HER BOSS by Capt Feg
Just after the last war jobs (and money) were scarce. Like most people in the East End, my ****** had lost everything in the Blitz. I had just been demobbed. I had not had a "Good war", being a storeman in the south of England, relying on problem feet to keep me away from the front. I was lucky. After demob I had married my childhood sweetheart - Cath. In those days I was young, full of testosterone, and jealous of even the slightest attention that anyone paid to Cath - even members of her ******.
Cath was lucky. She had been at school while I was in the army. She had passed exams, and subsequently, had the qualifications to obtain a good job. I didn't. In those days it was a deep insult for a man to be unemployed and his wife working. I would sit at home and fume as the long days dragged on. But I couldn't be angry with Cathy. She was also lucky in that she was physical perfection. Young, tall, lithe, long legged, pert breasted. Because of our poor finances sex was limited to the few times when Cath could afford spermicide for her cap. We simply could not afford to have a child. Without her pay we would be on the street. So I spent many nights fuming with frustration as her lithe body pressed against mine in bed (for warmth as well as company in those pre central heating days), her cool, hard, nipple gently moving against my chest as she breathed, and unable to satisfy myself. In those days oral sex was barely known. We both thought that it was too disgusting to even conte mplate. So we got to have sex about once a month. I could have had it three times a night every night - and still been ready for more.
Cath was employed as a Personal Assistant in a small contracting company. She was one of the first women to hold this kind of job, as it was considered "man's work" in those days. She had to dress smartly as she was the usually the first contact with potential customers. She looked tall and elegant as she walked out each morning. Each day I watched her prepare for work, her girdle, brassiere, stockings, high heel shoes, mid-calf shaped skirt and open-necked blouse - clothes that made her more sexy as she carefully fitted and smoothed them to her body.
The Managing Director was a small fat greasy, red-haired man, who had been a junior officer the Army Pay Corps. He came across as a heartless, arrogant slimeball. And most people who knew him thought he worked hard to live up to that. He wasn't married. Cath reported that the women at work all said he totally revolted women. He insisted that he be known as "Major Smythe", and addressed as "Sir" by his employees.
One day I made a rare visit to Cath's office (he didn't like spouses about, distracting his employees during company time). Glancing in the window as I arrived unexpectedly, I saw him touching Cath on her leg, trying to push her skirt up. She was resisting and obviously upset at his unwanted attention. I rushed in the room and roughed him up a little. Cath intervened. She rounded on me and protected him from my anger. Suprised at this I backed off and stood still. Cath then begged Smythe to forgive me. ME! He said he would make me pay for that. She begged me to leave. At the door under her breath she said everything was under control, she could handle him, and couldn't risk losing the job. Reluctantly I left the room. However, before leaving I pressed my ear to the door.
I heard muffled words from both of them. Cath seemed to be pleading again with him to forgive me. I heard Smythe say something like "Yes, but on condition". Cath asked what. He snapped nastily something like "I'll think of something".
I wove my way home. Happy that I had defended her honour, hoping that I had not caused trouble for her (or us), angry that I'd needed to protect her (I felt uneasy now, when she went to work, thinking that the slimeball might be pawing her). But worried that my hot head might cause her trouble.
Cath was very good at her job. She worked well and the business prospered. The incident seemed to be forgotten. A few months later, near Christmas, Cath had worked late several nights in a row to clear the orders before the holiday. One evening Smythe brought Cath home in his car (a very rare item in those days).
I was in the coal shed, by the back door, filling the coal scuttles for the night, when I heard their voices approach our back porch. My door was closed to. From the outside there was nothing to indicate my presence unless I chose to reveal myself.
I heard Cath's voice thank him for bringing her home. He slurred a little, bit too much to drink. "Where's that Neanderthal pet you call a husband?" He sneered. "I'm sure he's inside" I heard Cath's nervous reply in low voice, to avoid attracting my attention and bringing me - as she thought - to the kitchen door.
"I could help you a lot, you know. Or I could hurt you a lot". His voice had dropped too. "Either you give me a Christmas present - or I give you the sack - as my condition for continuing to employ you after that thug you call husband attacked me".
"No please . . ." I heard Cath say. I looked through the keyhole. I could make them out in the street lights. In spite of the cold December air, her coat was already open and his hands were tracing the outline of her breasts over her dress. I saw red. I sprang up to sort him out, making some noise. I heard him say, "It's your choice" pretty young girls are ten a penny" I'll be able to replace you easily enough".
I froze. There was silence outside. I held my breath and counted the seconds. "That's better" he leered "Much better". Slowly I bent back down to the keyhole. His hands were moving inside her blouse. Cath's head was turned away from him, looking towards where I was concealed. "Lovely nipples" he said, and giggled. "Let's see them" I could see an expression of panic on her face, but her hands hung at her side, unresisting. On tip toe, he kissed her neck and shoulder as he pawed her breasts. He fumbled, trying to undo her brassiere. Failing and swearing he tried to rip it off. "No" Cath said.
Without moving her head she lifted her hands and slipped the clasp. Her breasts escaped their restraining cups; Cath's hands fell to her side again. He stood away from her to look at her breasts and watch his own hands carefully slide her brassiere up as his hands cupped each firm breast, rubbing each nipple between thumb and finger. "Good girl" he croaked. I heard Cath sob. "No, please stop." She implored him. "I'm a married woman".
"Then just close your eyes and think of your husband while I help myself to his sweeties." Smythe's voice greased over my wife, dirtying her beautiful body. Alone in the dark coalshed I raged. I simply could not move. I knew that I wanted to rip his eyes out, and cut his hands off, for daring to look at - never mind touch - Cath. But even in the heat of the moment I realised that any such intervention would leave us jobless, moneyless, homeless and destitute.
"Lift your dress up" He squealed quietly in his excitement. "No. . no . . no" Cath replied. He stepped back, leaving her standing against the wall, coat open, breasts exposed. "Last chance, dear" He sneered, about to turn on his heel and leave. "Lift your dress or collect your cards". Tears running down her cheeks, her head still averted from him, Cath slowly lifted her skirt.
I saw a glint as the metal of her suspenders caught the street light. Her pale thighs looked so inviting framed between her peach knickers and tan stockings. Her long legs were on full view in the street light. She looked damned erotic, desirable, and irresistible to take.
I could hear his heavy breathing from where I was concealed. "God . . . God", I heard him whisper. "I have to say you have the best pair of legs I've ever seen.
Drawn like a magnet, his hands crawled over her thighs. I expected to see slime trails where they had been. He bent forward to look closely as his hands pulled down Cath's knickers. At her ankles he told her to lift each foot in turn. Free of her they vanished into his jacket pocket.
His fingers probed her. Cath's legs reluctantly opened at his insistent exploring, his head close to her groin. I was not sure whether he was examining her cunt closely, or licking and kissing her. After a few seconds he quickly got to his feet. He unbuttoned his fly and extracted his penis.
Pulling her legs open and bending her knees, he pulled her onto him and pushed his groin into Cath's, his penis seeking her cunt. He grunted and wiggled for a couple of seconds. Cath's eyes flew open, her mouth formed a silent scream. I guessed that he had found her opening and stabbed himself into her.
"God no, please" gasped Cath.
He humped into her, pushing her up against the wall, rutting like an animal.
"Please, please don't come in me, please" Gasped Cathy panicking and trying unsuccessfully to push up and escape the penis in her belly.
In reply he continued to thrust hard into her. After several more thrusts he held his cock deep. He gave a long, slow moan. He repeated this three times then staggered back from her. His penis, stiff and pointing at Cathy glistened in the street light. Semen trickled from the tip, a drop fell to the ground in a sticky string. He pulled her hand out, he placed his penis in her palm and closed her fingers around it. He then pulled her hand down its length, wiping his penis clean. Releasing her hand it fell limply to her side, her own lubrication and his spunk glistening in the street light on her open palm.
Buttoning his fly he thanked Cathy for her hospitality. "I'm sure that you have a bright future ahead of you . . . . for now". Cathy had not moved throughout. Her head away from him, tears coursing down her cheek, dripping from her chin, dropping to her still exposed breasts, glistening like diamonds in the shadow. He turned and walked away. The garden gate closed and silence descended on us.
Cathy had not moved. Neither had I. The whole thing had taken less than two minutes. My mind was reeling. Part of me was consumed with jealousy. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to hit her. But I had remain hidden because, I couldn't afford Cathy to lose her job. I couldn't afford to let Cathy know that I had witnessed her being taken without helping her.
Also, as I sat and looked at her still body and coursing tears, I realised that I had found witnessing her degradation exciting. I hadn't been aware of it at the time, but I had an erection. Quietly I released it from my trousers and stroked it up and down as I peeked at my wife. As I watched she moved, Zombie-like. Her fingers dove into her cunt. She extracted them and held them up to her face. I could see the thick layer of spunk sticking to them. Cathy gave a sob at the sight. I felt an involuntary kick in the pit of my stomach and willed her to lick his sperm from her fingers. She did not, but I ejaculated anyway, the sound of each globule of spunk hitting the cold brick floor so loud I was sure she would hear.
As if on cue, Cathy came out of her reverie and clasped her coat around her. She turned and put her key in the back door and disappeared into the house. I did not follow her. I walked the streets that night. I was unable to make up my mind how to deal with this situation. Repeatedly I had the vision of him, bent back and legs, humping into Cathy, moaning as he took his pleasure from her, and pushed his sperm inside her.
When I returned home early next morning, Cath had gone to work. We next saw each other that evening. Both were distant, neither of us said much. I had resolved to say nothing until she did. In bed that night I attempted to touch Cath. She shrank to the edge of the bed away from me, faced the other way and appeared to fall into immediate sleep. I think I heard her quietly crying to herself.
That weekend was Christmas. We had few presents. Cath had bought me a bottle of Whiskey - a real luxury in those ration days. Cathy encouraged me to drink some. Later that evening, in bed, Cath cuddled up to me, her cool hands touched my penis. It instantly sprang to hardness. It had been some weeks since we had last had sex. Fed by visions of her doorstep sex, I was keen to the point of impatience. I climbed on her, forced her legs apart roughly and sank my shaft straight and deep into her. Usually Cath would protest that she needed to fit her cap. But this evening she simply laid there, unresisting - as she had accepted Smythe a few nights ago.
And I used her just like him. I had no thought for her feelings or sexual satisfaction at all. I pumped for all of 10 seconds before exploding deep inside her. Cath wrapped her arms and legs around me and clasped me hard to her. After laying on her for a few seconds, quietly enjoying the sensation of my penis deep in the warmth and wetness of her, I lifted my head from her shoulder to kiss her. Tears glistened on her cheek in the half light. I asked what was wrong. She said nothing, but held me more fiercely.
I could not bring myself to mention what I had witnessed. I never did.
Cath was pregnant. I managed to persuade myself that I was the father. But unlike the child who was born, I don't have red hair. Cath had three other children in quick succession. Each had different coloured hair. I was greatly suprised that Cath wasn't sacked. Neither of us mentioned it. The business expanded rapidly, Cath was given substantial pay rises, and was at work throughout each pregnancy.
The frequency of our sex increased enormously. I fucked Cath just about every night. Her long legs opened and accepted me as soon as her back lay on the bed. Her past fears about sex seemed to be replaced with a great urgency to fuck. I too had changed. In bed I now saw Cathy as I had seen her that night. With my cock inside her my mind fantasised. I saw myself as Smythe, roughly taking what I wanted from her, leaving her only with my spunk.
She tossed and turned for ages after our sex, obviously unfulfilled. Her lack of satisfaction added to my satisfaction, as I imagined my spunk in her belly, and her cunt wanting more. As often as not this would get me hard again, and I would simply push her on her back again, push her legs apart, spear her cunt, and rapidly fuck her again. Cath clung to me as I pounded desperately trying to achieve her own orgasm. If she managed it, I felt a disappointment. I interpreted her readiness for sex as an indication that she felt guilty about her experience with Smythe, and was afraid that she hadn't been giving me enough. I had no evidence that Smythe had repeated the incident, so I convinced myself that he hadn't.
We divorced 10 years later, having just got tired of each other.
Recently I met by chance another person who was employed by the same Company at the same time as Cathy. He did not know of my connection with her. The conversation came around to the success of the company all those years ago. Speaking frankly, he estimated that the prosperity had been based on the fact that many of the contracts had been signed while Cath's lips circled the customer's penis. He also recalled that one major supplier had a thing about pregnant women. He had visited the office daily throughout her pregnancies. The whisper on the shop floor was that the bigger the belly the more he wanted to fuck her. In the last days of each pregnancy he would spend all morning in her office. Other workers were given strict instructions not to enter the office, but the sounds of Cathy being fucked could regularly be heard down the corridor. The workplace judgement was that she deserved to be pregnant all the time, as she spent much of each working day flat on her back over her desk being fucked by customers to get orders. The building had roof storage space, with an inspection gallery. Unknown to most, the farthest end of this gallery gave a view of her office. At one time or another every man who worked there apart watched being taken whilst Smythe sat in his chair and watched.
Looking back, it seems that I did not conceive my three *********.
Thinking things over afterwards, I couldn't figure out why she had changed so much from the innocent and demur virgin I had married, to a slut who would lay on her back and open her legs for anyone. I guess that she might simply have liked it. Or, having once let Smythe fuck her she was afraid that she was in a blackmail position. But it was her body - freely used and offered to others by Smythe - which had brought in the customers. And we lived pretty well as a consequence of her "open leg" policy. To be honest, I also had some pretty hot use of her body too. I just wish I'd known that she had been fucking another guy a few hours earlier.
Just after the last war jobs (and money) were scarce. Like most people in the East End, my ****** had lost everything in the Blitz. I had just been demobbed. I had not had a "Good war", being a storeman in the south of England, relying on problem feet to keep me away from the front. I was lucky. After demob I had married my childhood sweetheart - Cath. In those days I was young, full of testosterone, and jealous of even the slightest attention that anyone paid to Cath - even members of her ******.
Cath was lucky. She had been at school while I was in the army. She had passed exams, and subsequently, had the qualifications to obtain a good job. I didn't. In those days it was a deep insult for a man to be unemployed and his wife working. I would sit at home and fume as the long days dragged on. But I couldn't be angry with Cathy. She was also lucky in that she was physical perfection. Young, tall, lithe, long legged, pert breasted. Because of our poor finances sex was limited to the few times when Cath could afford spermicide for her cap. We simply could not afford to have a child. Without her pay we would be on the street. So I spent many nights fuming with frustration as her lithe body pressed against mine in bed (for warmth as well as company in those pre central heating days), her cool, hard, nipple gently moving against my chest as she breathed, and unable to satisfy myself. In those days oral sex was barely known. We both thought that it was too disgusting to even conte mplate. So we got to have sex about once a month. I could have had it three times a night every night - and still been ready for more.
Cath was employed as a Personal Assistant in a small contracting company. She was one of the first women to hold this kind of job, as it was considered "man's work" in those days. She had to dress smartly as she was the usually the first contact with potential customers. She looked tall and elegant as she walked out each morning. Each day I watched her prepare for work, her girdle, brassiere, stockings, high heel shoes, mid-calf shaped skirt and open-necked blouse - clothes that made her more sexy as she carefully fitted and smoothed them to her body.
The Managing Director was a small fat greasy, red-haired man, who had been a junior officer the Army Pay Corps. He came across as a heartless, arrogant slimeball. And most people who knew him thought he worked hard to live up to that. He wasn't married. Cath reported that the women at work all said he totally revolted women. He insisted that he be known as "Major Smythe", and addressed as "Sir" by his employees.
One day I made a rare visit to Cath's office (he didn't like spouses about, distracting his employees during company time). Glancing in the window as I arrived unexpectedly, I saw him touching Cath on her leg, trying to push her skirt up. She was resisting and obviously upset at his unwanted attention. I rushed in the room and roughed him up a little. Cath intervened. She rounded on me and protected him from my anger. Suprised at this I backed off and stood still. Cath then begged Smythe to forgive me. ME! He said he would make me pay for that. She begged me to leave. At the door under her breath she said everything was under control, she could handle him, and couldn't risk losing the job. Reluctantly I left the room. However, before leaving I pressed my ear to the door.
I heard muffled words from both of them. Cath seemed to be pleading again with him to forgive me. I heard Smythe say something like "Yes, but on condition". Cath asked what. He snapped nastily something like "I'll think of something".
I wove my way home. Happy that I had defended her honour, hoping that I had not caused trouble for her (or us), angry that I'd needed to protect her (I felt uneasy now, when she went to work, thinking that the slimeball might be pawing her). But worried that my hot head might cause her trouble.
Cath was very good at her job. She worked well and the business prospered. The incident seemed to be forgotten. A few months later, near Christmas, Cath had worked late several nights in a row to clear the orders before the holiday. One evening Smythe brought Cath home in his car (a very rare item in those days).
I was in the coal shed, by the back door, filling the coal scuttles for the night, when I heard their voices approach our back porch. My door was closed to. From the outside there was nothing to indicate my presence unless I chose to reveal myself.
I heard Cath's voice thank him for bringing her home. He slurred a little, bit too much to drink. "Where's that Neanderthal pet you call a husband?" He sneered. "I'm sure he's inside" I heard Cath's nervous reply in low voice, to avoid attracting my attention and bringing me - as she thought - to the kitchen door.
"I could help you a lot, you know. Or I could hurt you a lot". His voice had dropped too. "Either you give me a Christmas present - or I give you the sack - as my condition for continuing to employ you after that thug you call husband attacked me".
"No please . . ." I heard Cath say. I looked through the keyhole. I could make them out in the street lights. In spite of the cold December air, her coat was already open and his hands were tracing the outline of her breasts over her dress. I saw red. I sprang up to sort him out, making some noise. I heard him say, "It's your choice" pretty young girls are ten a penny" I'll be able to replace you easily enough".
I froze. There was silence outside. I held my breath and counted the seconds. "That's better" he leered "Much better". Slowly I bent back down to the keyhole. His hands were moving inside her blouse. Cath's head was turned away from him, looking towards where I was concealed. "Lovely nipples" he said, and giggled. "Let's see them" I could see an expression of panic on her face, but her hands hung at her side, unresisting. On tip toe, he kissed her neck and shoulder as he pawed her breasts. He fumbled, trying to undo her brassiere. Failing and swearing he tried to rip it off. "No" Cath said.
Without moving her head she lifted her hands and slipped the clasp. Her breasts escaped their restraining cups; Cath's hands fell to her side again. He stood away from her to look at her breasts and watch his own hands carefully slide her brassiere up as his hands cupped each firm breast, rubbing each nipple between thumb and finger. "Good girl" he croaked. I heard Cath sob. "No, please stop." She implored him. "I'm a married woman".
"Then just close your eyes and think of your husband while I help myself to his sweeties." Smythe's voice greased over my wife, dirtying her beautiful body. Alone in the dark coalshed I raged. I simply could not move. I knew that I wanted to rip his eyes out, and cut his hands off, for daring to look at - never mind touch - Cath. But even in the heat of the moment I realised that any such intervention would leave us jobless, moneyless, homeless and destitute.
"Lift your dress up" He squealed quietly in his excitement. "No. . no . . no" Cath replied. He stepped back, leaving her standing against the wall, coat open, breasts exposed. "Last chance, dear" He sneered, about to turn on his heel and leave. "Lift your dress or collect your cards". Tears running down her cheeks, her head still averted from him, Cath slowly lifted her skirt.
I saw a glint as the metal of her suspenders caught the street light. Her pale thighs looked so inviting framed between her peach knickers and tan stockings. Her long legs were on full view in the street light. She looked damned erotic, desirable, and irresistible to take.
I could hear his heavy breathing from where I was concealed. "God . . . God", I heard him whisper. "I have to say you have the best pair of legs I've ever seen.
Drawn like a magnet, his hands crawled over her thighs. I expected to see slime trails where they had been. He bent forward to look closely as his hands pulled down Cath's knickers. At her ankles he told her to lift each foot in turn. Free of her they vanished into his jacket pocket.
His fingers probed her. Cath's legs reluctantly opened at his insistent exploring, his head close to her groin. I was not sure whether he was examining her cunt closely, or licking and kissing her. After a few seconds he quickly got to his feet. He unbuttoned his fly and extracted his penis.
Pulling her legs open and bending her knees, he pulled her onto him and pushed his groin into Cath's, his penis seeking her cunt. He grunted and wiggled for a couple of seconds. Cath's eyes flew open, her mouth formed a silent scream. I guessed that he had found her opening and stabbed himself into her.
"God no, please" gasped Cath.
He humped into her, pushing her up against the wall, rutting like an animal.
"Please, please don't come in me, please" Gasped Cathy panicking and trying unsuccessfully to push up and escape the penis in her belly.
In reply he continued to thrust hard into her. After several more thrusts he held his cock deep. He gave a long, slow moan. He repeated this three times then staggered back from her. His penis, stiff and pointing at Cathy glistened in the street light. Semen trickled from the tip, a drop fell to the ground in a sticky string. He pulled her hand out, he placed his penis in her palm and closed her fingers around it. He then pulled her hand down its length, wiping his penis clean. Releasing her hand it fell limply to her side, her own lubrication and his spunk glistening in the street light on her open palm.
Buttoning his fly he thanked Cathy for her hospitality. "I'm sure that you have a bright future ahead of you . . . . for now". Cathy had not moved throughout. Her head away from him, tears coursing down her cheek, dripping from her chin, dropping to her still exposed breasts, glistening like diamonds in the shadow. He turned and walked away. The garden gate closed and silence descended on us.
Cathy had not moved. Neither had I. The whole thing had taken less than two minutes. My mind was reeling. Part of me was consumed with jealousy. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to hit her. But I had remain hidden because, I couldn't afford Cathy to lose her job. I couldn't afford to let Cathy know that I had witnessed her being taken without helping her.
Also, as I sat and looked at her still body and coursing tears, I realised that I had found witnessing her degradation exciting. I hadn't been aware of it at the time, but I had an erection. Quietly I released it from my trousers and stroked it up and down as I peeked at my wife. As I watched she moved, Zombie-like. Her fingers dove into her cunt. She extracted them and held them up to her face. I could see the thick layer of spunk sticking to them. Cathy gave a sob at the sight. I felt an involuntary kick in the pit of my stomach and willed her to lick his sperm from her fingers. She did not, but I ejaculated anyway, the sound of each globule of spunk hitting the cold brick floor so loud I was sure she would hear.
As if on cue, Cathy came out of her reverie and clasped her coat around her. She turned and put her key in the back door and disappeared into the house. I did not follow her. I walked the streets that night. I was unable to make up my mind how to deal with this situation. Repeatedly I had the vision of him, bent back and legs, humping into Cathy, moaning as he took his pleasure from her, and pushed his sperm inside her.
When I returned home early next morning, Cath had gone to work. We next saw each other that evening. Both were distant, neither of us said much. I had resolved to say nothing until she did. In bed that night I attempted to touch Cath. She shrank to the edge of the bed away from me, faced the other way and appeared to fall into immediate sleep. I think I heard her quietly crying to herself.
That weekend was Christmas. We had few presents. Cath had bought me a bottle of Whiskey - a real luxury in those ration days. Cathy encouraged me to drink some. Later that evening, in bed, Cath cuddled up to me, her cool hands touched my penis. It instantly sprang to hardness. It had been some weeks since we had last had sex. Fed by visions of her doorstep sex, I was keen to the point of impatience. I climbed on her, forced her legs apart roughly and sank my shaft straight and deep into her. Usually Cath would protest that she needed to fit her cap. But this evening she simply laid there, unresisting - as she had accepted Smythe a few nights ago.
And I used her just like him. I had no thought for her feelings or sexual satisfaction at all. I pumped for all of 10 seconds before exploding deep inside her. Cath wrapped her arms and legs around me and clasped me hard to her. After laying on her for a few seconds, quietly enjoying the sensation of my penis deep in the warmth and wetness of her, I lifted my head from her shoulder to kiss her. Tears glistened on her cheek in the half light. I asked what was wrong. She said nothing, but held me more fiercely.
I could not bring myself to mention what I had witnessed. I never did.
Cath was pregnant. I managed to persuade myself that I was the father. But unlike the child who was born, I don't have red hair. Cath had three other children in quick succession. Each had different coloured hair. I was greatly suprised that Cath wasn't sacked. Neither of us mentioned it. The business expanded rapidly, Cath was given substantial pay rises, and was at work throughout each pregnancy.
The frequency of our sex increased enormously. I fucked Cath just about every night. Her long legs opened and accepted me as soon as her back lay on the bed. Her past fears about sex seemed to be replaced with a great urgency to fuck. I too had changed. In bed I now saw Cathy as I had seen her that night. With my cock inside her my mind fantasised. I saw myself as Smythe, roughly taking what I wanted from her, leaving her only with my spunk.
She tossed and turned for ages after our sex, obviously unfulfilled. Her lack of satisfaction added to my satisfaction, as I imagined my spunk in her belly, and her cunt wanting more. As often as not this would get me hard again, and I would simply push her on her back again, push her legs apart, spear her cunt, and rapidly fuck her again. Cath clung to me as I pounded desperately trying to achieve her own orgasm. If she managed it, I felt a disappointment. I interpreted her readiness for sex as an indication that she felt guilty about her experience with Smythe, and was afraid that she hadn't been giving me enough. I had no evidence that Smythe had repeated the incident, so I convinced myself that he hadn't.
We divorced 10 years later, having just got tired of each other.
Recently I met by chance another person who was employed by the same Company at the same time as Cathy. He did not know of my connection with her. The conversation came around to the success of the company all those years ago. Speaking frankly, he estimated that the prosperity had been based on the fact that many of the contracts had been signed while Cath's lips circled the customer's penis. He also recalled that one major supplier had a thing about pregnant women. He had visited the office daily throughout her pregnancies. The whisper on the shop floor was that the bigger the belly the more he wanted to fuck her. In the last days of each pregnancy he would spend all morning in her office. Other workers were given strict instructions not to enter the office, but the sounds of Cathy being fucked could regularly be heard down the corridor. The workplace judgement was that she deserved to be pregnant all the time, as she spent much of each working day flat on her back over her desk being fucked by customers to get orders. The building had roof storage space, with an inspection gallery. Unknown to most, the farthest end of this gallery gave a view of her office. At one time or another every man who worked there apart watched being taken whilst Smythe sat in his chair and watched.
Looking back, it seems that I did not conceive my three *********.
Thinking things over afterwards, I couldn't figure out why she had changed so much from the innocent and demur virgin I had married, to a slut who would lay on her back and open her legs for anyone. I guess that she might simply have liked it. Or, having once let Smythe fuck her she was afraid that she was in a blackmail position. But it was her body - freely used and offered to others by Smythe - which had brought in the customers. And we lived pretty well as a consequence of her "open leg" policy. To be honest, I also had some pretty hot use of her body too. I just wish I'd known that she had been fucking another guy a few hours earlier.
