I sat in my office, documenting my time on various accounts. Anna would be running invoices tomorrow and wouldn't take too kindly to me delaying her work. I was lucky to have her in the office- she was organized, great with clients, confident, and most importantly, unafraid to tell me off (and I needed to be told off from time to time).
I worked methodically, translating my hand-written notes into.1 hour increments and notations of the work achieved.
My mind drifted. It had been two weeks since Megan had visited me, kissed me, gave me the best blow job of my life, and begged me to have sex with her. She had subsumed my thoughts since.
I had known Megan for a long time. We were college friends. She was incredibly studious, witty, and nurturing. She had beautiful blonde hair that came to her shoulders when we met, and which she grew out over the years. It enhanced her natural beauty with an irresistible femininity. She had always been slender, although she had filled out some since college, in all the right places. She was honest, kind, and trustworthy.
I would have married her and had a pile of kids together, if I ever thought that she thought of me that way. Sure, Megan spoke candidly with me about sex, but I had always attributed that to our closeness and open, liberal attitudes- not interest.
After we graduated, Megan went on to an impressive, highly-paid, corporate job that was fortunate to find someone with her talents and business instinct. I, too much of a dreamer to have achieved academically, hung a shingle consulting and hustled and networked my way to feeding myself. Now I was doing considerably more than feeding myself- it turns out that I have a real knack telling people what to do and spotting opportunities.
But, the work consumed me. My hobbies had fallen by the wayside. I wasn't getting anywhere on the work I planned for my townhouse. My dating life was a non-entity; in fact, it had been almost a year since I had had sex. The reality was that few women were engaging enough to pull me away from my work.
I opened Instagram and looked at Megan's page. There was no sign of what had transpired between us- on the contrary, her few posts since we met were her usual content- a picture from brunch with her loser boyfriend, a picture of her dogs getting pup cups, and a picture of her at a ribbon-cutting for a new philanthropic venture at her company, holding a pair of giant novelty scissors.
I scrolled through Megan's photos. It was hard to understand why she wasted her time with that boyfriend. Seven years- seven years!- the two of them had been together, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to marry her. He wasn't terribly good looking, Megan complained that he was roadkill in the sack, and Megan outearned him by double. Why did she stay? Sure, he wasn't abusive, he was nice, but it was difficult to see my friend's light dimmed by her boyfriend's mediocrity.
I felt a sudden chill. A shadow fell across my keyboard. I turned, guiltily, to see Anna behind me, arms crossed. She wore a herringbone skirt suit, high heels, and her trademark- tights with the line up the back. Her blond hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, which only made her more frightening.
"Ryan," said Anna, looking stern. "I don't care if you spend all day jerking it on Instagram, but if you don't have your time entries done before I run invoices tomorrow, I'm not paying you this week."
"But I own the company," I argued, weakly.
Anna glowered and exhaled audibly. Although she was just over five feet tall, she may as well have been taller than this building. "You know that won't stop me." she said, bringing her face level with mine. "Do. Your. Time. Entries." Then she turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. "Ten AM tomorrow is your deadline!" she called through the door. The light from her adjoining office turned off, and I heard her high-heeled shoes click away toward the elevator.
I was reminded of another thing on my to-do list: rearrange my office furniture to stop Anna from sneaking up on me.
My eyes flicked to the large digital clock on my desk. It read 4:04 PM. I looked back to Megan's Instagram.
I unlocked my phone and dialed Megan. She picked up after two rings. "Hi," came Megan's voice, breathless.
"Meet me for dinner tonight," I said.
"Ryan, have you seen the time? It's 4 pm," said Megan, laughing. "A little late to be making dinner plans with someone three hours away."
"You'll meet me at Franco's at 7:30. Wear something low-cut," I said, calmly. I felt my hands shaking. I hadn't thought through what I wanted to say before dialing Megan's number and I was shocked to hear my own words.
"Is this..." Megan's voice faltered, before she resumed, in a whisper, "You aren't saying I have to come out there or you'll tell my boyfriend about what happened, right? I did what you asked."
"We have a lot to discuss. Be there," I said, and hung up.
I took a deep breath and balled my hands into fists to stop them from trembling. I had definitely coerced my cherished confidant and friend into that blow job, and I didn't really feel remorseful like I expected I would. I saw the opportunity and it was as if the words came out of someone else's mouth. And now I was pretty sure that my impulsive demand for a dinner date was going to lead to more.
Perhaps if we fucked, I would be able to get her out of my mind. I have replayed that night over and over again. How her tits felt- round, warm, and soft. How desperate she sounded when she begged me to fuck her. How it felt when my finger was inside of her. How it felt to rub my cock with her juices. The softness and tenderness when she kissed and bit my neck. The sensation of finishing in her mouth- relief, pleasure, the craving to finish inside of her pussy.
Oh, and not to be forgotten, how hot she looked sucking me off in the kitchen and masturbating in my guest room on my security cameras. That was one successful home improvement project that I had forgotten to mention to Megan.
My work was suffering. Monday, a client asked me to prepare a valuation of a business he was considering purchasing, and I spent most of the call with the seller masturbating to the thought of Megan looking me in the eyes with my cock in her mouth. I did the work proficiently, but I did absentmindedly wish the seller "have a nice mouth" in parting.
I finished my time entries and left the office at around 6:00. Early, by my standards. I stopped by my house to make myself more presentable for dinner. I shed my consultant sweater and khakis for a white button down and tailored blue suit. I thought back to when I got this suit- my father gave me a check for $1,500 when I graduated college and sent me to his own tailor with instructions to make me look respectable. My father blew a gasket when I told him that I spent $1,000 on this suit, $100 on gratuity to the tailor, and $400 on silk underwear. It wasn't even a sexual thing, I just knew it would piss off my old man and thought it was hilarious. Anyway, I knew what a good suit looked like and this suit did the job.
I looked in the mirror. My hair was tidy. I knew that Megan was pretty susceptible to my hair when it was tousled. She couldn't really hide that one. I reached up a hand and played around in my hair until it seemed just so. I considered my reflection: tie or no tie? Shirt buttoned all the way up or a few buttons open? I opted for no tie, top button undone; applied a layer of chapstick; grabbed my keys and wallet; and left for dinner.
Franco's was another old haunt of mine and Megan's. It was a narrow, long, building with bar seating. Behind the bar was pasta, pasta, and more pasta. All handmade in the restaurant. So too were all the sauces. Franco's made all pasta that followed a flimsy facsimile of the form.
I arrived and parked. It was a tiny restaurant, and a tiny lot, so I saw Megan's car when she pulled in. She drove a BMW with nice leather trim- a gift to herself to celebrate paying off her student loans. She parked and got out of the car. I realized that she looked pissed, and she was striding, rapidly, over to my car. She got next to my window and slapped the roof. I stepped out.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" hissed Megan. "This bullshit is completely unlike you. I had to make up a story for my boyfriend that I was called away for an emergency in-person meeting on one of our accounts. That's a huge lie." She glowered at me in the moonlight.
I was stunned and a little cowed. "You look beautiful tonight," I said, with a mischievous smile.
It was true. Megan's dress was black, short, form-fitting, and low-cut. It accentuated her cleavage, butt, and legs. She wore high heels, which made her calves particularly attractive. I wasn't sure if Megan knew how much I liked women in heels. She wore a black wool shawl around her shoulders. She was stunning.
"Shall we?" I said, offering Megan my arm. She took it, grumbling, and together we walked into the restaurant.
We were seated, and handed menus. We ordered Italian sodas. Although there were many excellent dishes at Franco's, we both always ordered the same thing: Italian sodas and spaghetti puttanesca.
Megan sat her menu down, rested her elbows on the bar, interlaced her fingers, and rested her cheek on her fists, turning to look at me. She looked exhausted. "So what the fuck is your deal? Why did you call me here?"
I sat my menu down and looked at Megan. "I'm not sure where the hostility is coming from," I said, calmly.
Megan exhaled as if she might breathe fire next. "You violated my trust in you. You made me cheat on my boyfriend. And now you've made me a liar, too, by making me come out here with next to no notice."
