Peter and Cilla’s First Encounter

**18 years old and older only, please**

All evening, Cilla fought the vertigo brought on by distraction, a distraction caused by the to-do list in her head and meeting Peter earlier that day. She couldn’t concentrate in spite of the urgency of the task—pulling together the bits and pieces produced during most of her professional life, during the last six years.

Only two small lamps illuminated the room. Hours before, she’d closed the shades and shut out the light from the lampposts outside, choosing instead to work in the muted light. One small lamp provided a focal point on the desk and another at the file cabinet. After a day of searching and copying and organizing, she sat near the file cabinets too exhausted to move.

Nestled in an overstuffed chair she worked in silence and what seemed like for hours.

Taps sounded on her door and interrupted her train of thought. “Who is it?” Most likely it was Michael again. She got up to flip the light switch, but didn’t reach it before the door opened.

Cilla’s breathing halted when she saw Peter peek through the crack in the door, then ease through it and shut it behind him. He stood in front of her for a long time, silent, wearing a mask of quiet determination. He knew what he wanted from her.

“Would you like to sit down?” Cilla felt sheepish in asking the question, but she didn’t know what else to do after so many minutes spent in silence.

Peter slowly made his way around the room, looking over each painting mounted to the wall, surveying the spines of each book on the shelves. He passed Cilla, studied her secret photo for a long time before slipping into the chair behind her desk. He leaned back. “You’re lucky to have a window in your office. I don’t.”

Cilla finally let out the breath she’d been holding. “McFadden Hall is an older building. There are fewer offices with windows.”

Peter’s hand found the curtain behind him. He pulled the cloth between his fingers while his eyes held Cilla in their gaze. “I have thought about you.”

His bluntness took Cilla by surprise. “What did you think about me?”

“Do you really want to know?”


“If I told you, what would you do?”

“I don’t understand.”

He leaned forward. “If I told you what I was thinking, it would be because I want something from you. It wouldn’t be worth saying if you’d refuse.”

Cilla tensed. “What would I refuse?”

“That’s not the question.” Peter’s voice strummed her skin and sent up a quiver between her thighs.

Cilla’s fatigue weighed her down, but something else permeated the exhaustion—an intense feeling of expectation welling up from that place where her skin trembled. “What would you want me to do?”

“You are close. Ask it again.”

She hesitated. Then she asked the question another way. “What do you want me to do?”

The slight smile came back. Peter let go of the curtain and lowered his arm until it rested on his thigh. “I want to feel you against the palm of my hand.”

Cilla had to consider what he was asking of her. She struggled to control the expression on her face. He didn’t get up to come toward her, to strip away her clothing or to slide his hand underneath it and find her vulva already moist from seeing him walk through her office door. She imagined his long thin fingers inside of her. But he wasn’t moving. He sat behind her desk, his palm turned up, his eyes staring into her face. “I want to feel your sex against my skin. Here. Now.”

Cilla hesitated for a moment more. Her arousal pushed aside her nervousness and she removed her boots and set them aside. She slid her tights down and peeled them off of her legs. He didn’t seem to notice how awkward the gesture was. He simply stared at her face, into her eyes. I want so badly to kiss him, she thought as she looked at his mouth. She slid the last piece of clothing, her purple laced panties, over her knees and placed them beside the tights on her desk.

Cilla got up slowly, stood awkwardly on unsteady legs, nervously made her way the few feet to where Peter sat. Did she want him so much that she would do this? She barely knew him. He did not help her position herself properly. He didn’t even move his hand when she carefully lowered herself over his thigh and felt the skin of his palm against her. He looked into her eyes. And he waited.

For a few seconds, Cilla wasn’t sure what she should do. How should she move? Or did he want her to move, did he only want to feel her, to touch her?
Almost as soon as she considered this, she dismissed it. Her body wouldn’t let her stay still. Peter seemed to send her a message that surged into her clitoris and throughout her body. You do this for me.

He nodded slightly when Cilla grasped the back of the chair, the chair she’d sat in many times to work, and found the leverage to move as she liked. She found the thick pad just below his thumb and slowly moved to glide over it. He lowered his gaze and with his free hand, pushed up her skirt to show more of her thigh. But he didn’t do any more. His eyes met hers again and he stared into them, then watched every flinch of her lips, took in the increased rhythm of her breathing, urged her on without saying a word.

Cilla pressed down harder on his hand, moved in a rhythm that increased with each second. His face, the feel of his skin, the words he’d spoken, the question he had her ask, his breath, his eyes…and the intense rush through her thighs, electric through her vulva and clitoris, up through her body leaving her spent and slumping toward him.

He curled his fingers around her hips. His breath drummed against her skin and his forehead rested against her hair. Still, there was no kiss on her lips.

Finally, he gave her the kiss that she wanted, but not as she expected. “I want to see you,” he told her in a low voice, pulled his hand from under her. He grasped her hips and lifted her onto the desk in front of him. His hands eased her thighs apart and he directed the light from the desk lamp to the area where he could see as he pushed her skirt all the way to her waist. His fingers threaded through her fringe of pubic hair, his thumbs pulled back the fleshy lips that shielded her vulva from his view.

Peter stared at her for a few minutes and studied her to the point that it almost became unbearable. Then he lowered his mouth to lightly kiss her clitoris, stayed fixed there for a few moments, his tongue alighting on the spot that sent a tremor through her. The nerves were so raw that the sensation was almost more than she could take. Cilla was on the verge of coming again. When he was through, he pulled her skirt down and pressed her knees together.

Cilla leaned forward, desperately trying to stop him from pulling away. “I want to feel you inside of me,” she told him.

He stared up at her, ran the back of his fingers over the side of her face. “Next time we’re together.”

Peter stood and moved away from her, but not before picking up her panties and tights from the pile on her desk. He placed them in the pocket of his jacket.

Cilla felt powerless as she watched him leave through the door and shut it behind him. She tried to get her bearings there in the near dark, in that silent empty room. After lowering herself to the floor, she stood on unsteady legs. How could he assume there’d be a next time? And, for her, how could there not be?

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