Anne was the first person to give me a job and take me seriously as an ad writer when I was just a fresh faced college kid. The local office was filled with dusty old women, and let me tell you, Anne was among the dustiest. At about 5 foot 3, with glasses (spectacles seemed more appropriate), Anne was like most aging career PR people - cynical, quiet, pensive.
She sat in her own office, separated by the others by two doors, clippings on every wall, pecking on her computer day after day with her flaccid white hands, the glare of the PC reflected in her glasses.
Each day she wore casual blue jeans and sweaters which did their best to conceal her curvy breasts - although only God [and her deceased husband] knew how far they drooped down after that bungey-cord of a brazier was let loose.
She had flaxen brown hair and oozed seriousness, but there was something beguiling and interesting about her.
Me? I was the opposite. 20 years old, tall, in good shape. To the old bats in that office I was a golden boy.
I could feel them radiate every time I walked into the door. There was Susan, the curly blonde secretary with three kids who was always happy to tell me I had a message waiting for me, and Barbara, the middle aged Italian-American boss who was always a few offices [and a lot of money] away from everybody else. I felt like a rooster in a henhouse some days. I could imagine fucking each and every one of them up against the table in our lobby, my balls slapping against their hot cunts.
But Anne. Somehow managed to distinguish herself from among the rest. I felt so powerful to stand there next to Anne and have her give me my assignments for the next week or fish a paycheck out for me. It just made we want to unzip my pants and drop my warm cock into the palm of her soft hands.
It got even better when I invited her into my personal space to talk over a story or edit something.
She was a bit far away or aloof, especially since her husband died. But I could feel her get a bit softer as she got near.
There were many younger women in the office I fantasized about, but the boss, Anne, she was always the most interesting fantasy because she had 30 years on me. I wondered about how long it had been since she had had sex? And before that, how long it had been since she touched a man my age?
I wondered about what her pussy looked like and what it would be like to kiss her. From a distance it seemed so gross to kiss her. Her breasts were huge, but they were the breasts of a middle aged woman with two children.
But still the idea felt so sexy. I fell in love with the idea of me as a prostitute "giving myself" to her as a treat. I loved going in her office and getting a little too close. She knew what I was doing. She was pretty smart. But she never seemed repulsed - just a little amused.
Finally one night - like in so many erotic stories - our office electricity came to pass.
I was working late and she came over and touched me softly on the shoulder to go over a story. Whenever she got close to me the air suddenly became more gentle. Her voice itself was little more than a whisper. You had to be real close to hear it.
"What does this sentence here mean?" she asked with her typically analytical tone of voice.
"Which one?" I asked. Every sinewy muscle in my lower body began to slowly stir on slow vibration. My body was begging for her to just come a little bit closer.
