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Finding Another Flavor

Two friends at work fills their needs
I never intended for it to happen, really. Sure, like any woman married over ten years I had considered the possibilities, but those were passing fancies, mental dalliances. Despite our disagreements and arguments, I loved Ben, with all my heart and soul. Was he a little narrow-minded? Sure. But I heard the stories other women, even my friends, told of their husbands; the drinking, the silences, the late night arrivals, the unexplained absences. Ben was none of those. If a narrow spectrum of sexual adventure was the worst I had to suffer, so be it. We were happy, had a good house, two great kids, he enjoyed his job, worked around the house. A perfect marriage. I was happy. No intention of ever straying, despite my occasional long look at the waiter’s butt, or returning a glance in a bar. A girl can dream, right?

And I didn’t see it happening, even though it was right in front of me, and I took an active role in it. But still it caught me by surprise when it happened. We were friends, work friends, that was all. Good work friends, close; so close we confessed secrets to each other we didn’t even tell our older friends, the ones we’d known for years. He was just so damn easy to talk to, so good to listen to. I never recognized it as infatuation, never saw the attraction until it was too late. And when it happened, it happened fast and good and strong, and oh, so satisfying.

And I’m not sorry. And I’ll do it again, with him. A lot, I think.

I met him by accident; we’re not in the same department, and there isn’t much mingling between the divisions. But his section adjoined ours, and we bumped into each other in the galley kitchen that connected the two sections. I was getting a cup of coffee from the double pot one morning and he came in, slowly waited for me to finish pouring.

“That’s a pretty complex cup for such a mundane coffee,” he quipped. I remember thinking who the hell does this guy think he is, criticizing my insulated cup. I finished and turned to face him and my anger slipped away, leaving not even a memory.

Not because he was handsome. There were plenty of handsome men, some available, as I understood, married or no, in the office. No, he was…accepting, is probably the best way I could describe it. Sure, he was fit and decent looking, and dressed pretty well for a casual office. But the criticism I had thought I heard in his comment instantly became good-natured ribbing when I saw the easy, welcoming look of him; not just his facial expression, but his posture, his demeanor, his unimposing stance. I could like this guy, I’d immediately felt, and returned his jibe.

“Anything to make this awful coffee seem a little more special,” I returned, smiling, and feeling the smile.

“Don’t I know it. I wish they’d upgrade the roast.”

“Oh, what are you, a coffee expert?” And he proceeded to describe the estate beans he bought, how he combined them, and ground them at home for the coffee he drank before coming to work. “I’ll bring you some, if you’re interested.”

And I accepted his offer.

The next day, when I arrived at my desk there was a thermos of coffee on it, with a hand-written note card, in an envelope, under it. What kind of man uses note cards, I thought. A sticky note, maybe. Smiling to myself, I opened the envelope and pulled the card out. A tight, manly script, bold and confident, without force. Nice.

Enjoy the coffee. Life’s too short and too plain to have uninteresting flavors – Brian.

And just like that we became friends.

The coffee by the way was excellent, full of rich texture and body, hearty without being burnt. Sure, he always kidded me about the sugar and half and half I used (he drank it black) but we began sharing a coffee before work, and meeting for coffee later, and conversations developed, and grew, and soon we were having lunch in the cafeteria together, joking and laughing as we told stories of home and kids, praising and grousing about our spouses, bemoaning our bosses and regaling each other with stories of childhood.

People talked, of course, but there was nothing going on. To my friends outside of work I referred to him as my work-husband, at work he was just a friend. I don’t know if he ever talked to his friends about me; I don’t think so, men aren’t that way. You just don’t hear them re-telling the funny story an older married woman at work told about her kids. But we ignored the chatter, and the gossip died, moving on to juicier topics.

It wasn’t until my birthday that we left the building together for the first time. I opened my email that morning to find a meeting invite for twelve-thirty. Lunch With The Birthday Girl. Well, I was all a-flutter; he’d remembered it was my birthday! I had turned forty last year, and forty-one was nothing special; I’d gotten a card from my Ben, and cards from the kids before I left for work. But his knowing and inviting me out to lunch was special, and my heart beat a little faster as I accepted the invite.

And so began out next phase, the one that led to the Event, as I now refer to it in my brain, when my thoughts won’t let it be. We had lunch that day, and again the next week for no reason at all, and were soon going out for regular lunch dates. Not Date dates, mind you, there was nothing romantic happening here, but the act of being away from our workplace invited a new level of conversation, one that would never take place inside. Discussions of home became more personal, more intimate. I think it started the day he complimented my outfit as we went out to lunch. Flattered by his noticing, I did a little spin for him and struck a pose, realizing a little too late that it was a bit flirtatious. Nothing happened, but just that simply, a door was opened.

And our talks took a different aspect after that, more suggestive and flirty. He told bawdy jokes. I told dirty ones. We talked of sex, past and present. And it all seemed fine until the day I realized that we were so much more than friends, that we were engaged in a complex courting ritual that included everything but physical intimacy. I wondered if he knew, and never asked.

Then the final phase began; a moment of frustration and an unrestrained impulse on my part started it. Nothing sordid. I didn’t suck his cock in the restaurant or anything. It was a Friday, and that weekend was my anniversary. I told him that I wouldn’t be in on Monday, to make other lunch plans.

“Planning on being sick?” he joked.

“No, no,” I explained, smiling at his easy humor, “it's our anniversary. Ben planned a ‘romantic getaway’ for the weekend.” I used air quotes and rolled my eyes. It had been on my mind for two weeks.

“I used to do that with Ellen, take her away.” He cocked his head. “Haven’t done it in quite a while.” He looked at me and I felt his eyes invite me into telling the rest of my story. “So you’re not looking forward to it?”

And just like that, it spilled out.

“It's not that I won’t enjoy a weekend away, no kids and all; they’re at his mom’s for the weekend.” I heaved a sigh and propped my chin up, elbow on the table. “It's just that Ben’s idea of romantic is, well, a little plain.” I looked at him, and he gestured for me to continue, and I did. I spent the next thirty minutes telling him how limited Ben’s scope is for passion, a strict missionary man, no variation. At the end I began to feel contrite.

“I must sound like a spoiled brat, I know. Lots of women would give their eyeteeth for what I have. But the thought of three days of the same lukewarm passion levels, I’m afraid I’ll be climbing the walls. Sure, he’s loving and caring, and makes me orgasm, but it’s always the same, so gentle, so concerned about making me feel good. His idea of a variation is once a year we might try doggie! That’s it! His entire spectrum!

“Vanilla.” That’s all he said when I finally ran out of breath.

“Huh?”

“Vanilla. That’s what I call Ellen.” He snickered. “Ben and her would be perfect together. The same thing, every time, the same way.” He shrugged his shoulders and stuck out his lower lip, eyebrows raised. “No matter what I try, what I suggest…” he shook his head, giving off into the distance. I waited for him, seeing him holding back the dam, and wondering why he was bothering.

He turned, and launched. “It's not that I don’t love her, of course I do,” he began. “It's why I want to share my fantasies with her; it’s why I stay despite never doing any of the things we could do. She likes sex, I swear she does, but it’s like, like…” His eyes narrowed, “like she had it this one way, once, and that was it, it has to only be that way, because that felt good and there can’t be anything else. Like she won’t even consider that something else might be just as fun, or more fun. One flavor,” he said, throwing himself back into his chair as if finally shaking off his burden. “Vanilla.” He brought his arms in front of his chest, palms facing up, lifted his shoulders. “Sometimes maybe a guy wants strawberry fudge ripple.”

“Or mint double-chocolate swirl,” I confirmed, and smiled. “With sprinkles.”

“Maybe some nuts…”

“…and raspberry syrup,” I finished, nodding. We sat looking at each other.

“A girl sometimes doesn’t want to be treated gently,” I confessed. “Sometimes I want to be desired instead of appreciated and worshipped. I want to think that I look so good to him that he can’t stop himself. God, sometimes I wish he’d just take me, throw me on the bed and have his way, or better, several ways, and just leave me there used up and weak.”

“Yeah, imagine that. I did that once.” He looked at me with wistful remembrance. “Once. She accused me of treating her like a whore.” He chuckled to himself. “Once I tried spanking her-”

“O-ooh, do tell,” I leaned in, suddenly more interested.

“It’s not that exciting, believe me.”

“What’s not exciting about spanking?” I blurted. He looked at me, lifted his eyebrows and made an exaggerated shocked look. “Stop it. You know what I mean, a little rough treatment, a little submissiveness. That’s sexy.” I felt a tremor run through me from my heads to my toes, leaving behind an odd tingle I hadn’t felt in years.

“Well it didn’t turn out so sexy,” he said, reaching for his iced tea. “She screamed at me, and we didn’t speak much for the rest of our ‘romantic getaway’ weekend,” he said, mimicking my air quotes.

I burst into laughter. “Oh God, that’s so familiar,” I blurted, “once, when I was feeling a little adventurous, and really horny, he was on top of me, and I whispered into his ear, ‘oh, harder daddy, do it harder’!” Brian nearly spit his iced tea out, and I laughed despite my minor embarrassment. “He leaped off me so fast I thought I’d have to pull him off the ceiling!” I broke down in uncontrolled laughter, and he joined me, caught up in my humor, and we laughed until we couldn’t breathe anymore, and I managed to excuse myself and head to the ladies room.

But when I got back from touching up my makeup something had changed. He was quiet and so was I. The humor had dispersed, leaving each of us not only with our memories and expressed thoughts, but now carrying the others. He knew I wanted it rough, had a daddy thing. I knew he wanted to spank, to be dominant.

And those thoughts remained, simmering.

We didn’t speak of them again. We resumed our chats as they had been before, still flirty and fun and teasing and open, but stopping short of crossing that line. Until it was his anniversary, and I bought him a present.

He had given in, and arranged a weekend with Ellen; they were going down to the shore for a few days. He’d told me he’d be working late every night that week up to Thursday. He was taking Friday off, and had a big project due Monday afternoon. He said he’d never be able to relax if it wasn’t done before he left. I had bought the present earlier in the week, but I didn’t feel right giving it to him until the last day. So I hid it in my desk, and made plans to work late Thursday evening, so I could give it to him before he left, when there wouldn’t be anyone around.

Well, when Brian said late, he meant it. Six became six-thirty and then seven. I had done all my busy work, finished my filing, even cleaned my desk. But I kept an eye on his IM status; he was still there. Finally around seven-twenty I gave up and messaged him.

Still there? Getting ready to go. I’ll stop and say goodbye.

Going for copies, he returned. Meet me in the copy room. 

Okay, make it hard for me. As I walked the corridors of cubes I held the gift bag in one hand, my giant purse slung over my shoulder. The place was deserted. We must be the only people I the building, I thought. And I started to worry that he might not think the gift was as homorous as I thought it was. Matter of fact I was starting to second guess myself.

I stepped into the copy room, saw him there, shirt unbuttoned a little, one shirttail pulled a little out. He looked good a little rumpled. That tingle was there, again. He was arranging a stack into the auto-feeder. I stepped over to the copier, dropped my bag on the top.

“Hey, have a good time this weekend,” I said, “forget about this place. It’ll be here when you get back.”

He turned at my voice and laughed that easy good laugh. “That’s what I’m afraid of!”

I smiled at him and handed him the gift bag. “Here. I got you something,” I said, feeling more tentative than when I’d picked it out. “Happy Anniversary. Have fun.”

Maybe I should have left, let him open it alone. But I didn’t. And before I knew it he was hugging me, thanking me. I felt the tingle again as his strong arms wrapped around me. He smelled of man and the remnants of this morning’s cologne. And as the scent of him filled my nostrils and fired that tingle back up, he released me. By the time I regained my senses, he had the box out and the card open.

A simple note card. All it said was “Just In Case”.

He looked at me quizzically, holding the long box in his hand. It was about eighteen inches long, and narrow. I gave no sign of what I was thinking. I just stood there, holding my breath.

He tore off the paper and lifted the lid. His eyebrows rode high up on his face and he looked up at me from under them, then reached in and lifted out the riding crop.

It was a beauty, I had to admit. I’d gone to adult shops and looked at them, but they seemed cheap and tawdry, more toys than anything. I didn’t want to give him something cheap. So I’d actually gone to a place that sold horse tackle and got a real one. A stiff, flexible shaft with a hand grip and wrist strap. And at the other end, a thick four inch flap of two-inch-wide leather. It was beautiful. Expensive, but beautiful. And when I saw him slip his hand through the loop and wrap his fingers around the grip, I knew he knew it.

He looked at me, speechless for the first time since I’d known him, a look of wonder on his face.

“In case any fun breaks out,” I joked, breaking the silence, “I figured you’d want to be ready.” My voice sounded thin and reedy to me. He looked at me with an expression I hadn’t seen on him before, but felt instantly familiar. We were silent, looking at each other. I don’t know if he was feeling the tension I felt; I hoped so, hoped he knew how to deal with it. I was frozen. I finally broke the impasse.

“Well, have fun,” I said, and turned to the copier for my bag. It had fallen on its side and I took a minute to rearrange the contents so it wouldn’t spill when I lifted. My back faced him.

“You shouldn’t have,” I heard him say. And lightning struck me as a loud crack filled the room. A bright warmth formed on my butt cheek, heating me inside my pants. I inhaled sharply and my fingers gripped the handles of my bag, my entire body tensed. I stared at the wall tried to form words, and failed. I steeled my nerves and turned to face him, heart pounding.

“You hit me.” I stated dumbly. Duh. His eyes narrowed.

“That’s what it’s for.” His head cocked to the side just a little. “You’re a bad girl for buying such a naughty present.” I stood frozen; he took two slow torturous steps around me. “Naughty, naughty.” The charm was still there, the welcome, but a thick layer of menace and want coated his voice. I turned my head but couldn’t move my legs, one hand still holding the bag on the copier. I watched him flex the crop in front of him, testing its give and its strength. His eyes went from my face and travelled down my body; I could feel him seeing me. They came back up to meet my gaze. “Bad girl.”

I never saw his hand move, just heard the whoosh of air slicing and the crack, and the sharp sensation followed by intense heat. I jerked from the strike and turned and backed into the copier, bumping it with my ass.

He was on me, instantly; in a rush my arms found his shoulders as his mouth met mine, devouring me like an animal. I heard grunting, felt hot breath and tongue, his stubble scraping my chin and cheek. He tasted like a drug, smelled even better; his hands were at my face, one still gripping the crop, the other fisted in my hair, and we kissed with a passion I’d never before felt, weeks of restraint gone, smashed away as our mouths mashed together, open and needy. My hands were all over him, his shoulders, his arms, tight and sinewy, his hips, his chest. His hand left my hair, found my lower back, pulled me to him, hard. I groaned into his mouth. His other hand moved to my shoulder, his hand angled, and the leather loop at the end of the crop brushed my face, near my nose. I smelled the leather, inhaled deeply and swooned as we kissed. His eyes were open and hot, and he saw me. The hand from my back came around to the front and slipped up to my neck, under my chin. I panicked, feeling the clench at my throat, waves of fear and lust crashing over me. He pushed my chin up, dangled the leather over my face.

“Smell it, Olga. Smell it, Feel it.” The flap brushed my face, my nose. I rubbed my cheek against it as a kitten would its owner’s leg. My body trembled in his arms and I felt weak as I inhaled, feeling the scent of the thick leather coursing through my veins. I sucked the scent deeply, held it, and exhaled two hot words into his open mouth.

“Oh,” I breathed to him, “Daddy…”

He bit my lower lip and the hand from my neck slipped down the front, grabbing my breast roughly as he grunted. I matched him, throwing my head back and crying out loud as the force of his grip, pleasure streaking through me like wildfire. I lunged for his neck; bit him hard and he cried out. Then he pulled back, grabbed me and spun me around, his free hand pressing on the back of my neck, pressing my face into my bag, forgotten on top of the machine. I spread my arms, grabbing, knocking papers to the floor, managed to grip the edges, my fingers starting the copier as I clutched to brace myself. The machine whirred to life under me as the first blows struck, their sharp report harsh over the rhythmic hum and clicking.

Oh, he beat my ass good! Shouts of ‘bad girl!’ punctuated the blows, drowning out my pleas of “Yes! Daddy! Yes!” I crunched my eyes tight and flung my head side to side under his grip at my neck, hair pulled tight in his grasp as electricity shot through me from the strikes on my ass, the backs of my thighs, oh, the feeling of it, the heat, the sharp sting, the searing ache! My pussy flooded my panties, soaking me; I was screaming, I could feel the rasp in my throat but heard only the sharp staccato slaps of leather on my tormented and thrilled ass cheeks. My skin blossomed, and swelled, the pains ripped through me like gunshots, filling me with desire and lust and aching, throbbing need.

His hand pulled me up then with a grunt, yanking my fingers from the death grip on the copier edges; he spun me around and I nearly collapsed. In a fury he reached for the waist of my pants, struggling with the clasp a moment, then pulling them wide, tearing the zipper with a harsh tug. He dropped to his knees, grabbed the waist and pulled them down my legs with my panties, exposing me to him. My head fell back as my pussy gushed its juices out into the air, spilling down the insides of my thighs; I was exposed to him, this friend, this wonderful man who told all his secrets, who had just beat my ass with a riding crop, he was seeing my cunt, wet and swollen and wanting him. I nearly came from the thought but he was back on his feet, pressing me, turning me again. I collapsed, hard, on the copier, my breasts pressed tight as his hand held me down. My naked ass, red and aching, was presented for his pleasure, my pants and panties wrapped in a jumble at my knees.

“Not my bare ass. Daddy!” I cried, and then first blow landed. I howled as the leather struck exposed skin for the first time, swollen and inflamed flesh. The breath flew out of my mouth as the juices spilled from my clenching pussy. Again, and again, striking over and over, the sound of leather meeting flesh ringing in my ears until it was all I could hear.

And then he stopped, his body leaning over, pressing his chest against my back, holding me down with his body. “Oh, Olga,” he growled into my ear. “Oh, you bad girl.” I could feel his pants where they pressed against my bare legs, felt his cock, hard as steel and thick, pressing between my inflamed ass cheeks. His hand moved from my side and slipped between us. I felt a thin, hard sensation between my legs, slipping upwards, the wide leather rubbing my swollen pussy lips. I felt suddenly ashamed at my lack of grooming, then lost the thought as the wide leather, jammed between my legs, still held tightly together by my bunched pants, brushed across my clit and between my aching labia.

He grunted, pushed again, brushed the tip of the riding crop across my cunt several times, coaxing gasps and squeaks from me. I thought I would cum, I was so close, so VERY close. I tried to breath and couldn’t; tried to speak and failed. Tried to move and didn’t want to. I pushed my hips back against his cock and sucked a breath through gritted teeth.

And then the crop was gone, and he was pressing himself hard into me, crushing me against the edge of the machine. His free hand left my neck, I heard a belt buckle as he pulled back, felt clothes rustling, heard change jingle as his pants hit the tiled floor.

He leaned back over me, the crop in my face again, my head turned to see him from the corner of my eye. The leather stroked my face, leaving wet trails across my cheek. God, I could smell myself, he was wiping the pussy juices on my face! My mouth opened, my tongue reaching out. His bared cock was hot and hard between my ass cheeks as he pressed his hips into me.

“See how wet you are, smell yourself,” he snarled. I could smell it, leather and cunt, right at my face. My tongue stretched, found it, licked lovingly at the tool of my destruction.

And as I tasted myself, he shoved his cock deep into my soaked, slick pussy in one stroke. The air was forced out and I moaned with the wonderful elation of first penetration, the overwhelming feel of hard cock filling my aching cunt, relieving the pressure and adding to it at once, and I came, hard and loud, crying out my orgasm as he pounded into me. He smashed his hips into my ass and I pushed back, taking him deeper, jutting my hips against his, welcoming him, offering to him, letting him take me and have me. He grunted with each thrust, his cockhead plumbing my depths, stretching me, heating me, lighting me afire as he fucked me so good, so hard.

But not long, no, we were too far gone for long; as my orgasm resurfaced and broke over me again I heard his grunts sharpen and tighten. His hands dug into the flesh at my hips and he pushed himself deeper still, and then his jerks were short and deep and hard and my pussy flooded with the liquid heat, spreading through me as I came and he came, gasping for air, sweat cooling on my exposed skin, the room filled with the scent of toner and pussy and cum.

It was minutes before we stirred, me bent over the machine, him bent over me, still imbedded deeply, getting softer but still full and thick in my heat. I felt his lips at my ear, nuzzling me, and I sighed, and turned my head to kiss him. Not the devouring passion of before but tender, caring, like our conversation but without words, lips nuzzling softly in erotic exhaustion. His eyes were inches from mine, soft and welcoming and friendly, and I sighed.

“That was incredible,” I whispered softly, unable to stop a small smile. I smelled his hot breath and his man scent as he exhaled. His mouth curled slightly, but a flicker of unease crossed his face.

“Better than incredible,” he bit off. “Did I hurt you?”

“Yes,” I admitted, becoming aware of the blazing throb on my naked ass. “In a good way, though.” I smiled, remembering the strikes, the humiliation and submission, and my face suffused with warmth. “What I wanted.” His eyes opened a little wider but he smiled easier. I kissed him again, a small peck on the lips. “But could you get off me now?”

Apologizing he slipped his cock from my grateful pussy, and his cum spilled from me, drooling onto my pants as he stepped away. Even with his pants at his ankles he helped me up, apologizing for the mess and the fury.

I stood in front of him; pants still down at my knees, and put a hand to his lips to stop him. “Don’t. The fury was perfect, and the mess,” I said, indicating his cum dripping into my pants, “is just what I need to remember.” I leaned up to kiss him and he leaned in, too, and our arms encircled each other, both bare-assed below the waist and not caring in the empty building. I chuckled into his kiss.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, catching my mirth.

“Hope there’s no security cameras in here!” I quipped, and we laughed, but hurriedly pulled up our clothes. I felt his semen streaking up my legs and pooling into my panties. I rubbed my thighs together, enjoying the squishy sensation of fucked pussy and the tingle of orgasm remnants. It would be like that all the way home. I was focused on the zipper of my pants, but it was a lost cause. I’d get the sweater from my cube and wrap it around my waist.

“Olga?” I heard, and looked up from my ruined pants, but stopped chuckling when I saw the concern on his face. “Now what?” he asked. “What do we do now?”

I reached up, brushed his young man’s face. “Do, sweet Brian?” He seemed suddenly younger in his indecision, looking to the older woman for guidance, so different from the strong, dominant man who had held me down, whipped my ass and fucked me hard just moments ago. It was cute. Not that I had any experience in such matters, but I could make practical decisions. “We’re going to get dressed and go home to the people we love. I’m going to figure out how to sit still in the car,” I said, feeling my tormented flesh rebel against my clothes, “and how to not undress in front of Ben for about a week. And you,” I said, picking up the riding crop from the copier, “are taking your lovely bride away for the weekend. Take this. You probably won’t use it, but take it, it’s yours; I got it for you.” I gave him a friendly wink. “And you sure know how to use it.”

His mood didn’t lighten. He was uneasy, and shuffled back and forth, afraid to say the wrong thing, and knowing he couldn’t say nothing. I raised my hand to hush him. “Brian, we both had fun. A LOT of fun.” He grinned, but not easily. “But we both have people at home that we love, and who love us, and who would never understand what just happened; hell, I barely understand it myself.” I dropped the levity, and took a more serious tone. “But I’m not sorry, not for a minute. This has been coming a long time, no?” He nodded. “Take the weekend; spend it with your wife. Love her. But think about us, too. And on Monday,” I said, touching his face, “we’ll figure this out. You’re still my work-husband, and that’s too precious to me to give up.” I started shuffling the papers, and bent to pick up a few from the floor.

“Is …this going to…happen again?”

From my knees I looked up at him, dumbfounded. I swiped a tendril of hair from my sweaty forehead. “God, I hope so!”

We laughed, and I asked him to show me the order of the report he was compiling; I promised to have the copies on his desk Monday morning, and I shooed him out. I collected the report, tossed the copies that had collected in the tray and my bag, and dropped them on my desk for the morning. I grabbed the sweater from the back of my chair and strung it around my waist.

As I left, I mentally prepared my lies for the broken zipper if Ben saw it. My ass and thighs had reduced to a dull heated roar, and I squirmed a little as I exited the building, wondering how long I’d have to undress in the bathroom until the marks disappeared.

And I was smiling.

Inspired by inkedmami. Thanks for the naughty thoughts!

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