Tony had been stressed and under pressure for some time. Work was hard and he was missing his targets. We were heavily in debt and the annual bonus award decision was looming. In his early 50s, a change of career or even job was probably out of reach. I was really worried about him: Tony was short-tempered, putting on weight and withdrawing into himself. Our sex life, which at the best of times had been sporadic and vanilla, had been nonexistent for months. For better or for worse, I reminded myself…
The office drinks party was the last thing either of us wanted. But we needed to be seen, and we needed to be seen to be positive. These things matter when decisions are being made. Driving there in a car more expensive than we could afford, we both were wrapped in our own thoughts.
Knowing how important the evening was, I had dressed in a red midi dress that complimented the olive skin tone, dark brown eyes and dark brown hair I had inherited from my Italian parents. Running to my knees, the close-fitting dress was square-necked, revealing a little of my cleavage. With it, I wore cream high-heeled sandals and a pearl necklace that hung below the collarbone.
Leaving me with two couples I vaguely knew from previous, excruciatingly dull, social events, Tony went to get some drinks. My lips pressed together slightly in sympathetic sadness as I noticed how my husband’s linen jacket was a little too tight across the shoulders and the waistband of his chinos cut uncomfortably into his stomach.
Over one of the other wife’s shoulders, I caught the eye of a man in his late thirties, who was openly appraising me. His whole demeanour exuded confidence, self-assurance and power. I looked away, but he continued to stare; the intensity of his scrutiny was unsettling.
Whilst making small talk with the two couples, I monitored the man’s progress in working the room; all the while, his penetrating gaze was on me. I was unsettled, intrigued and, to my discomfort, drawn to him almost magnetically. Tony reappeared clutching our drinks and, noticing, explained quietly that the mystery man was Mike, the Director to whom he reported. My husband’s expression made it clear Mike held the sword of Damocles over his future with the firm. The desperation Tony felt was obvious to me.
“You must be Claudia,” Mike commented in a deep, powerful voice. Responding to the greeting, I shook his hand. Standing closer than was socially acceptable, he held my small hand in his for much longer than was appropriate. To my irritation, a feeling of arousal grew within me.
In the act of releasing my hand, he ran his fingers slowly across my midriff and down my flank. My eyes widened in surprise and I involuntarily pulled back slightly. “Tony didn’t say his wife was younger than him and so attractive,” Mike purred, his hand, hidden from view by a pillar, settling on my backside. “But, then,” he continued, “underselling is one of his many failings.”
“Mr Burgess, neither this conversation nor where you have placed your hand is appropriate,” I remonstrated primly, glancing towards my husband, who had moved away and was talking with some colleagues. When Tony looked anxiously in my direction, it struck me that he had made himself scarce on purpose.
“Please call me Mike,” my husband’s boss suggested, his hand exploring the horizontal crease between my backside and thighs. “And given how precarious your husband’s position here is, I think it is entirely appropriate,” he continued, with the self-confident and calmly determined look of a man used to getting his own way. Anger flashed momentarily in my eyes, but something altogether deeper surged through me at the same time.
“Tell me, Claudia, does Tony disappoint you at home as much as he disappoints at work?” Mike asked evenly, his fingers running up the cleft between my buttocks.
“I don’t know what you mean.” I blushed, my face betraying my response. He smiled knowingly as he moved his hand from my backside and steered it around my hips. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my husband watching on helplessly.
“Let me put it another way: when was the last time your husband put in a satisfactory performance?” Mike asked, watching my eyes widen when his hand came to rest on my mound. I frantically looked around the room: half in search of help, half to check no one was watching the scene playing out in the corner of the room. My husband was the only one who appeared to be aware. My husband also gave no indication that he was going to help. Instead, he looked resigned to where this was heading.
“He…we…” I stammered. His stare was almost hypnotic, reading my mind as I struggled to formulate a response, rooted to the spot as he stroked me intimately through the material of my dress.
“Oh, Claudia,” my husband’s boss sighed, shaking his head in sympathetic understanding. “I think we should discuss how we might address Tony’s performance failings in the privacy of my office.”
“You really believe I’m going to agree to that, you arrogant bastard,” I spat, mustering a last, futile, attempt at defiance.
“That depends on whether you want your husband to remain in paid employment,” Mike replied evenly, his fingers tracing across my collarbone and down onto my bosom. “It’s the corner office on the right at the end of that corridor,” he continued, indicating with his eyes.” I will see you there in five minutes.”
Watching him saunter off towards his office, a feeling of helpless frustration overcame me. We really needed this job. And I knew my husband’s performance had been spiralling downwards. But prostituting myself to save it? The humiliation burnt inside. And yet, there was no choice. Composing myself, I made my way across to Tony. “I’m doing this for you; I’m doing this for us,” I explained quietly. Misery and defeat written all over his face, it was all he could do to nod his agreement.
Making my exit from the room as discrete as possible, I walked down the corridor with a sick feeling in my throat. The door to the spacious corner office was open. Closing it behind me, I turned to face Mike, who was leaning casually against the edge of a large desk made entirely of glass, balanced on elegant chrome legs. We faced each other in silence; after what seemed an eternity, it was my husband’s boss that broke it: “Take off your dress.”
“Take it off,” he repeated firmly when I hesitated, my reluctance and revulsion evident. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, I unzipped the back and eased the straps from my shoulders, allowing the dress to slide softly down my torso. Then, with gentle pressure from both hands, I pushed the material clear of my hips and allowed the dress to fall into a pool around my feet.
“Now the bra,” Mike encouraged. Reaching back, I unclasped the red stretched lace, half cup, balconette bra. Letting it drop, I placed my arms protectively over my breasts. “Let me see your tits, Claudia,” he instructed, almost relishing my mortified expression as I dropped my arms and exposed myself to him. “Mmm, delightful,” he commented, taking in my heavy breasts, large dark areolae, and deep brown protruding nipples.
“Now come here,” Mike instructed, devouring my curves as I walked across the office on unsteady legs. Standing close to him in front of the desk, naked except for a pair of red lace knickers and my high heels, my pulse raced and my throat tightened with shame and anticipation of his next demand.
I trembled slightly when he reached out and placed his hands on my boobs. His calm, authoritative gaze was almost mesmerising, as he weighed my gently sagging breasts in his palms, and then ran both hands across the soft malleable flesh, causing me to inhale as I stifled a gasp of pleasure at his touch. That gasp turned to a quiet moan when he circled thumbs over my protruding nipples, which began to harden under his touch. The company director smiled with satisfaction and dropped his head onto my chest, cupping my breasts and taking a nipple between his lips. My moan was louder this time, and he bit gently onto the hard nub in response.
“Does Tony touch you like this,” Mike murmured, a hand snaking down over the bare flesh of my stomach and into the red lace of my knickers; fingers searching for my quim whilst I moaned at his touch and shook my head in response to his question. “When was the last time your husband touched you at all?” he continued, parting the folds of my labia and running a finger lightly along the opening.
“Months, years,” I whimpered, feeling him slide his middle finger knuckle deep into my sopping pussy. He tutted with feigned disappointment, watching me struggle with a growing sense of arousal.
“You’re so wet for me, Claudia; aren’t you,” he mused, teasing the red lace down over my bum with his other hand whilst he began to work me. It was all I could do to nod, biting my lip; eyes closed and hands hard on his shoulders as Mike toyed my pussy with increased vigour. Shame engulfed me with the realisation of just how much I wanted him.
Lifting from the edge of the desk, he took firm hold and manhandled me down onto the flat surface. My head turned to one side and eyes firmly shut, I waited; the pounding of my heart loud in my ears. The leaden silence of the office amplified the sound of a belt being freed, a zip released, and then the soft rustle of cotton chinos being tugged down.
I felt my husband’s boss looming over me; a large hand pushed down between my shoulder blades, squashing my heavy breasts against the glass. The other hand guided his hardness between my thighs and up against my aching mound. I inhaled and held my breath, tensing in anticipation of my marital vows being shattered by the impending defilement.
Instead, with agonising languidness, Mike drew his manhood along my glistening vulva. Exhaling, I let out a low groan of desire. “You need this just as much as your pathetic excuse of a husband needs you to take it, don’t you,” Mike chuckled, teasing me with the tip of his cock.
“Yes,” I whispered, almost inaudibly, feeling my sopping labia part to receive his large domed head.
Letting out a snort of derision, he buried himself inside my underused quim. “So fucking tight,” he grunted, pulling back slowly and driving his thickness even deeper into me. My eyes flew open and I let out a startled cry, feeling the walls of my pussy stretch to accommodate his thick shaft.
Then, pressing me down against the glass, and with a series of almost feral grunts accompanying each sharp jerk of his hips, my husband’s boss fucked me. The slap-slap-slap of flesh on flesh; my buttocks rippling as his hips slammed into my rear; his low-slung balls smacking against my mound; the soft squeak of my boobs as they slid over the glass with each thrust; the constant stream of plaintive high-pitched sobs as I lay bent over the desk being used.
My eyes struggled to focus with the intensity of the climax building deep inside me. And then, suddenly, to the accompaniment of pained sobs of pleasure, a wave of emotion crashed through my body; the muscles of my tunnel rhythmically contracting and relaxing around his shaft as he continued to pound me through the single most exquisite orgasm of my life.
The tremors reduced to a series of aftershocks; spent, I went limp against the glass. Still my husband’s boss continued to use me for his own pleasure, fucking me face down on the desk to the accompaniment of increasingly ragged and hoarse grunts. Eventually, I felt him grow inside me and, with a guttural cry of release, he unleashed pulses of hot sticky cum deep into my tunnel.
Slowly, he came to an exhausted halt. Releasing me, he slipped from my ravaged pussy, leaving me feeling strangely empty, an emptiness that made more evident the thick load of seed he had deposited inside me.
Lifting myself gingerly from the desk, I reached for my clothes as he zipped himself up. “Must get back and make small talk with the CEO,” he grinned, smoothing his hair. “That fuck saved your husband’s job. Who knows, a few more sessions like that and you might even earn him a bonus.” Mike winked, before leaving me to dress and compose myself.
Having endured an hour or so more of the part, the journey home was made in painful silence. It was a relief when we pulled into the drive and he turned off the engine. After a long, tense, pause, Tony cleared his throat. “This is all my fault. I’m so sorry, Claudia,” he croaked miserably, “but at least it is over now….”
I hesitated before replying, and did so whilst staring out through the windscreen. “The trouble is Mike made it very clear this is far from over. It is just the beginning, Tony,” I murmured, breaking it to him as gently as I could. He sobbed. I felt slightly queasy. But I also felt the butterflies of anticipation dancing in the pit of my stomach.
