Christmas Erotica
"Pleased to Meet You" by P.S. Haven
I listened to Annie's heels click-clack across the tiled floor of the men's room until she was gone. I exhaled and studied my face in the mirror for a few minutes as I caught my breath. I tried to hate myself, but I just couldn't.
I finished drying my hands and then did my best to straighten my necktie before emerging into what this hotel called its ballroom.
The room was noisy, filled with bloated executives and drunken wives, flirting interns and gossiping secretaries, scattered amongst rows of white-linened tables and blatantly disposable yuletide decorations.
After a lengthy intermission the DJ had started back up and the dance floor was quickly filling again. I skirted its edge as I made my way to the collection of folding tables and keg coolers that amounted to the cash bar. It looked like half the firm was there and I reluctantly joined them to vie for the lone barkeep's attention, suddenly engulfed by my co-workers. On any given workday, these people wouldn't bother to even nod at one another if they passed in the hall. They (and I) were connected only by the simple coincidence of having the same employer. But tonight, the season conspired with the alcohol to make them all temporary friends, if only until Monday.
They shouted and laughed, inquiring about Christmas plans, commiserating about the tortures of holiday traffic, or pretending to enjoy each other's company away from the office. And in the midst of it all I was doing my best to at least act like I was enjoying myself, just as I had promised Anne I would.
Somehow I managed to wrestle my way to the bar and order a beer, which, after a prolonged delay, appeared in front of me alongside a martini.
"Mine," Anne's voice came as she plucked her drink from the bar and took a sip before taking me by the hand and parting the crowd as she led me away from the bar. "There's someone I want you to meet." I could still smell my semen on her breath.
I followed in Anne's wake until we reached a small cocktail table occupied by a lone man I didn't recognize from the firm. He stood as we approached and his eyes held mine and he smiled knowingly.
Anne gestured toward him and said to me, "Brad, this is my husband." He took my hand and shook it. Then Anne said to the other man, "John, this is Brad."
"John Marx," he introduced himself.
"Hello," I returned.
"Brad's the guy in IT me and the girls are always calling to fix our computers."
"Ah," John said, acting impressed. "I've certainly heard your name mentioned before."
Has she mentioned my name while she's making love to you? Has she accidentally called out to me when it was you she was with?
"Anne tells me she has a knack for making her computer break down," John said.
Does she tell you she has a knack for sucking my cock? Does she tell you how she drops to her knees, without a word, and feeds every last inch of me into her empty mouth and sucks with all her strength? Does she tell you how I fuck her mouth, working my cock in and out of her O-shaped lips, pulling out just enough to let her breathe, and then shoving it back in, cutting off her air, forcing her to struggle to keep up with me? Does she tell you how it makes her moan, like she's been starving for it, each time like an eternity has passed since she last tasted me? Does she tell you how we groan together when I cum, how she takes me into her throat, how she swallows it all, knowing she would choke if she didn't? Does she tell you that?
"She always has some crazy story about how she made some program crash," John went on.
Crazy stories, huh? You mean like last week when she told you she was working late? She was at work, alright. The rest of her department working away, trying to meet a deadline as she and I clung to each other in the stairwell. My hands all over her soft ass, tugging down the tiny thong she bought to wear just for me. I bent her over the railing while the other girls worked away. Her panties stretched like a hammock between her legs because she hadn't been able to shimmy them any further down than her knees before I thrust into her. Stripping her of her clothing and her dignity and fucking her hard. Did she tell you the crazy story about how she cleaned herself up with those panties, wiping the cum off with them, then wore them home to you? Is that the kind of crazy story you were thinking of?
"Anne's computer does seem to need a little more attention than most," I said.
"Yeah, she's rough on them."
Rough. Like the last night, when I turned her across my lap. She gave a little yelp when my hand came down across her ass the first time. She started to say something but her pleas died abruptly in her throat when I grabbed the back of her head and stuffed my cock into her gasping mouth. Rough like that, you mean? She whimpered pitifully, her mouth full, as I brought my hand down again and again, raising angry red welts across her quivering cheeks. Her hands flew back to clutch at her bottom, to rub away the sting, but I grabbed her slender wrists in one hand and pinned them against her back. She struggled uselessly, kicking her stockinged legs in the air, all the while bobbing her head up and down in my lap. Have you seen her naked ass today, John? Have you wondered how her backside got latticed with scarlet handprints and swollen crimson stripes?
John and I sipped our beers in unison, and I said, "There aren't many days I don't get a call from her, needing some kind of help."
John laughed at that. "That's my Annie."
I don't know about your Annie, but my Annie likes it hard. Oh, your Annie doesn't? Your Annie likes it sweet and gentle? I'm sorry. But my Annie begs for it. My Annie likes it facedown. My Annie likes it in her ass. My Annie loves the feeling of my hard cock there; the fullness, the tightness, the exhilaratingly raw ache. My Annie squirms on the end of my cock, writhing and twisting, unaware of the fucking yet to come. And when I give it to her, her breath escapes her in one continuous moan, her body contorting as if she has been speared. I fuck my Annie so fast she can't catch her breath. She babbles and pants, almost weeping in ecstasy. I fuck my Annie until she gives herself to me completely, pushing back against me, spreading her legs wide to get as much cock as I can give her, as deep as I can give it to her. I call her names. Names that make her moan with shame and guilt and thrill and excitement. Names like whore and slut. Names she's earned. Names she lives up to. Then my Annie comes. Convulsing like an electroshock patient as I hold her by her hips and thrust into her, forcing wave after seismic-shockwave of orgasm coursing through her. That's my Annie.
"Well, it was nice to finally meet you," John said, extending his hand once more.
"Pleased to meet you," I said.
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Originally Published February 2007: Winter Heat
Copyright February 2007, P.S. Haven
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.
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