IaW Ch. 05: A Hard Day at the Office

This is the fifth installment of the "In a World..." series, detailing the erotic journey of Ginnifer and Rick. This narrative can stand alone, but it's at its best when read in the slowly-building sequence. This is also a cross-category story that leans deepest into the prurient parts of the "Loving Wives" category. More sensitive readers should check the IaW Foreword (a stand-alone chapter) to see if this story is right for them.

Also, this is a COVID-free story. It was planned and mostly written when Corona might lead to a hangover, not a virus. If this story happened during lockdown, the characters would've done very different things. If you need an escape from social distancing, keep calm and read on.

Yours truly,

Wilson Spalding

###

My eyes popped open.

It was still dark out.

I was instantly awake, though I hadn't moved a muscle. Adrenaline flowed through me, but I hadn't heard anything. I knew why: she was sleeping next to me.

Normally, I hate waking up before my alarm, but these days, there were moments I was astonished I could sleep at all.

We'd passed out early last night. Woke together, brushed teeth and went right back to sleep. Yesterday had been exhausting.

See, we'd just come back from a week-and-a-half Grand Sex Tour of the Great Southwest (Southwest in the States, for my friends overseas). That had been the adventure of a lifetime, but arriving home didn't let off the pressure. The whole day was an emotional rollercoaster.

The slow chik-chik-chik of yesterday's coaster started on the long drive home, as we picked apart the aftermath of our first "swing." Semi-swing? It was all her, but I'd more or less set it up.

Were we okay? Was this the right direction?

It seemed so, so we talked about venues and how open we'd be. It was pretty much standing hall passes for both of us, but there was an emergency-lights/alarm-bells danger zone on Ginny's side: her office. The office she'd be going back to this morning.

Yeah, that was part of what woke me up.

Fooling around in that "environment" was part of her kink and I encouraged it. If worse came to worse, she could get another job. Of course, it could go far worse than that - and those unknowns were fraying the edges of my confidence. Let's be honest, though: all that risk was part of the rollercoaster excitement.

So, yesterday, back in the home town after our vacation, we brought her cat to the duplex. It was the next step of my fiancée slowly moving in to my place. What was now "our" place. That was another peak on that relationship rollercoaster.

We picked apart some of where her Old Guy fetish came from. It unearthed some painful memories, making a high-speed, roaring valley for that rollercoaster.

This morning, at my work, the office was going into crunch mode: two weeks until shooting started on our next project. All that pressure would reset everything, right? That was real life? Any concerns about sex would be on pause and I'd be off the rollercoaster, right?

This morning, she'd go into her office with the proverbial "safety" switched off. And I'd just ignore that. Suuuuuure.

Nope, we were still on the rollercoaster. Not even sleep is an escape, it's only a slow, ratcheting climb up the rollercoaster's first morning hill.

As I laid there, I remembered the texts. Saturday night/Sunday morning, after the "swing" I'd set up, the two guys each texted video of their threesome with Ginnifer. She'd given them my number.

Yeah, that kind of kink. Double-corkscrew rollercoaster moment.

That was what woke me up.

I saw they'd sent it, but 24 hours later, I still hadn't yet watched it. Sounds strange, but by the time it came in, the real deal was already in my arms. She had described everything; it was foreplay to reclamation sex that was... well, it was mind-blowing.

I quietly rolled out of bed and headed down the hall to the office. A few clicks later, as the files were transferring, I noticed Ben and Harry both included contact information. Smart in a dozen ways and I logged them as "friends" in my address book.

We'd met the duo at a motel in Palm Springs on our way home. They were on a business trip, down from Modesto, the stars aligned and... Ginnifer started her "Veronica Count."

Actually looking at the video, now, at four-thirty in the morning? Another neural nova. It was dark and grainy, but clear enough to see Ginny blowing them both in the jacuzzi.

Fuck.

They sent little video snippets of the sex that followed, including fucking under the parking lot's sodium lights. As a production professional, let me confirm for you: the camera loved her.

I was getting hard to my favorite porn star: my future wife.

Ben and Harry were a couple of characters on their own: bearded hippy stoners with mild pot bellies, mumbling and laughing a lot. The porn reality was that they barely rated as props for Ginny. She was relaxed, laughing and enjoying every second as "the goddess" (their words) connected with a couple of mere mortals.

Funny bit: I'd seen porn about what I was now watching: little single-panel pics on Tumblr about receiving a photo text of "your wife" from an unknown number. Being the voyeur that I am, that seemed pretty hot. In real life...?

It was hard to describe the chaos that raged from my brain to my balls.

My alarm went off in the bedroom and I dashed back to turn it off.

Ginny barely stirred.

Good. I jumped in the shower for a quick rinse, put on a pair of clean jeans and a tie and gave her a kiss on my way downstairs. A snack for the cat and I was out the door before sunrise.

###

The commute was short but we were in preproduction with a two-week window before we headed out to location. It was going to be insane for the next couple weeks, then I'd be gone for the next six weeks after that. Once I hit that production office, it hit back like a prize fighter.

The pace was non-stop: I didn't have time to think, much less dwell on the wolf den where my fiancée worked. I sent a "Love You" text somewhere around lunch and lost track of my personal phone for hours after that.

It was pushing seven before I checked my phone on the way back to the ol' Bronco. Sure enough, she'd answered the text.

"Love you too!" Then: "Humungous news, but not what you're thinking. Talk tonight!"

My brain was racing on the long walk back to parking. If you haven't read about us so far, a quick sum-up: Ginnifer was the eye-candy receptionist for a legal firm that specialized in divorce and sexual-harassment settlements.

They must be the most carefully appropriate workplace in the world, right? Wrong. So, so wrong. They were often in flagrant violation of everything they helped their clients sort out (despite being the firm that handled the found-guilty payouts).

Her office would be a hostile environment for most, but there was that fine line of legal reality. Atmosphere and expectations balanced with intent and established patterns. One thing was certain: they had latitude with Ginny. My future wife once described herself as "very forgiving."

I'd since learned that translated as a mild submissive streak flavored by a kink "for old guys." It wasn't full-blown daddy issues, it was more a devious kick from being a Lolita, with a sprinkling of neuroses, obsession-compulsion and other complications for flavor.

My Bronco only reached third gear in traffic, but my brain was in overdrive as I raced home...

###

By the Miata in the driveway, I knew Ginny was home.

I walked in the back door and called out: "Honey, I'm home!"

Aiming for Ward Cleaver, I may have had just a touch of Jack Torrance.

"Welcome home..." came the slightly stifled, raspy reply from the living room. If I was announcing in Jack Nicholson, she was answering in Demi Moore.

We still didn't have much furniture in the place, leading to a slightly echoey acoustic. Through the rear laundry room, through the kitchen, she was the centerpiece in the otherwise empty living room. Upside down on a thick yoga mat, her legs were in the air like she was riding an invisible bicycle.

I grabbed her ankle, gave it a kiss, then dropped to floor level to follow suit with the lips. Honestly, I was sniffing for salacious evidence, but smelled no sign she'd increased her Veronica Count.

"How was your day?" was our mutual question.

All small talk the next five minutes and I quickly got the vibe that nothing "happened" at work. I suppose, in the grand scheme of things, that was impressive. Maybe even good: she wasn't as crazy as I thought she was.

That's when I held up my phone. "So, um, 'humungous news'?"

Not sure if it was coincidence that her legs, still in the air, went into upside down side-splits, immediately inspiring thoughts of yoga sex.

Ginny saw me look and got a sly smile, but otherwise shook her head. "No, nobody else has had this view today. Or any other interesting view."

"Not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed."

"Sounds like the words of a voyeur who's in love..."

"I resemble that remark."

She flowed to her feet to lay a tantric kiss upon me, then went right back into yoga. "Okay, so I mentioned how the partners use eye-candy as a tactic to catch the clients off-guard, right? Before I left, they wanted me to find someone that could fill the role while I was gone. They even promised to be on their best behavior. Surely they could be professional for two weeks, right?"

"Right! Wrong?"

"Wrong. Very wrong."

"Oh, shit."

"Yes. Exactly. Five old fogeys work out of our office..." She paused as her body achieved some gravity-defying pose, then relaxed. "I should've hired an actress... or an escort. Instead, I hired a temp from a legal agency like they asked for. Tried to find a girl with the right look, and the temp's contract included a Non-Disclosure and confidentiality agreement, plus a workplace conduct waiver."

"Conduct waiver? That's covering your bases."

"Yeah... By the time someone signs those, they should have a good idea that they're not working in a church office, right?"

"Right?"

"Wrong. Instead, I came back to find they hadn't just earned harassment claims but assault claims against three of the five office regulars."

"Holy crap."

"So, this last Friday, I think we'd just left Juarez...? The firm had to access the security footage from the office cameras and handed it over to Glendale PD. It wasn't felony assault, but borderline misdemeanor if the temp wanted to press charges. By Friday night, the temp agreed to a settlement instead."

"Wow. Just fucking wow."

"This morning, the dust was settling. Every single one of those Old Farts is married, and they have never been more polite or more appreciative to see their 'forgiving girl' return to the job."

"Any danger they'll be disbarred?"

"Oh, god, no. There's a strict Business and Professions Code but conduct investigations are handled by the Office of Chief Trial Counsel... half of whom have been clients of our firm. For anything to happen, this would've had to make front page news, not page six. Still..."

"What?"

"They are on notice. Which is..." Gin flowed into a standing, majestic pose, one that I finally recognized: the warrior pose. Once in position, her breathing stabilized, she continued: "...Good for me, I suppose."

"I would imagine," I nodded. "Leverage."

She did a few poses in silence, and it was artful and athletic and sexy to watch. She was focused, and that was a good thing.

I was focused too, also on her, but probably on a different wavelength. Gin was lenient with them, to put it mildly. From what she'd told me, she'd squeaked through high school with a C- average yet now made $60 an hour as "squeezable eye candy."

It wasn't that she was tolerant of office fondling from those wrinkled regulars; it was that she actually loved her job, including that part.

By the time my brain finally came back to earth, I found Ginnifer in "downward facing dog." You know the one: hands and feet on the floor, ass in the air, bent at the waist.

I tilted my head, appreciating the butt-facing view, and she smiled back at me through her legs.

Ever so subtly, she spread her lithe legs - her gaze still locked with mine.

A second later, it was dawning on me, and her grin grew into a megawatt smile.

"Why, yes!" I grabbed her hips and peeled her yoga pants down just far enough to count. "I would love to work out with you..."

Her yoga pants and non-yoga panties peeled down just below her ass, I took a moment to admire an absolutely smooth, round ass. There was a thigh gap even when her legs were together, but right now? She was as wide open and inviting as it could be. Her lips, those lips, were silky smooth, slightly parted and wet.

I didn't want to let go of her hips, but I was getting the game: she wasn't going to break position. At all. "Isn't there supposed to be a flow to this?"

"All the vinyāsa..." -she breathed- "...will be you into me."

My pants dropped to my ankles a second later and I was at full-staff. She had all the natural lube we needed, already dripping, and smelled a little like honey.

She was relaxed, soft and oh, so wet. Not quite salacious sloppy, not the dirty pussy I enjoyed, but a pristine pussy needing to be filled.

There was a moan from below, almost a mantra as I started thrusting.

She was good, maintaining that perfect downward pose.

It felt like she needed a challenge... I ran my thumb under her pussy, catching all the honey dripping off, and softly ran it over her butthole.

She didn't break pose, even a little, but her chanting was a little louder. "Naughty boooooooy..."

"That doesn't sound like a 'no'..."

"Naughty, naughty booooooy..."

I eased my thumb into her butt, just to the first knuckle, but the rest of my hand kept a firm grip on the rest of the cheek. It was like palming a basketball with my thumb in the valve.

"Oh, god..." floated up from below.

This was too good. The visual alone shoved me to the edge.

She was already firm in her pose, but she was starting to stiffen.

I let go with the right hand, just pulling her to my thrusts with that butt-hand. This was just stupid hot. I could not stop the words from coming out: "Is this what they mean by 'hot yoga'?"

Below, Ginny broke into a giggle. "Most of the time, no."

I looked down, my balls already tightening. "Dammit. You are just so fucking hot..."

I felt her ass flexing around my thumb, then her legs gave out. She recovered quick, but her breathing was still ragged. "Nice... touch... I could... get used to... this."

"Yeah! Fuck!" I was coming deep inside her, my thumb still in her ass, still pulling her against my thrusts with that one, all-butt-anchored hand. "...Me too."

I pumped the last of my load deep inside and pulled out, slapping her ass as I stumbled back.

She wasted no time, pulling her panties right back up, sealing me in before I could leak out. She pulled her yoga pants back into place a moment later - and resumed her yoga. That is fucking dedication, ladies and gentlemen.

I was almost disappointed to not see it drip out of her, yet... sealing my cum inside her? No, I wasn't getting any softer.

I pulled my pants back up. There was still a little biochemical bliss going on and I gave my thumb a precautionary sniff. Surprisingly clean.

She went into some pose and I heard her mumble-chanting: "24th asanaaa..."

I washed my hands, focusing on that thumb, but wow... I just wanted to play with that option some more.

She stood and folded a leg into the classic, one-leg bent/praying position (no clue what it's actually called), and was re-centering herself. A moment later, eyes still closed, she pursed her lips. "Namaste."

"And I bow to the divine in you."

Her eyes popped open. "I didn't think you knew yoga!"

"Saw it in a movie somewhere."

"Well, points for remembering." She closed her eyes. "We're going to have to do that again."

"That exact thing?"

She nodded. "And butt stuff in general. That was goooood..."

I adjusted my package. "Yeah... hey, like, will you marry me?"

She nodded, a big smile on her face.

"How often do people ask you that?"

"Once every couple of weeks, on average." She pointed at my phone as she sauntered over to the breakfast counter. "So, I did meet some surprising people in the office today."

"Oh?"

"Five of them. They were all pretty sexy."

I stared at my wife. Who would she find sexy? "So, uh, who? LA Galaxy stopped by to check out group discounts? The Lakers, maybe? No? Not the Dodgers..."

Ginny giggled. "Other direction. I talked to five wives today. THE five wives. All five wives."

"Five wives?" That one was lost on... "Holy shit. You mean your bosses' wives? The future ex-wives?"

Gin nodded. "We used the conference room. The men were disinvited."

"I'm suddenly... aroused. Again. What was that about?"

"They know their husbands aren't saints but most of them didn't know how un-saintly they are. Now they think I'm a saint."

"You are, in a way."

She waved me off in a distinctively un-yoga fashion. "I'm more surrogate than saint. Turns out the wives appreciate that."

"Really?"

"Limits their husbands' circulation," Ginny revealed. "The ladies aren't stupid about these guys; they're all trophy wives themselves. Definitely a little gold-diggery, but they're not terrible people."

"What about the wife of the guy you, umm..."

"Wife of Morty, the hand job guy?"

"You read my mind."

"She's one of the five. Elsa, the Ice Queen."

"Seriously? 'Elsa'?"

"No. Adeline. Addy for short, but that's the only short thing about her. She's a German import, just like Morty's BMW. He describes her boobs as more perfectly sculpted than a Kompressor coupe, and she lets him take her out for a drive twice a month."

"Kompressor... that's a Benz, actually."

"Well, twice a month, the Beemer Benz for Morty."

I couldn't stop myself from kissing Ginny. Puns like that needed to be rewarded. "So, 'bi-weekly' defines an Ice Queen?"

"And leads to weekly hand jobs in his office," Ginny nodded. "...Which, I found out, Addy already knew about."

"Wow. So, no hand job today?"

She shook her head - and we traded a look. That exchange wasn't something you hear every day. The meta-moment evaporated a heartbeat later. "No, 'timid' would be the word of the day."

"Think it'll last?"

"I don't know." Gin considered a moment, then looked over with guilt in her eyes. "Don't hate me, but I kinda miss that... energy."

"I don't hate you, Veronica."

Ginny look at me from the corner of her eye, a smile curling the corner of her lip. "You are a bad, bad boy!"

"And you are a bad, bad girl."

"Still love me?"

"I love you more now than I did five minutes ago..."

###

Tuesday morning, I was out the door before sunrise. Again.

Back in the office, some of those fools had pulled all-nighters, so I was coming in fresh. I sent some home, got coffee for others and hit the ground running.

By noon, I reached for my phone to send Gin a lunch-time "Love You" text. She'd beaten me to it. I responded with the same and dug back in.

One little lull, I looked around at the absolute chaos going on around me. You know, there were times, in a production office and on a set and a few other unmentionable places, that I could imagine a little hanky panky. But it was only imagination.

You know where that shit happens? In the producer offices. In the director meetings. Where people made the assumption they were creative and had the time to literally fuck around. The worst of them were the Harvey Weinsteins of the world, where they were genuine assholes about it. For the rest of the world...? It was the reason the phrase "casting couch" existed.

Was that couch in the production office? Fuck no, it was not. You know what was in the production office? A coffee maker, an empty bag of coke, and a stack of unprocessed receipts.