Incident at Anchor Financial

October 8, 2002 was a bitter day for our little software company. We had begun the firm almost as kids and soared to the heights of the tech boom not as millionaires, but amazingly affluent for young adults in our late 20s. Fortunately, we were a solid company with a good product. We didn’t tank when the bubble burst, but we definitely were no longer looking at retirement in our 30s as we all had imagined.
What really stung, though, was when it became apparent that takeover by one of the larger telecom concerns was inevitable. The offer was reasonable, we had incurred minor debt, and there was no question our financial security depended on selling out to a more secure operation. We were coming out alright, but what hurt is that, for the foreseeable future we would all be working as wage slaves, something we had all vowed never to do.
The transfer transactions at the headquarters of the telecom company went relatively flawlessly. Their executives were very professional, in their cold but eel–like way. Then it fell to me to finish up the paperwork and turn over the titles at the Anchor Financial Center, not far from the headquarters of the telecom.
My accompaniment for this process was to be one of their minor functionaries, a tall, willowy Swedish–American girl named Agneta with straight honey blonde hair down to the middle of her back. Agneta, though polished and professional, was encumbered with a vastly inflated opinion of herself and her importance. She also did not hesitate to express her disdain for our little band of software renegades who had managed by our wits to establish ourselves at the lower end of the communications hierarchy.
Walking over with Agneta on this brisk Manhattan morning to the Anchor Center, she managed to be at least marginally civil, which obviously required effort on her part, but as cold as a salmon in the upper reaches of the Swedish waterways. I also noticed that she seemed just a bit uneasy for reasons not apparently related to the business transaction.
Agneta was wearing a beige business suit with a short skirt, and the way she was pressing her thighs together caused a curious wobble in her gait. Preoccupied with the overall unpleasantness of the transaction, I took little notice, and soon we arrived at the heavy brass revolving door of the Anchor Center and made our way to the office where the titles and final papers were to be proffered and signed.
As I was going over the material with one of their Vice–Presidents, I was occasionally distracted by the way Agneta seemed to be squirming, almost to the point of writhing, in the heavy leather chair next to me. As the transactions progressed, she was sort of slapping her thighs together and clasping her hands together in her lap, against the skirt. Then she would shake her lovely, long Swedish legs in a little dance while pressing the balls of her feet against the floor.
Before long, it became apparent to me that Agneta was feeling the need to relieve herself. This definitely caught my attention, but I did not like this woman, and I figured if she needed a bathroom she was perfectly capable of excusing herself to find one.
We finished our business with the Vice President, and then needed to go over to the long marble counter for assistance from one of the clerks. This being a very busy business day, the clerks were a bit overwhelmed, and the quality of the institution demanded that they be very concise and thorough with each of their customers. As we waited in line, before long Agneta was dancing from one foot to the other, obviously in need of some immediate relief. I relented in my subtle though clearly conscious torture of my young business adversary, though I’m not sure why, and told her, “I can hold our place in line while you go find yourself a ladies’ room.”
She looked at me as if she had been stabbed with a harpoon, and coldly commented, “I’m perfectly capable of getting this over with and getting back to my office where the only contact I’ll have with you is when I’m pushing you to meet a deadline.”
“Have it your way,” I answered, and turned back to notice that the clerk had made no visible progress with the customer she was attending.
We finally procured all the required stamps and seals, and were left only to go over to the vault where the official titles were stored. Agneta walked just in front of me. She seemed to be almost staggering, and occasionally stopped to compose herself.
We had arrived at the desk of the vault and Agneta was standing near beside me, when I was startled to hear a long, guttural “unnnnngghhhhhh” emerge from her throat. I turned quickly to observe her, knees bent to hold her long legs at about a sixty–degree angle, and she was gushing like a fire hydrant, in a thick, liquid spray from beneath her skirt. Standing right next to her, my pants legs were soaked from my thighs to my ankles.
The most amazing part of it was that the spray was producing a sound like a dozen showers in a locker room, which, along with her guttural moan resonated through the marble chambers of the venerable institution. Forty or fifty patrons turned at once to try and discover the source of this odd cacophony. Agneta froze for a moment, and then made a mad dash for the depths and anonymity of the vault.
I was there at our box before she got there. She came running up and leaned her head against my neck, causing her bra, with one of lovely, rounded breasts to press against my shoulder. She looked down at my dripping pants and gasped, “Oh, my God, what have I done to you!” She slowly raised her brilliant, steel blue eyes to meet mine and realized that she had her hand directly on my ramrod–hard penis and found herself in a position of far greater intimacy than she had intended.
Agneta very slowly straightened up, still looking into my eyes. Tears were streaming down her face, and she was swallowing hard to keep from sobbing. “I– I guess we’d better continue,” she managed to choke out.
I opened the box, collected the required documents, and then summoned the vault clerk to escort us out. I also had the courtesy to transfer my trench coat to her shoulders as we left the building, ignoring that I myself was soaked with her urine from my waist to my ankles.
Agneta had very little to say to me during our return from Anchor Financial to the telecom center. Subsequently, during work hours, I did notice that she was very cautious in her relations with me. Over time, I was privileged to learn the causality behind her characteristic icy demeanor. We later developed a relationship, and eventually I was comfortable enough to let her know how amazingly aroused I was by her soaking herself and me in the public forum of the financial services center. What followed is a story for another time.
Sunchile