARE time, which, as I'm sure you can imagine, a doctor in private practice has very little of. And if you haven't guessed by now, I have a huge crush on him. I realized this about a few months ago, when I realized that I grinned like a dope any time he called/texted me. And when he and his current ex-girlfriend had discussed marriage, I cried for days. Not to mention the way my heart began to pound any time he looked at me with interest. And I know that he was interested, because one night when we were out together drinking- our inhibitions were way low- we discussed the merits of dating. This was when we both realized that as my boss, and because he was older than I was, it was not a good idea. It would hurt the relationship we had already forged, especially if it ended badly. Which is always a possibility when the power dynamic is right out of a bad, kinky porno: older, mature, experienced man and the younger, naïve woman. Not that this actually corresponded to our real relationship, but still, the thought was in the back of our minds that night. Of course, that same night he did give me one hell of a kiss! Drunk or not, I could no longer deny that I still remember every detail of that kiss; or that I wish it had gone on longer or graduated to something a little more Rated R! And now, thinking about that kiss, with his hands working their magic on me, I was wetter than I had been in a long time. Shifting slightly in my chair I squeezed my thighs together, hoping for some unnoticed relief. If Mark was anything, he was an awful tease, and I had no reason to expect that this would be anything other than an "I'm sorry you've been on your feet all day running twenty five patients with me even though your back hurts" back-rub. Talk about frustrating! Something told me I was going to be in for another night spent with my vibrator and a fantasy. While I was pondering all of this, and trying to figure out how to take care of my problem (if you know what I mean, wink wink), his hands drifted lower on my back, forcing me to lean over slightly to grant him access to my lower back. 'Perfect!' I thought, 'now he can't see my lower half' and I began to squeeze my thighs together carefully. If I moved a certain way I could stimulate myself and I wouldn't have to go home frustrated. Gradually, I began to do so, focusing on the lower back massage as his hands wandered over my lower back and sides. "You're really enjoying this huh?" Again, the flirty, laughing voice. I couldn't even look at him, sure that I was busted. "It's amazing. Best backrub I've had in a while. But what makes you say it like that?" I asked carefully, a flush creeping into my cheeks. "You didn't hear me ask you how school was going," He responded, as his hands made small circular motions on my lower back. He carefully pushed up my scrub top, as if he needed to do so to gain better access to the source of the pain. I stiffened slightly in response to his hands now on my bare back, confused. Where is this going? He'd never been so forward before, except for the one time when he slipped and slapped my ass playfully in the very beginning. "It's stressful, as I'm sure you can imagine. I can't wait for this semester to be over!" I exclaimed, trying to ignore the feel of his soft hands kneading my flesh. Not possible, by the way. My panties flooded in response to his movements. I focused on those hands, sweeping across my back in a circular motion, higher and higher, and closer and closer to my bra. My eyes closed as his hands brushed the bra, then moved lower, then drifted back. He pushed my top up higher, making me very glad that we were the only two left in the office. I could no longer focus on the words he was speaking, focusing instead on the timbre of his voice, the rhythm of his words soothing and exciting at once. My legs squeezed together subtly as I tried my hardest not to squirm under the feel of this increasingly naughty massage. "Why don't we just take this shirt off? It will make it much easier," he said quietly, motioning to take it off for me. 'Wait, what?? Did I just hear him say that? What the hell?' my brain froze at this point, my arms raising above my head obediently as he left me sitting there in the middle of the office in nothing but my bra and scrub pants. I still hadn't turned around, not knowing what to do. This was everything I had fantasized for the last few months, and now that it was actually happening I was as nervous as a schoolgirl on her first date! As I frantically tried to figure out a way to pinch myself to check if I was dreaming without him seeing, his amazing hands went back to work on my, well, back, causing my brain to shut down, like a computer that had overheated. He continued the backrub gently, his hands repeatedly drifting back to my bra, drifting away, then moving back. His long fingers drifted to the front, grazing the front of my bra, making my nipples stiffen in response before running over my sides and back. Finally, he took my lack of a response as a "go ahead", and began to unhook my bra, allowing my 38DD's relief from the confines of their cotton prison. A small moan escaped my lips as his hands replaced the bra over my breasts. He massaged them carefully, as if he was afraid I would push his hands away at any second. Like I would! At that point, I could barely say my own name, let alone say no. He rubbed my hardening nipples before going back to rubbing my breasts, sides and back. Forward and back, forward and back, his hands swept across my body, causing chills to sweep through me. I wanted to turn around and grab him, but I was afraid to break the spell he had cast over us both. Finally, he grabbed both breasts as his lips found my neck at last. My arm moved around his neck, turning my head so that our mouths would meet, tongues quickly entwining with unrestrained desire. We remained like that for what felt like ages, kissing as if we had waited years for the chance as his hands continued to play with my large breasts. Breaking the kiss, I turned the chair around, pulling him closer to me. Our lips met once more as my hands went to his tie, quickly pulling it off and unbuttoning his shirt. He went back to sucking on my neck as I worked his shirt off, and was just about to pull off his undershirt when his lips moved to my right nipple. Taking it into his mouth, he began to suckle it. Knees weakening, I ran my hands through his hair, barely registering the silver running through it. He moved to the left nipple while gently kneading the other, using his free hand to take off my pants. As I stepped out of them, he pushed me back against the desk. My hand drifted to the bulge in his pants, rubbing it gently. Our mouths met once more as he pushed me onto the table and pressed himself between my legs. I finally managed to get his undershirt off, and then began to run my hands over his chest and stomach, tracing circles around his nipples with my thumb, causing him to moan for a change. He began to suckle my neck again as I unzipped his pants and pulled his rock-hard dick out. I began to rub it as his hand pushed my panties aside and began to run his fingers up and down my slit, then focusing on my clit, then back again. We were both panting heavily as he pushed his fingers, first one, then the other, inside of me, fingers moving in the same rhythm as my hand on his penis. I was ready to scream as he suddenly pulled back, looking into my eyes. "Are you sure you want to do this?" He asked breathlessly as I slowly squeezed his penis within my hand. His eyes searched mine, both of us aware that this could change everything between us, but both of us no longer caring. I ran my free hand through his hair as I leaned it to kiss him. He kissed back willingly before pulling away once more, searching for a response to his question. "Yes, love. I want this. I need this," I responded, panting heavily as my arms circled his neck, before I kissed the stubble on his face. Reaching into the pocket of the jeans he was still wearing, he pulled out a condom. As he put it on and stepped out of his pants, I couldn't help but take in his body. Not my usual type, he was heavy, covered in hair beginning to go as silver as that on the top of his head. He still had a baby face, but it was clear that he was much older than I was. But his dick was hard as a rock, and while not hung like a porno star, was very impressive. He may be older, but he isn't dead, and my body was screaming for him in a way it had never screamed before. I quickly jumped out of my panties, the both of us standing there naked for the first time together. I couldn't help it, I began to grin, my dream finally coming true after so many months of calling out his name as I went through packages of batteries in the dark. He looked me over, his penis twitching with excitement, desire written all over his face. Knowing that there was no going back from this, I walked over to him, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the couch in the waiting room. "Naughty girl," he murmured as he saw where I was headed. Grinning, I sat him down on the couch and took him into my mouth, catching him by surprise. Alternating between sucking and swirling my tongue around the head, I massaged his balls with one hand while pulling on the shaft with the other. While I was no pro, it didn't take long for his hand to bury itself in my hair, guiding the tempo. He was gentle, careful not to make me gag, even as he pushed me to take him deeper and faster. "Oh Nicole," Mark called out suddenly. I could feel him getting closer and closer to exploding and it made me wetter than ever. Just as he came close, I took him out of my mouth and laid him down on the couch. Straddling him, I kissed him as I took his dick into me for the first time. Breaking the kiss, he began to suckle my breasts again as I began to move rhythmically on top of him. After mere moments of this, he grabbed me, pulling me to the floor and pinning me under him, taking me at a faster and faster pace. Bending my legs over his shoulders, he plunged into me, deeper than anyone had ever been. I cried out with excitement, trying my hardest to move my hips in time to his rhythm, running my hands along his body hungrily. I couldn't get enough of him at this point. He let my legs down so that he could kiss me, and I began to kiss his face, his lips, and his neck as I pulled him closer and closer, running my hands along his ass, his back, and through his hair. I could feel my orgasm building, the wave beginning to crash over me as he screamed my name once more. Lips crashing to mine, his tongue swirling around mine, I could feel him cumming even as my own orgasm took the breath right out of me, my nails scratching his back as I grabbed him. As we both lie there, exhausted and spent, he looked at me fondly, kissing me once more. "I've wanted you for so long... I can't believe this isn't a dream," he said, as he rolled off of me to pant on the floor beside me. "Are you serious?" I demanded, rolling onto my side to stare at him. "Yeah, why? What?" He looked at me, alarmed. "I can't believe this. I've been thinking about you nonstop for months, and here you're telling me you feel the same way?" I shook my head in disbelief. "You've been thinking about me? Really? Why didn't you say anything?" "Why didn't you?" I retorted, shocked. "I figured you weren't interested. It's kind of hard to predict what you're thinking, obviously!" This earned a laugh from him. "I wasn't interested? You thought I wouldn't be interested? You're a beautiful, sweet, compassionate, funny, intelligent young lady, of course I'm interested! Not to mention that you're hot, with a great set of tits. Yeah, I'm definitely interested. How could I not be?" Mark stared at me as I blushed. I knew he thought I was sweet, compassionate and smart, but hot? Attractive? Didn't expect that in the slightest. "I thought that you wouldn't be interested in me. After all, I'm just an old man." "Will you stop with the old man nonsense? I don't care about age! I care about you. You are the funniest, most amazing person I have ever met in my life and I can't stop thinking about you. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you in months. Here I thought it was my age that was a problem for you! I'm not nearly as worldly or accomplished as you are." I stated, nestling into his arms comfortably. "You know that doesn't bother me. When we're together, I have so much fun I can't imagine for a second being with anyone else. I don't want to imagine it." he said, kissing my forehead softly. "So, you were just afraid to make a move? You thought that I would reject you? That's funny, I thought all this time if I said anything it would be you rejecting me! So, what made you go for it tonight?" I had to know. "Well, seeing how far you'd go to get the job done, and how well you handle emergencies like Mrs. Jones going to the hospital, I had to admire your strength. Especially when you helped pick her up off the floor! Your poor back must really be aching," he said, pulling me into a half hug. "It's days like today when I can't imagine surviving without you, and I couldn't keep from at least offering a back-rub to thank you." "Well darlin', I think this 'thank you' was worth so much more," I said with a smile, hugging back. "Well, so now what?" He asked. "I say we see where this goes. After all, we certainly did have quite a bit of fun I wouldn't mind repeating," I said with a laugh. "I agree. This was great. But we'll have to keep this pretty quiet though at first. I don't think your parents would take too kindly to you fooling around with a 56 year old man!" And that was how I began a relationship with my slightly older best friend. I couldn't imagine it being any other way. It may seem like a lot, but that thirty-two year difference between us is barely noticed when we're together. I would never have imagined I would be with someone as old as he is, but I also could never have imagined falling in love with my best friend either, and yet, here we are. We respect each other's opinions and learn from each other. There's no "I'm better than you" mentality that you could expect from a pair that could not be more mismatched: rich and poor, old and young, accomplished and developing. There are times when I doubt that it's really happening. And sometimes I think that we'll have the mother of all fights, worse than anything we'd had before and we'll not only break up but lose a great partnership in the process. But it hasn't happened yet, and hopefully if this doesn't last forever, it will end on good terms.