It Takes W-2 To Tango

“Hello, Jessica.” Galen heard the weariness seeping through his own voice. Despite the fact that he was on board for what he knew was coming—that, indeed, he wouldn’t have missed it for the world—a bit of irritation was inevitable. At this point he wasn’t sure to what extent he should be delighted with Jessica and to what extent he should be annoyed with her; the degree to which he should feel privileged, and the degree to which he should feel shortchanged. 

“Galen?” 

“Yes.” He sighed, quite audibly, intentionally playing up the exasperation angle in response to her disingenuous manner. 

“Hi! What can I do for you?” Yep, she was giving him the perky treatment. 

“I’m afraid my W-2 is messed up again.” 

“Oh, no!” As usual, she sounded bratty and amused, rather than apologetic. 

And, of course, it was funny—if not in a “ha-ha” sense, then certainly in a “what-the-fuck?” sense. Yes, thought Galen, it was funny that a thirty-year-old executive accountant would screw up the same employee’s paperwork year after year—and his paperwork alone—with such efficient regularity that you’d think she was earning a commission on it. 

Then again, he reminded himself, she was earning a sort of commission, wasn’t she? 

And he wasn’t sure whether it made the whole thing more funny or less funny when he considered that Jessica was doing it deliberately. 

Why can’t she just ask me out to the movies, like a normal person? he thought as he entered the appointment in a neat little spiral. Or corner me at the Christmas party? Or, what the fuck, grope me in the elevator? Galen wasn’t fussy—and it was a very nice elevator. 

No, Galen didn’t need an engraved invitation to a party in a woman’s panties. But Jessica’s behavior was truly odd. She paid little attention to him most of the year, greeting his engaging drolleries with a distracted brusqueness. No way he could make a date with her, or even a pass at her, under those circumstances. And yet, each April, she lured him to her office by means of an egregiously sabotaged IRS form . . . locked the door . . . and screwed him silly. It was, to say the least, a rather bizarre annual ritual—not that Galen didn’t relish it. In fact, he cherished the ritual so much that he was reluctant to do anything that might disrupt it. So perhaps it was for the best that he continued to play the role of the slightly irked programmer with the mysteriously inaccurate W-2. Maybe that was part of what made the seduction compelling to her. 

When the day arrived, he spent three minutes gathering his pay records, and about ten times as long preparing his person. The silk boxers: were they hanging right? The cologne: subtle enough? The crisp wedges of fur where his razor yielded to the charisma of his sideburns: did they flare symmetrically? 

The appointment was at 12:30, and Galen was on time. 

“Morning, Galen,” said Jessica. She glanced at the clock. “Oops, I guess I should say ‘good afternoon.’” 

He sat down across from her desk. “I’ve always felt that the distinction between morning and afternoon was an artificial one,” he said in his most blasé tone. 

“But it’s based on the position of the sun.” 

“Exactly. There’s nothing more artificial than a human convention that pretends to a basis in nature.” 

Now it was Jessica’s turn to emit a weary sigh. “Did you bring your pay stubs?” 

“Of course.” 

He delivered the folder to her. He loitered in front of the desk while she began to sort through the contents, appearing to reorder the slips. 

“They’re in order, naturally,” he affirmed. 

She ignored this, humming cheerfully as she shuffled the documents. 

“Maybe I’d better do a print-out of my calculations,” she finally said. 

“Maybe.” 

“Would you do me a favor and switch the printer on?” 

Sure, thought Galen, laughing to himself, I’ll do you a favor and walk over to your printer, which I can see from here is already on, so you can study the seat of my trousers. Just like I do every year. 

“There,” he said. “Uh-oh—now it’s off. Hmm . . . it must have been on to begin with,” he explained with false innocence. 

“Haha. Sorry, my bad.” 

Your bad, my ass, thought Galen aptly, and with good-natured sarcasm, as he re-toggled the switch. No, better yet—your ass. She did have a very appealing, very squeezable one—too good to be wasting its luscious cheeks on that swivel chair. I know there’s a better way for your sweet behind to swivel, he said to her in his head, while he imagined a bare-bottomed Jessica squirming on her axis—or rather, his axis—in a frenzy of all-consuming pleasure. The carefully orchestrated hang of his boxers was transformed as Jessica swiveled in his mind. 

The printer chattered, and he retrieved the report. He placed it on the desk. 

“Why don’t you come around, so we can look at this together?” 

A rebellious spirit inspired him, instead, to seat himself sideways on the desk, facing her. 

“Jessica. Listen to me. Every year, you fuck up my W-2. And every year, I come here so we can go over that. And every year, you ask me to come around to your side of the desk. And every year, you lean your head back against my chest. And I put a hand on your shoulder. And you lean farther back, and I stroke your breasts through your shirt and nibble the base of your neck . . .” 

Jessica licked her lips. 

Galen proceeded. “And eventually you move my hand down to your skirt, and I work my way up your thighs to your pussy. And so on.” 

“Mmm . . . yeah,” she moaned. “So what’s the problem?” 

“It’s a fine routine, Jessica—an excellent piece of business, as they say in vaudeville. But—damn it—I feel like I’m in a rut.” 

She glanced at his crotch and smirked. “Not yet, you aren’t. But I know where to find one.” She shifted in her chair. 

He was aware how obvious his arousal was to her, just as Jessica’s was to him. “Your panties are dripping wet, aren’t they?” he asked with a conciliatory leer. 

“Wrong on a technicality, smart-ass—I’m not wearing panties.” 

“Oh?” So she was varying the routine, at least this much. Moreover, Galen reflected, she had transitioned from businesslike to bantery. All good signs. 

“But, yeah,” she continued, “my chair is getting kind of damp.” She stood up. “See?” 

He leaned forward as far as he could, looking over the edge of the desk as though he were peering into a postcard-perfect canyon. He inhaled mightily while his face hovered above the slick vinyl; the scent of Jessica’s wetness was superior, in his nostrils, to that of any national park’s fresh air. 

“There’s more where that came from,” she said. “In fact, I think the next place I sit is going to get even wetter. The couch . . . your face . . . wherever.” She cocked her head toward the far wall. 

That was the spirit. They’d never done it on her couch before, though Galen had noted more than once how suitable a venue it would be. He could easily visualize all the paperwork spread out over its three generous seat cushions, with Jessica, in turn, generously spread out atop the documents. It was a small step, but maybe it could be the beginning of a more multidimensional—or at least multiseasonal—relationship. 

She strolled across the office and calmly seated herself on a couch cushion, as advertised. She flashed her glistening pussy for him before lazily crossing her legs. 

Galen followed her. His cock pulsed, and he sensed all traces of his semi-affected snippy mood evaporating for good. “Hi,” he said, standing before her. 

She simply stared at him for a moment. Then she began, quite methodically, to unbutton her blouse. 

“I—” He started to express something, but she cut him off. 

“Shh.” Bantery Jessica, like perky business Jessica before her, was gone; and an even more interesting Jessica was now slipping her blouse off her shoulders, as if to say, “Just look at me and see who I am.” 

The silence gave their tryst an entirely distinct vibe from the usual encounter, where Jessica would keep up the chirpy business patter until she was so turned on that she could no longer speak clearly. Galen felt a wave of heightened affection for her: she was giving him something of herself, something more than just a hot fuck this time.  

And she was beyond beautiful, sitting naked to the waist save for her unclasped ivory bra. Her shoulders looked sincere and her tummy, passionate. And Galen noticed what a quiet loveliness graced her breasts. In the past, he’d spent so much time ogling her delicious ass that perhaps he’d neglected these other treasures.  

Now this seemed like less of a game. Less of a bureaucratic procedure. Less of a tax formula. 

She blinked at him, and he undid his trousers. 

It was going to be different this time. He’d enjoyed those raunchy, balls-slapping-against-butt W-2 desk fucks . . . but he was craving something sensuous. And from the soft, hopeful look on Jessica’s face, he inferred that she was, too. 

Having left his pants behind on the floor, he clasped her knee and discovered the zipper on her skirt. She moaned again when the garment came down. 

He sat lightly on her lap, letting the silk of his boxers pamper her thighs. He reached in to touch her pussy, just briefly for now, allowing it to moisten his fingertips. 

She put her hands on his shoulders, and he toyed with her loose-hanging undone bra, and with the tender, free-swinging breasts. He tickled, and she giggled—quietly. Watching her motion under his touch awoke erotic nerves that Galen didn’t realize he had. 

As she dissolved for his feathery titillation, her legs ached themselves ajar beneath his presence. She brought his hand back into her juncture, almost sucking his fingers inside her with the force of her desire. 

Sticking his yearning cock in there could wait a bit; Galen knew that the most important thing, here and now, was to make this woman come, to use his dexterity to gratify her exquisite arousal with a smooth, clinging, lingering orgasm . . . to show her his acceptance of who she was by caressing her cunt into desperate ecstasy. The very thought of doing that to her was putting precome on his tip. 

She was so delicate now, so melty and open and . . . 

“Oh, there,” she told him. Her eyes floated shut. “Th—there, oh god, right there.” 

He felt the ocean surge around his two fingers. Her pleasure was a tangible substance, hot and fragrant. And her clit, evidently, was a magnet, drawing his thumb upward until contact was made. 

She sobbed in sweet upheaval, spasming beneath the gentle weight of his ass, drenching his hand. Her bra flapped irrelevantly as she writhed, and she pawed alternately at his silk-encased hard-on and her own stiff nipples. Somewhere along the line she found the slit, and she clutched him for keeps, shaking him to completion. His hips sashayed lewdly as he squirted and spurted on her belly.
“Yes, yes, fuck yes,” he informed her. 

When his cock went still she hugged him, trembling, as if she were a sated lover and not merely an accountant who’d been brought off. 

“Don’t ask too much of me, Galen,” she said. “I’m a creature of habit.” 

“You’re a creature of wonder.” He reached again for her breast. 

“You became my personal April holiday,” she said. “It became this sacred thing to me. I was afraid that anything I did to change or even supplement it could threaten it.” 

“Let me get this straight: for four years, you’ve avoided having a relationship with me just so this special federal holiday of yours wouldn’t get thrown off?” 

She nodded. 

“That’s sort of nutty.” 

She nodded. 

“But I understand the logic. And anyway, I like women who are sort of nutty.” 

“Yeah?” 

“They have a tendency to grow on me.” He kissed her. “Sometimes by the minute.” 

She reclaimed his cock. “And you, I see, are once again growing on me,” she quipped. Then she gave him a non-bantery, un-perky smile. Just an honest smile. “I think we have possibilities, Galen. I think we do.” 

There was a jaded, self-absorbed wind blowing outside. How nice, thought Galen, to be in here.