Office Animosity

My story happened more than a decade ago. Before relating my tale I need to briefly set the stage, but I ask you to use your own imagination as to what the main characters look like.

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I worked for Verity Publishing House. We published a number of different manuscripts, some fiction, others non-fiction. We kept a bright line of demarcation between fiction and non-fiction because, unlike politicians, we actually cared about the truth.

My name is Amy Williams; at the time of the meat of this story I was 28 years old, had been married to 29 year old Jim Williams for four years, and was one of the assistant editors at Verity. My marriage was happy; the only complaints that I had about Jim were minor ones, and he had only one complaint about me; he didn't get enough pussy. Even though we typically had sex 3-4 times a week, I do believe that Jim would have had sex every day if I was agreeable. I was sorry that my libido didn't match his, but figured that there was more to life than sex even if the sex with Jim was universally between great and awesome.

The chief editor of Verity was Susan Clarke, 50. Another one of the assistant editors was Bryce Dawson, 31, who had been married to Cindy Dawson for six years.

Susan was a taskmaster, but one with a good heart; however she had one quality that irritated the hell out of me. She would often play Bryce and me against each other even though she had made up her mind about an issue we debated; she seemed to enjoy the conflict. While the conflicts between Bryce and I would probably have been minor if Susan quickly resolved them herself, her approach was like prodding a bull and a bear with a cattle prod which caused Bryce and I to develop more than a little animosity toward each other.

The animosity that Bryce and I had didn't lead to any knockdown, drag out, fights, or an inability to stay civil to each other during working hours, however it did mean that we never really socialized outside the workplace. Our relationship caused me to only look for negative qualities that he had which I ultimately determined were lack of empathy for others, narcissism, and skepticism. I think that he looked only for negative qualities in me too, and although he never actually pointedly said them out loud I believe that he thought that I was impetuous, overly sensitive, and naïve.

The seminal event of this tale occurred when an author who we had published works for before submitted a manuscript dealing with unusual extramarital sexual and romantic relationships between heterosexual adults. The manuscript was submitted as non-fiction and was intended to be an authoritative narrative examining the psychology and pitfalls of cheating. I found the manuscript most illuminating and doing as much fact-checking as was feasible recommended that we publish it with only a few minor changes.

Bryce also reviewed the manuscript. He talked Susan into removing one inconsequential scenario -- which I did not really object to -- and he had a few minor changes that almost exactly corresponded to mine. However, there was one area where we vehemently disagreed.

The scenario on which we heatedly clashed was one which consumed an entire chapter. In the chapter two extremely antagonistic co-workers, who often tried to undermine each other, ended up with a spontaneous series of sexual encounters even though they professed to be in happy marriages. While I will admit that the details of the encounters didn't seem to be the most realistic, the eloquence and fervor with which the author described them led me to believe that they were accurate and should be included in the published manuscript.

Bryce took a position exactly contrary to mine. He thought that the entire scenario was fanciful and went so far as to opine that this one scenario tainted the entire manuscript so badly that we should not believe otherwise convincing related circumstances and refuse publication entirely.

For whatever reason, Susan didn't even make a token effort to mediate our positions but instead asked incendiary questions and made provocative comments. This led to Bryce and I being uncivil to each other for the first time, calling each other names, and questioning each other's' relationships with our parents and our heritage. If I remember correctly I do believe that I called him a prudish asshole who when no one else was around likely fucked gerbils with his pencil dick, while he called me a whore with a gaping pussy that needed a sixteen ounce beer can to get off. While Susan didn't actually laugh or grin, with a twinkle in her eye she did nothing to quell the antagonism.

At the end of the meeting nothing was resolved. Susan told us to cool down overnight and to meet each other in the isolated conference room on the third floor of our building at 7 a. m. the next day and either come to some understanding or compromise, or barring that for each of us to give her a written memo with six to ten bullet points with our best arguments.

When I got home that night and was steaming and cursing at dinner Jim asked me if I was going to have a melt-down so that he would need to call for a straight jacket. I started to bite his head off, but rather than get defensive or angry himself he started to chuckle. When I started to berate him for his chuckling he jumped up off of his chair, grabbed both of my hands with one of his much larger and stronger hands, literally knocked our dinner dishes off of the kitchen table, bent me over it, flipped up my skirt, ripped my panties to shreds, and stuck his angry cock into my beaver.

At first I continued to swear at him until after he stuck me with his flagpole a half dozen times my pussy betrayed me and self-lubricated, so that by about his 10th attempt he buried his hog completely inside me. When he started seriously pounding me, I pounded right back and faster than I can ever remember I came like an F-5 Tornado at the same time that he grunted like a wild beast, his grunts interrupted only with a snide "take that, bitch," as he unloaded more jism into me than my poor little cunt could handle.

Once we recovered we didn't even attempt to clean up the disaster zone that was our kitchen but instead went to bed and tried to eat, suck, and fuck each other into comas.

When my alarm rang the next morning at the ungodly hour of 6:02 so that I would have time to get to the office by seven I noticed bite marks all over my body, one of my nipples was still bright red, and cum was still leaking out of my pussy and caked on my sparse pubic hair. I didn't really have time for a shower but cleaned up my cooch the best that I could with a sponge bath. I let my snoring husband get his beauty sleep and scrawled a note that I expected him to clean up the kitchen by the time that I got home otherwise he could expect me to bite his balls off rather than suck them.

************

My mood was between foul -- remembering my name-calling confrontation with Bryce the previous day -- and foggy -- fondly but hazily recalling the over-the-top sex with Jim the previous night -- when I arrived at the third floor conference room at 7:06 a. m. I hadn't even had time to pick up a cup of coffee on my way to the office, or make coffee at work, and since Bryce and I were the only ones there at that ungodly hour no one else had made it either, I was going through withdrawal. I found that a foul attitude, a mind muddled with over-the-top sex, and a body going through caffeine withdrawal, was a really bad combination.

Bryce was already in the conference room. "You're late Amy," he snarled.

"Some of us have a life outside of work," I growled back. I noticed that he had a large Peet's coffee in front of him. "Did you bring me some java?" I asked in an accusatory tone.

"I'm not your errand boy," he snapped.

Despite this rude introduction to the day both of us tried to be civil -- for the first ten minutes. After that the same rancor that characterized our "discussion" the day before swelled up, probably even more vindictively than during the previous day since even though Susan hadn't mediated yesterday at least she was there and her mere presence held us in check a little. At one point -- I believe that it was when Bryce was calling me a diseased whore -- he stood up. I immediately did too to get in his face -- I believe that it was when I was calling him a pencil dick devoid of testicles -- and my foul, foggy, caffeine-withdrawn-self had had enough. I tried to slap his face with my right hand; he grabbed my wrist with his left stopping me; then for reasons that are buried in my Id and hopefully will never reveal themselves to my conscious mind I grabbed his balls with my left hand.

It seemed like time froze for a few seconds -- Bryce stood there still lightly holding my right wrist with a shocked look on his face while I fondled his balls through his pants. My unconscious mind seemed to sense that something wasn't right; his testicles appeared to be the size of limes, not the kumquat size of any other testicle that I had ever handled. I instinctively moved my right hand toward the three snaps (no belt) holding his pants up as he seemed to be in a trance as he released my wrist. Suddenly -- I had to have done it although there was no cognizant action on my part -- his pants and boxers were around his ankles and two low hanging very large testicles were in my hands. I know that I looked at his uncut erect cock too -- it seemed to be virtually the same length and girth as Jim's circumcised one -- but the look was only fleeting since I was fascinated by the astonishing size and dangle of his testicles and ball sac.

My mind was somewhere between fuzzy and confused as Bryce gently but purposefully removed my hands from his ball sac, turned me around so that I was facing the conference room table, pulled up my dress, pulled down my panties, and then methodically buried his uncut hog in my pussy.

My pussy might still have been moist from the staggering sex with Jim the night before or maybe it was self-lubricating with excitement or perhaps a combination of the two; whatever the reason there was little to no pain as Bryce's cock slithered into my pussy. Once buried he started rhythmically reciprocating his dick in-and-out of my cunt. He gradually increased the pace until the over-sized testicles in his low-hanging ball sac were pounding against my thighs causing a "thawp, thawp" sound in sync with his grunts and my squeals.

After a few minutes of this thumping I -- half voluntarily, half instinctively -- started peristaltic contractions of my strong pc muscles seemingly trying to draw every ounce of seminal fluid out of his lime-sized testicles. This caused his grunts to become louder, and the "thwaps" on my thighs sounder, until suddenly I freaked into orgasm as he unloaded an absurd amount of cum into my murky pussy.

After Bryce lay on my back sweating, groaning, and breathing heavily for a few minutes with his cock still plugging my vagina, and as my own sweat cascaded onto the conference room table, he stood up, pushed his hands against my bare ass, and extricated his cock from my pussy. He collapsed onto a nearby chair. I slinked down to the floor. Still in a stupor I turned to face him and once again fondled his testicles hanging well below his shrinking cock which was slick with our combined excretions.

After the passage of an indeterminate amount of time Bryce stood up, helped me up, and then we both returned our lower body garments to their pre-debauched condition. We simultaneously wilted into chairs. I broke the silence with a genuine "I'm sorry that I said that you have no balls and a pencil dick; both obviously not true."

"I'm sorry that I called you a canyon cunt -- also obviously not true," was his grimaced reply.

"How do we settle the issue that we came here to resolve?" I inquired.

Bryce grimaced again. "After what just happened how could I legitimately maintain my position that antagonistic co-workers couldn't fuck in the workplace? Tell Susan to publish the whole damn thing."

We both walked slightly bow-legged down a flight of stairs to our offices, without another word or look exchanged. When I dropped my notepad on my desk I looked at the clock. "How in the fuck could it be 8:22 already?" flashed through my mind. The fogginess in my brain lifted slightly when I felt a fluid oozing out of my pussy onto my thigh. I quickly mopped it up with a tissue, and then got my emergency pair of panties and a couple of Maxi Pads out of my bottom desk drawer, put them in my purse, and headed for the gym next door.

After displaying my membership card at the gym I entered the women's locker room. I showered thoroughly, threw my soaked panties -- fortunately an old pair -- into the trash, positioned a Maxi Pad inside my emergency panties, and went back to work.

When I returned to work I could see that Susan's light was on. I went into her office, relayed Bryce's message -- causing Susan's eyebrows to be raised -- and then turned to leave. As I was exiting she called out "How did you get him to agree?"

The lie rolled right off my tongue. "I told him about a situation at my father's workplace a decade ago and gave him my father's cellphone number in case he didn't believe me. He apparently did believe me since he didn't make the call and finally capitulated." With that I moved back to my office, hoping that I wasn't still walking bow-legged.

**************

I got little work done that day; it seemed that a lot of time was spent discarding cum-soaked Maxi Pads and replacing them, and my mind was filled with snapshots of both Jim and Bryce fucking me and Bryce's lime-sized balls. I had a few interactions with Bryce -- with and without Susan being present -- and we both avoided the omnipresent subject with nary a twitch or look. About 4:30 -- my normal quitting time is 6:00 p. m. even on days when I get in early -- I gave up trying to get anything done and went home, arriving about 45 minutes before Jim was due. I was very pleased to see that Jim had nicely cleaned up the mess from the fuck fest the night before and had completely cleared the table.

Rather than starting dinner, I took another shower, douched, and while naked except for a pair of four inch heels on my feet and a diamond necklace around my neck sat at the kitchen table with a snifter of brandy in my hands, and one poured for Jim. When Jim walked into the kitchen and saw me his eyes got as big as baseballs. I stood up, walked up to him, put my arms around his neck, gave him a brandy kiss, and said "Have a snifter of brandy and then -- despite my sore cooch and presumably your equally sore cock -- let's have a mess-less repeat of last night."

Jim smiled, chugged his brandy snifter, carefully moved both glasses away from the kitchen table, and then lifted my ass onto it. After licking my clit and labia a few times he realized that I was already wet so he dropped his pants and boxers, and soon his rock hard cock was pistoning in and out of my pussy. I put my arms around his neck and did the peristaltic contraction thing for the second time that day. Jim was getting very excited quickly and when he sucked one of my nipples into his mouth my pussy clamped like a vice on his cock and we both had earth-shattering orgasms.

We ate something simple just to cut our hunger for food and then retired to the bedroom and had a repeat of the previous night. Fortunately the next day was Saturday and we slept in and massaged each other, but no more sex because our equipment was just plain worn out.

I still don't know the reason why -- nor do I dwell on it -- but once we recovered that Sunday our libidos seemed to be in complete sync. Since then I don't think that a day has gone by when Jim and I were both healthy and in town or on a trip together that we didn't have sex of one form or another -- usually several different forms and/or positions.

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Yes, Bryce and I did fuck two more times before he moved out of the area twenty two months after our first encounter. Both of the two other times were very similar to the first one, both in one part of the office or another after a heated argument, and both without either of us having a bare top and certainly without ever putting our lips on any part of the other's body. I did have to explain to Jim the bruises on my thighs from Bryce's freakish low-hanging testicles twamping them; but since if one piece of equipment at my gym wasn't used properly it made similar marks, my bruised thighs never became a real issue.

I delivered my three kids two, four, and six years after Bryce moved out of the area and quit work after the third kid and now am the perfect homemaker, PTA officer, and chauffer to sporting events and ballet and music lessons. For those of you who say once a cheater, always a cheater -- WRONG! I've never cheated on Jim except for those three times with Bryce, and I've actually convinced myself that those weren't really cheating either. I certainly don't know what to call them, but doesn't there have to be at least some intimacy -- even if there is no love -- for cheating to exist? There is no intimacy when you just squeeze a couple of freakish balls with your hands, have your pussy lubricated and reamed out, and get your thighs bruised, without ever kissing or oral of any type with someone you have hostility toward.

In fact, the only time that I think of my experience with Bryce is when I'm sucking Jim's kumquat-sized testicles and wonder what it would be like if they were lime-sized.