The Financial Advisor

The appointment was supposed to be about my 401k.

Three years with the same financial advisor—Margaret Thornton, CFP, sixty years old, and approximately as large as my outstanding student loans. She'd helped me consolidate debt, start investing, build a future I'd never believed I could have.

But today, sitting in her office watching her explain projected returns, I couldn't concentrate on a single number.

"Mr. Porter? Tyler?" She waved her hand in front of my face. "Are you listening?"

"Sorry. Yes. Continue."

"You've said that three times, and you've yet to actually pay attention." She set down her pen. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. Just tired."

"You're lying." She leaned back in her chair—a substantial chair, necessary to accommodate her substantial body. "I've known you three years. I can tell when something's wrong."

The problem was: she was what was wrong.

It had started gradually.

The first year, she was just my advisor—competent, professional, forgettable. The second year, I started noticing things. Her laugh, rich and warm. Her hands, elegant despite their size. The way she actually listened when I talked, asked questions, remembered details.

Now, in our third year, I was in trouble.

I thought about her constantly. Counted the weeks between our quarterly reviews. Looked forward to these meetings in a way that had nothing to do with compound interest.

"Tyler." Her voice cut through my thoughts. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. I'm your advisor. I've seen your credit score and your spending habits. There's nothing to be embarrassed about."

There's you, I wanted to say. I'm embarrassed about wanting you.

"It's complicated."

"Money's always complicated. Try me."

I should have lied.

Should have made up something—stress, work problems, family drama. Instead, the truth came out before I could stop it.

"I'm attracted to you."

Silence.

Margaret stared at me, pen still in hand. Her expression was unreadable.

"I know it's inappropriate," I continued, unable to stop. "You're my financial advisor. You're twice my age. You're—"

"Fat?" She raised an eyebrow. "You can say it."

"I was going to say 'way out of my league.'"

"Interesting assessment." She set down the pen. "Based on what metrics?"

"What?"

"You're attracted to me. That's a data point. What other data is informing your analysis?" She was speaking in financial terms, which should have been ridiculous but was somehow calming. "Walk me through your thinking."

"I—" I tried to organize my thoughts. "You're intelligent. You're confident. You don't apologize for who you are."

"Continue."

"You listen. Really listen. Most people are just waiting for their turn to talk. You actually hear what I'm saying."

"And physically?"

"Physically, I—" I swallowed. "I think you're beautiful. Your size, your presence, the way you fill a room. I know that's not what I'm supposed to want. But I can't stop."

She was quiet for a long moment.

Then she stood, walked to her office door, and locked it.

"Margaret?"

"We're going to have a different kind of meeting today." She turned back to face me. "Off the books. No recording, no notes, no professional liability."

"What are you—"

"I'm going to tell you something that will change our relationship. Either positively or negatively. After that, we can decide how to proceed." She sat back down—not in her desk chair, but in the client chair beside mine. "Fair?"

"Fair."

"I've been divorced for fifteen years. Since then, I've had exactly two dates—both disasters. I've resigned myself to spending the rest of my life alone, building other people's futures while mine remains empty." She met my eyes. "And then you walked into my office. Twenty-three, broke, hopeless—but determined. I've watched you grow. Build yourself from nothing. Become someone worth investing in."

"Margaret—"

"I'm not finished." She took a breath. "Somewhere along the way, I started looking forward to our meetings too. Started remembering our conversations. Started—" She stopped. "This is extremely unprofessional."

"Unprofessional is relative." I reached for her hand. "What matters is what we want."

"What do you want?"

"You. All of you." I squeezed her fingers. "Not as my advisor. As something else."

"As what?"

"As whatever you're willing to be."

She kissed me first.

It shouldn't have surprised me—Margaret was decisive in everything—but the reality of her lips on mine short-circuited my brain. She tasted like the coffee she'd been drinking, like afternoon meetings and professional competence and something sweeter beneath.

"This is a terrible idea," she said against my mouth.

"I know."

"I could lose my license."

"You could transfer my accounts first."

She laughed—surprised, delighted. "That's actually not a bad solution."

"I'm learning from the best."

She pulled me up from my chair, guided me toward the small couch in the corner of her office—client seating, normally. Now something else entirely.

I undressed her there, in her professional office, surrounded by diplomas and certifications.

Her suit came off piece by piece, revealing a body that had probably never been seen by a client before. She was vast—breasts heavy in a sensible bra, belly soft and round, thighs thick as tree trunks. She was also shaking.

"I'm nervous," she admitted.

"So am I."

"It's been fifteen years—"

"I'll go slow."

I went slow. Kissed her neck, her shoulders, the swell of her breasts above her bra. Unhooked it, let her breasts fall free, took one nipple into my mouth while she gasped.

"Tyler—oh—"

"Tell me what you want."

"I want—" Her voice cracked. "I want to feel wanted. Really wanted. Not tolerated. Not settled for."

"You're not being tolerated." I looked up at her. "You're being worshipped."

I proved it. Worked my way down her body—kissing every roll, every curve, every inch of skin she'd probably spent decades hiding. When I reached between her thighs, she was wet enough that my fingers slid through her effortlessly.

"Please—" she begged. "Please—"

I buried my face between her legs and made her come on her office couch.

"Your turn," she said, pulling me up.

She pushed me back, straddled me—her weight settling onto my thighs, her body surrounding me completely. She was big enough that I felt almost small beneath her.

"I'm going to take what I want," she said. "Is that acceptable?"

"Extremely acceptable."

She freed my cock—hard, aching—and positioned herself. Then, slowly, she sank down.

The sound she made was something between prayer and profanity.

"God—" I gasped. "You're—"

"Tight?" She smiled. "Fifteen years of abstinence has that effect." She began to move. "Now. Let me give you the return on investment you deserve."

She rode me like she managed portfolios—with careful attention, strategic timing, an eye toward maximum yield. Her body bounced and rolled above me, and I grabbed her hips, pulled her down harder, chased a climax that felt like compound interest finally paying off.

"Yes—yes—right there—"

"Tell me what you need—"

"Just you—fuck—just you—"

She came with a cry she muffled against my shoulder. I followed, spilling into her, and we collapsed together on the couch where clients usually sat to discuss their futures.

"Well," she said finally. "That's not how I usually end quarterly reviews."

"I hope not."

She laughed, then grew serious. "We need to talk about what happens next."

"I know." I traced patterns on her arm. "Transfer my accounts to a colleague. Keep seeing me. Build something."

"Build something?"

"Isn't that what you do? Take investments and grow them over time?" I met her eyes. "I'm investing in this. In us. I want to see where it goes."

"You're thirty-two years old. I'm sixty."

"Age is just a number. You taught me that—when I was panicking about retirement timeline."

"That's not the same—"

"It's exactly the same." I kissed her. "Take a risk, Margaret. Bet on something that doesn't have a guaranteed return."

She looked at me for a long time. Then, slowly, she smiled.

"Fine. But if this tanks, I'm not responsible for the losses."

"I'll take that deal."

"And you're definitely transferring your accounts."

"First thing Monday."

"Good." She pulled me in for another kiss. "Now. Let's discuss your long-term goals."

We discussed them thoroughly.

That afternoon. That evening. Every day after.

My accounts transferred to her colleague. My heart stayed with her. Every quarterly review became a private meeting, numbers optional, returns guaranteed.

"This is the best investment I've ever made," I told her once.

"Your portfolio is doing well—"

"I wasn't talking about the portfolio."

She smiled—still surprised, after all this time, to be wanted.

"Neither was I."

Returns projected: excellent.

Risk assessment: worth it.

Portfolio status: permanently merged.