Long Overdue
© 2004 by Tara Alton
 

I hated being low man on the totem pole and an hourly employee to boot at work. It blew a great big raspberry. Not only did I get a shitty paycheck, but I also got the most boring jobs in the office, not to mention the latest break and lunch schedules. My morning break was so late that I had to eat my lunch on it. Then during my lunchtime, I sat downstairs to read in the deserted office building café, a sad excuse to feed the masses, but at least down here, I could relax into the uninterrupted calm without a million questions from coworkers passing by the lunchroom about what was I reading.

I was a 35-year-old woman reading twenty something’s literature. You know, hip, sexy stories about underemployed journalists finding the love of their lives. Being a heroine from one of these books seemed so enthralling compared to my life. I wanted to be like these girls, starting anew, taking charge of their careers and their love lives, maybe making some mistakes, but growing all the stronger for it and hopefully having some molar rattling orgasms along the way.

These novels were the closest I’d had toward sex in a long time. I hadn’t gotten off properly in ages, not since I broke up with my last boyfriend six months ago and I’d sworn off one-night stands after a near stalker like situation with a musician. 

I was right in the middle of a sex scene where the devilish cad might actually pull down the heroine’s panties and go down on her; one of my favorite things in the world, when a male voice interrupted me. 

“Is this seat taken?” he asked.

I glanced up to see a boyishly handsome, well-dressed man in his late thirties, holding a Nectar Fizz with an expectant expression on his face. I glanced around at the half dozen or so other empty tables. Oh sure. He wanted this table because of the view or so a vent wouldn’t blow on him or something.

How I hated people trying to hijack my table. It just happened to me the other day. I’d found an empty table in the crowded coffee shop in a bookstore, settled down to enjoy my cup of mango tea and my erotic anthology when another couple plunked themselves down with the excuse there was nowhere else to sit. Fine, I thought. I could tolerate it. I was a grown up. People in Europe do stuff like this all the time. But the couple started talking, loudly. Therefore, I surrendered my table and left without a word.

What I should have done was lift my erotic anthology so they could see the title and then act as if I was really getting into it. That would have chased them off. Even better would have been asking the man if he thought the female character in the story I was reading about could really take a 10-inch dildo up her butt.

I really needed to start standing up for myself. I was so tired of being a doormat. Well, there was no time like the present. I was going to start today. Nectar Fizz boy was not going to take my table.

“Yes. It is taken,” I said.

To my disbelief, he sat down anyway. I was about to call over the lunch lady to complain when I paused, studying him further. He looked oddly familiar. Did I know him? Suddenly a recollection fluttered in my brain. I recognized him from the nose up. He had been between my legs before, eating me out quite well if I remembered correctly.

My stomach lurched. I had dated him! Several years ago, I had seen him for about four months, and judging by his smug expression, he had recognized me as well. 

Why was he even approaching me? Except for the exceptional pussy eating, the whole affair had been awful. Sometimes, I thought I was more in love with his flat in the Victorian house than I had been with him. There had been all this arty stuff that I loved, but it had turned out to belong to his ex-wife. On top of that, he totally feared any type of commitment.

He had been coming out of a messy divorce, which I understood, and he kept saying he didn’t want to feel obligated to me, and yet he asked me out every weekend. Then he’d say “let’s just be friends,” and then an hour later; eat me out with total abandon. So what was that? He said he was testing my resolve to do what I said I would. I called it fucking with my head. 

He was so caught up in this entire friend’s bullshit that we went Dutch with everything. Toward the end, I had stuck him with an opera ticket, because no matter how badly I wanted his tongue on me down there, I couldn’t take his crap any longer. That was why I had never called him to get back my book, and I had regretted it ever since.

I loved that book. It was about Camille Claudel, the French sculptor who had had an affair with Auguste Rodin. I so admired her passion for life and art. We had just seen a late 80's movie about her and I had bought the book, forgoing paying my water bill to buy it. Books had always been important to me. It wasn’t that I couldn’t live without them, but certain books represented certain points in my life. Therefore, the fact I’d lent him this book was a sign of my trust and affection.

Obviously, I had misjudged him. He had never attempted to return it. Sizing him up now, I wondered how much he had changed. His hairline had receded a little, but his body looked more fit than ever. He was also a much better dresser, and he still wore no wedding ring. 

“Do you remember me?” he asked.

“Oh, I remember you,” I said, closing my novel. “Where is my Camille Claudel book?” 

He looked surprised.

“What book?” he asked.

“You know which book,” I said. “I lent it to you.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“Yes. I did. We saw the movie together, and I lent you the book,” I said. 
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His denial was making me so angry that I wanted to reach across the table and slap him. It was his idea that we saw the movie in the first place.
“This conversation isn’t going anywhere,” he said. “Obviously you still have a lot of issues.”

“Me? Issues? You’re the ‘issue’ boy,” I said.

He got up and left, taking his unopened Nectar Fizz with him. Taking a last sip of my coffee before I threw it in the trash, I followed him. At first, I thought I just wanted to know where he worked in the building, but then I realized I was going after him to get back my book.

His office was located on the first floor in the west wing. The door had one of those automatic locks, but I managed to hurry up and grab it as it started to swing shut behind him. He didn’t see me. I slipped right in. 

I followed him into one of those high wall privacy cubicles at the end of the hall. As I came around the corner, I saw he was already seated at his desk. I brushed off his surprised look and plunked myself down in his lap, mostly to embarrass him if he was to be caught, but I had to admit it felt good to have my ass squashed on his lap.

“I want my book,” I said.

“You can’t be in here,” he said. 

I shrugged.

“This is inappropriate,” he said.

His hands started to shift me off him, but he realized where he was touching me and stopped. 

“You’re crazy,” he said.

“I know. I’ve been having these crazy thoughts for years, but this is the first time I’ve actually acted on them. It feels pretty good.”

Being this close to him reminded me how he used to make me feel. Everything seemed so hazy from seven years ago. Had I really been this attracted to him? I wanted to know. I kissed him. 

Locking lips with him was oddly familiar, but then it wasn’t. It was sort of like visiting a childhood amusement park after a ten-year absence. There were things I remembered, and things I didn’t. The fact that he hadn’t shoved me off and his tongue was brushing against the bottom row of my teeth said he didn’t hate it too badly. Also, I feeling something growing hard against me.

Feeling pretty frisky by the time I came up for air, I ran my hand down his chest to his pants where I undid his belt, unzipped him and got it out. This should really embarrass him if someone came around the corner.

“Holy shit,” he said.

I looked at it. 

“You’re a lot bigger than I remember,” I said.

Starting to stroke it, I wrapped my fingers around it, enjoying the feel of it against the inside of my palm.

“We’ll get caught,” he said.

“I don’t care if I get caught,” I said. “I’m so bored at my job anyway. Getting fired would be an improvement.”

Much to my amazement, I was actually thinking about sucking him off, his dick was so nice, but watching his face, I realized I didn’t want to relinquish this point of view. He probably didn’t have a girl do this every day of the week. I was getting excited as well. Things were getting a little moist down there and my breasts wanted into the action.

Shifting my position, I straddled his lap so my breasts were at least eye level with him, but he was too busy watching my hand on his cock. Why hadn’t I worn something more low cut today? 

I was thinking about pausing to unbutton my blouse when another thought popped into my head. The whole book thing was still bothering me. He owed me something in exchange for it. 

Starting to use a movement as if I was juicing an orange on the top of his dick, I scanned his office for something worthy to take. It had to be something he really treasured. I’d spotted an award, an employee of the year thing. It must have meant a lot to him considering how he had it placed on the wall. I’d never gotten an award for anything.

Suddenly, he came all over my hand, his body shuddering. Grabbing a tissue, he started wiping himself off, leaving me with a sticky hand, so I wiped my hand on his suit and got up.

My legs felt a little wobbly as I approached the award. Obviously, the hand job had affected me far more than I had realized. The throbbing between my legs was making it hard to think. 

I took the award off the wall. It was one of those clear Pyrex kind with the certificate embedded in the plastic, his name engraved on the front. It was heavy.

“I’m taking this for payment of my book,” I said.

Tucking it under my arm, I turned to leave. I didn’t want him to see how horny I was. 

“Wait,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

I looked back. He was pointing at a bookshelf. There was a pile of art books on the top that I hadn’t noticed.

“I like keeping them here because they help me relax,” he said.

Peering at the titles, I took a step closer. There it was. Camille Claudel. My stomach fluttered. I pulled it down. It looked so different. I hardly recognized it. Wait. Wasn’t the cover a different color? Wasn’t the book thicker? I looked back him.

“Is this my book?” I asked.

He sighed.

“My ex-wife has your book. When she came to get her stuff, she said she liked it, so I let her have it. I found this book a few years ago at a used bookstore, and realized I still liked Claudel’s work, so I bought it. You can have it.”

“You gave her my book?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I was stunned. It wasn’t his to give away. I know this sounds unreasonable, but there had always been a part of me that thought I might get my book back. I would never see it again. It was truly gone. I tried to gather my composure, but I was so upset and horny I didn’t know what I was going to do. I felt as if I was going to cry.

“Is there somewhere private we can go?” I asked.

Seeing my distress, he took me into an empty office where I locked the door behind us. I’m sure he thought I wanted some privacy for a good cry, but that wasn’t it at all. I’d kept everything inside me for so long that I had finally snapped. This was it. I knew my heroines from my novels would never ever consider doing something like this, but they were in their twenties. They couldn’t understand what it was like to be a thirty something, sexually peaking, sex-starved woman, and that’s who I was. 

“You either going to fuck me or eat me out,” I said. “Either way I’m having an orgasm in exchange for my book.”

He looked shocked.

“Well, which one is it?” I asked. “Can you get it up again?”

Looking down at his crotch, he shook his head.

“Right then,” I said. 

I kicked off my shoes, inched off my hose, pulled down my panties and left them in a pile on the floor. With little decorum, I hopped on edge of the desk. This looked like an ill conceived, poorly plotted porn movie, I thought.

For a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to do it. He was going to bolt for the door and call security for my sexually harassing him, but he approached me. 

Standing in front of me, he parted my knees with his hands. I felt a delicious chill of gooseflesh. He pushed me back on the desk and flipped up my skirt. I flashed on being at the doctor’s office having a pelvic for a second as I gazed up at the fluorescent lights, but then he blew on me and a slow smile spread across my mouth.

I held my breath as he dove in. I expected warm powerful kisses, long laps of the tongue, treating it like a lollipop, or quick little nibbles, eating it as if it was an ice cream cone with sprinkles on top. 

My face screwed up. I let out my breath. What the hell was he doing down there? It was awful. I can’t believe I used to think he was wonderful. He didn’t have a clue. Did he even know where my vagina was? He was kissing the crevice located alongside it.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Warming you up,” he said.

“Please, don’t dilly dally,” I said. “I’m already warmed up.”

Obviously, he wasn’t listening, and I was growing more frustrated by the second. I wasn’t getting my book’s worth at all.

“Just suck my clit,” I ordered.

Running his entire tongue over me, he tried to find it and pulled it into his mouth. Yikes. That sure wasn’t my clit.

“You’re not even close,” I exclaimed.

He let go of me. Propping myself up on my elbows, I pulled him up by the back of his hair. We were both staring at my pussy. I couldn’t believe he was having such a hard time finding it. It was practically staring up and shouting at him. My little guy could take a lot of abuse. Let’s just say my clit wasn’t a pussy. 

“There,” I said, pointing at it.

Looking up at me, he separated it from the rest, sucked it between his teeth, and let go. His eyes glazed over. I flashed on that image of him between my legs all those years ago. 

“Yes. Do it again,” I squeaked. 

Now, he was getting it, keeping it erect with an airtight vacuum in his mouth. 
“Hit it with your tongue inside your mouth,” I said.

With his tongue, he flicked it. I squirmed. Now he was sucking it and simultaneously flicking his tongue over and around it, but his tongue was too soft.

“Make your tongue harder,” I said. “Beat the little guy up.”

He whacked him good. I gasped. He saw my response and did it again. The repetition was driving me wild. Yes. This was it. I lifted my butt in the air to get closer to him. I didn’t want him to stick his thumb up my butt, but I did want a good squeeze on the fanny. 

“Squeeze my ass,” I said.

He slid his hands beneath my skin and squeezed hard. We got a rhythm going. His tongue was thumping my clit like a little drum. I could almost hear the sound in my head.

I couldn’t take it a moment longer. I unbuttoned my blouse with trembling hands, hiked up my bra; my breasts exposed, and I pinched my nipples as hard as I could. At the sight of it, his eyes rolled back in his head. 

My clit went into overdrive. Tingles spread throughout my body, right to my fingertips. Suddenly, I felt like my heart stopped. Time stood still. Every muscle in my body tensed up, and all I could feel was an over-whelming sensation running from my clit with a zap of electricity right up to my brain. Holy shit. I clamped my legs around his head and bucked into the best orgasm of my life.

As the waves of pleasure left me and I realized where I was, the hard desk pressing into my back, the fluorescent lights burning into my eyes, I noticed he was oddly still. Had I suffocated him? I opened my legs. He came up for air with a powerful gasp. 

“I still want you to have it,” he said.

“What?” I asked, thinking he meant his penis.

“The book.”

“Oh,” I said, flipping down my skirt. The old me probably would have just taken the book and called it a day, but the new me would definitely say something else.

“I was going to take it anyway,” I said. “Maybe your award, too.”

Taking my hem of my skirt, he wiped off his face. I stared at his audacity, but then I remembered wiping my sticky cum hand on his suit.

“In that case, I will have to come looking for them, won’t I?” he asked.
 

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Tara Alton's erotica has appeared in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Best Women's Erotica, Guilty Pleasures, and at Clean Sheets and Scarlet Letters. She lives in the Midwest and writes erotica, because that is what is in her head, and it needs to come out. Check out her website at http://www.taraalton.com