by E. Cape
(03/12/03)

That's almost the last of it. Soon all of our office artifacts will be halfway across town in our new corporate home. The furniture we fucked on will arrive like immigrants to a new land, their dirty histories pressing into the corners of newness, claiming the new place and making it theirs. They will attest to our merit and send for us; unpacking will be our homecoming. Unconscious archeologists, these movers don't understand the value of the relics. But I forgive them this ignorance and clear a path to the door. These are the monuments of our transportable fuck legacy, baby; we can lay our foundation anywhere.

The swivel chair I first sucked you in rolls past me and I am impressed with how the uniformed man barely struggles under the weight of its memories. "Get under the desk and leave the door wide open," you dared me, puffed up with a peacock confidence I found endearing. You clearly expected my blushing retreat, and, in your defense, you hadn't yet seen my feathers.

How tightly your hands gripped the armrests as I folded myself under your keyboard, pulled you out of your corporate-whore chinos, and wrapped my fingers around your thickening shaft for the first time. I assigned my other hand to ball-tugging duty and your forearm muscles jumped like sprung violin strings to the tune of the creaking bearings. I remember your choked, soft cry at my first grateful lick of your glans, its spongy heat dragging along the inside of my lower lip, spiking a goosebumped pleasure trail down my spine. Milking out a slippery bead, I coated my lips with the photogenic gloss for the memory snapshots I felt you taking.

I sensed your eyes fixed on me, on this, my debut performance. And how I played to that spotlight, pushing my hair from my face to highlight the stage of my open mouth, sucking you in, inch by beautiful inch, over my tongue and into the warm clench of my throat, groaning deeply with cock-sucking joy at the thrill of that inaugural invasion. That chair was the seat of my education. With no time for a languorous learning curve, I applied myself devotedly to a hurried apprenticeship. I enrolled and graduated in fifteen minutes, magna cum laude. And in short, hot spurts you marched your fellows down my throat in a graduation parade.

The desk I reached across to make you taste my lust is next out the door. Your day-long e-teasing was driving me e-crazy. You tapped out hot promises and invitations from the seclusion of your office down the hall, no one the wiser. Their ignorance was likely our wishful thinking, but who cares? We've always been outright indignant about our right to fuck, like raccoons feeding openly in the garden, challenging the damning flashlight with their beady, willful eyes.

We thrilled each other remotely until I could barely stand it, my cunt flesh a Canadian-pink tomato reddening under a Greek sun, splitting with overripeness. I finally sought relief in the women's washroom and cursed you for sensibly assessing the risk and not following me. I nearly slammed the stall door behind me, wriggled my skirt down and sat on the closed toilet lid. Legs spread, I substituted my frustratingly inadequate lipstick case for you, pushing it into my slippery opening and furiously stroking my clit. And oh, Revlon, did I come. I tightened around my Berry Berry Red, wishing you were beneath me, letting me stuff myself full of you.

I marched into your office seconds later and closed the door. I stood on the other side of your desk and showed you the slick lipstick case, still wet with my indulgence. "Look what you made me use," I smiled. "What kind of substitute is this?" The scene registered slowly on your face, and you blinked even more slowly, dry-eyed. "Taste me," I said with a wink, and extended the case across that desk to your mouth. Holding my gaze, you sucked it, obedient.

The phone through which you invited me to fuck you on your office floor teeters on a stack of file folders, and the uniformed man straightens it to keep it from falling. If I remember correctly -- and I do -- your voice was low and hoarse that morning. The request came early, about twelve hours before we both did, panting on the carpet.

You'd dreamt of me the night before, you said. Would I be so good as to return to the office at 10:00 p.m., bare under my skirt, and impale myself firmly on you, grinding my sensitive bud into your pubis as I had so willingly done in your dreams? Would I fuck you into the ground, ignore your pleas to slow my up-and-down strokes, and force you mercilessly to come and come, gushing and filling, leaking and pooling? I would. In fact, I would be early. The elevator ding announced your arrival and I felt a southern clench of anticipation. You met me in the dark of your office, black but for the reflection of flying toasters sailing across your computer monitor, your screen-saving corporate strobe.

We said nothing. You lay down on your back and unceremoniously unbuttoned, unzipped, and unveiled. You held your cock at the base so that it was perfectly perpendicular to your body, an invitation to settle onto you, to sink your ninety-degree sun dial into the folds of time. I accepted.

The glass-shelved bookcase that kept me upright as you madly lapped and sucked me is sidled through the doorway and my legs actually weaken slightly at the image. The men tsk tsk at the fingerprints on the glass as I remember making them just days before. You barely waited until quitting time to jerk my pants down to my thighs and sink your tongue between my lips. I swallowed my shriek, prayed for continued privacy, and spread my legs over your mouth as far as my pants would allow. You devoured me, feasting on all of the bits of my banquet, gorging on me with handfuls of my ass on the side. I quaked and shook and reached for your head to steady myself. The increased pressure only dissolved me further, however, and I heard and felt you moan against my open, vulnerable bounty. Your fingers found their way inside, one then two, and your lips kissed and licked my swollen places. I blinked against the halogen lights and knew that I would come in your face, here in my still-daylight bright office, with only a few more finger-thrusts and clit-kisses. You delivered, and I grabbed blindly for the bookcase, holding my breath, mashing myself into your mouth with every distinct pulse, frothing over with sticky, chin-coating cream.

As they load the final pieces I feel a distinct pang for the immovable secrets that will stay behind: the rarely used basement gym, our almost-safe haven; the rooftop, our brazen lust-stop, bright and open; the translation room behind the conference centre -- ah oui, chéri. Comme je tiens ces moments á coeur.

I hand over my building pass as the last of it leaves and indulge myself with one quick, final look. I'm pulsing with a below-the-belt heartbeat you know well. Anticipation of new surfaces, corners, and hidden places edges out my brief nostalgia. They won't have unpacked the new place until Monday and there are plenty of ways to bring down the cardboard skyline of that stacked box city. It's time to move in, baby.

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