Screwdriver

Nerves in her deep belly told her what was happening, nerves very different from those in her pussy, separated from them by only millimeters, entirely separate universes communicating for the very first time. He held her long and longer, gentlemanly, carrying his own weight but in full-body contact, a sheen of sweat between them making all deliciously slippery, stroking her back, kissing earlobes, neck, back edges of her underarms, the side of her mouth.

He shut off the engine, and his softened cock was expelled with a tiny fart by her amazingly competent ass muscles.

The things we do for love? Or maybe just for lust? She studied for a moment: not only was she not sore, she felt as if she could start all over again on a moment's notice. Wow!

He laid her down on the carpet, delicately removed the driver - her pussy didn't want to let go- then she wrapped him tight twixt legs and arms and they held one another in a luxurious, slow kiss that went on, she felt, for hours. Finally, she broke the kiss, looked up at him hovering above her and whispered, "So, mister, do you have a name? Now that we've gotten to know one another?"

He looked back at her, shifted slightly. He was hard as a rock again! It pleased her immensely that she was so arousing for him: it'd been such a long time since she had affected a man this way! He gently leaned forward, parted her with his cock, entered her like the tide coming in, slowly, irresistibly, flowing full and warm into both her body and her emotional inner self. When he was properly embedded, he finally answered. The voice was what she remembered from his other five (six?) words: nice, deep, comfortable. Sexy. Fitting to the occasion. "Yes, I surely do! And I'll tell you what it is, and lots of other stuff, over dinner tomorrow night. Meet you here again, at six? Your choice of restaurant."

She thought about it: George. Business. Excitement. Certainly sex, affection, maybe much more? Who could say? Dangerous ground, real quicksand. This was purely insane, she knew nothing at all really about MG, except that he could fuck her, they could fuck together, at a level of skill and intensity that was totally beyond belief. Arms around his neck, she just nodded, and he replied "Good!" Then they began to rock the van again.

It was an extended session. When finally they returned to the club, the Gatekeeper gave Pamela a long, friendly glance, muttered just for Pamela's ears "Hope you had a nice time out there!" Pam reddened, got the distinct impression this woman knew full well.

Next morning at breakfast she made her decision, said to George as he sat hidden behind the paper, "I'll be staying late a couple of nights every week for some time. I've got a big new project, and think it's important. We're understaffed anyway, and you'll have to cook for yourself once in a while. I'll be doing some travel, too. Okay?" Her heart thundered, waiting. Any damned fool of a man ought to be able to sense what was really going on, no? But then, maybe NO... lots of men were pretty thick.

He lowered his paper, looked at her across it. She always had new projects, a few weeks of late nights had happened before. "Sure! I understand. Anything interesting or hard about it?"

Relieved, she smiled at him over her coffee cup and said "Not too difficult, just some really hard work, or so I suspect. Some parts of it will be repetitious in various ways. Probably a lot of new things for me to learn. That's always fun."

His reply almost cracked her up, but she managed not to sputter, face down in her cup: "Well, have fun. You always handle the hard ones well!"

She spoke only to herself: "You BET I do, dear!"

The day was awful, absolutely the pits, drag-drag-drag. She told her partners that she was working on a long-term prospect (true enough!), that it was a secret because it was a long shot (ditto), she would often have to leave sharply at five, instead of her usual six plus.

Only Marcy, her secretary of ten years, had responded at all. One quizzical look, eyeball to eyeball, a tiny smile, and one word: "Really?" Clear as a bell, they understood: Marcy KNEW! But then, Marcy was a sphinx, so it was okay.

At six sharp, heart racing, butt muscles remembering and twitching nicely in a whole new way, she wheeled into the gym lot, almost afraid it would turn out to have been a dream.

In the corner of the lot stood MYVAN. On the rear bumper sat MG, grinning widely.

The open doors behind him seemed like the gates to a brand-new universe.