Message-ID: <17863eli$9812070428@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: "Watcher" Subject: {ASSM} Stolen Moments (revised&reposted) MF ROM INFIDELITY Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <74ee8s$19h$1@news0-alterdial.uu.net> Copyright, 1998 by the author This work contains erotic material and is intended for persons of legal age only. It may not be reproduced or redistributed in any manner. STOLEN MOMENTS (Revised) (And the annoying font errors removed, I hope.) By Watcher My name is John Regan, formerly in accounts management with a company I'll call Cor-Tec. I'm writing this from the ranks of the unemployed. But that's all right. It was worth it. My journey to the soup kitchens began with my first view of Barbara Birely (again, a substituted name) in something other than a business suit. * * * * * Barbara Birely was a magnificent woman. I'd known that before, but seeing her that day standing in a bikini at the edge of her swimming pool, the impact was even stronger. I'd spent most of the afternoon in the study at her residence, working out details on a number of contracts. Doing my work at the Birely residence instead of at the office wasn't unusual. Neither Barbara nor her husband Julius spent much time at the company's offices. Both had signatory authority, and quite a few of the company's upper management, attorneys and account people brought their work to the Birely's upscale neighborhood for approval and signature. If it had been anything like a regular home (for instance, the one I lived in), I might not have worked well there. But the Birely's quiet good taste (Barbara's I assumed) substituted for an office atmosphere quite well. Where steel and glass bespoke serious business at the office, rich but quietly upholstered furniture, dark oil paintings and deeply polished wood testified to dignity and serious enterprise in the spacious study. My view through the only window with an angle on the pool was obstructed by shrubbery, and when she'd occasionally stepped inside to offer a soft drink or sandwich, she'd worn a light robe. But now as I stood up to stretch, I moved closer to the window and found an angle that opened a view to the pool's diving board. As I watched, Barbara put a hand on the board, as though she were about to climb up on it, but then turned and simply dove into the water from the pool's edge. The movement caused a graceful thrusting of her breasts as she flexed her knees and sprang forward. And then she was under water, swimming out of my view. But it was enough. From her ankles to her long auburn hair, Barbara Birely was a magnificent woman. The brief view I'd had of her only served to increase my jealousy of Julius Birely's good fortune. Beyond that lovely body, Barbara was a gentle, gracious woman with a strong mind. In business matters, she conducted herself with a confidence reserved for those who have nothing to prove. She knew how to lead a discussion, let it develop its own energy, yet turn or even close down a line of thought without rancor. In most cases, the speaker wasn't even upset. But that day I'd seen something else, something that marked the day for me even more than my first glimpse of her in the bikini. It was her face as she swam up and broke the water's surface. I only saw it for a moment, but that was enough. As the water flattened her hair and streamed from her face, the practiced charm of her wealth and responsibilities transformed to a child grinning from inside, totally trusting the joy of the moment. It surprised me. Barbara's family had built Cor-Tec. As the only heir, she held the majority of voting stock, and, I'd assumed, inherited the hardened world-view that characterized her family. Open-hearted trust had never been their strong suit. Her great grandfather knew better than to deal with it, choosing instead to amass the family's original fortune. In his turn, her grandfather had perfected the art of 'lawsuit first, questions later.' Her father took the concept a step further, turning cynicism inward until he couldn't trust even himself. He'd put his only child Barbara in charge of company matters early on, and wandered off to the Caribbean. I was new to the company, but I'd heard some of the history and all of the gossip. There were problems that Barbara was blind to. She trusted too much, and her score on trust with Julius was only two out of three. She'd trusted him to love her, and he did. She'd trusted him to run the company well, and he did. But she'd also trusted him to be content as steward of her family's fortune, and he wasn't. Julius was a thief, and more than a few of us knew it. He'd begun small, invoicing the company for non-existent services through dummy companies, but soon graduated to siphoning major percentages on certain contracts. Presumably, the proceeds were in Switzerland. The early bets were that he'd take up residence there himself soon, but so far he'd stayed put, the model husband and CEO. Seeing that bit of vulnerability in her helped explain the blind spot she had where Julius was concerned. The trail couldn't be that hard to follow for someone with her level of access and knowledge. But for me on that sunny July afternoon, the question had changed from how long it would take her to find out, to what would happen to the inner heart I'd seen a glimpse of? Channel her into her grandfather's way of thinking? Or even her father's? My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of ice tinkling in a glass. I turned and was surprised to find Barbara standing at the room's entrance. She'd just taken a sip from what looked to be a gin and tonic, and her other hand held out a glass toward me. I wondered how long she'd been watching me staring out toward the pool. "Enough work," she said. "How can I enjoy myself out there when I know you're in here slaving away?" "If that's for me, I'll take it," I said. "Everything you need to look at is done. I can finish the rest later." I congratulated myself for sounding matter-of-fact. Barbara hadn't worn her robe this time. She had a towel wrapped around her waist, with only the bikini top covering her beautiful full breasts. I stepped over to her and took the drink, careful to keep my eyes locked on hers. She'd already caught me trying to watch her in the pool. I wasn't about to get caught looking again. "I can't sit down in here. My suit's too wet. Come on out to the pool with me," she said. I followed her back out to the pool, took a chair and sipped on my drink while she sat on a lounge chair reading through the papers. She bent forward slightly as she read, exposing even more of her tanned, smooth breasts swelling above the bikini top. When she finished, she asked for a pen. I walked over and handed her one. She signed at all the Xs, and handed back the pen. "Really fine work," she said, "but you're not finished." She stood, pulled the towel away from her waist and laid down on her stomach. "Before you go, I need some oil on my shoulders and the back of my legs. If you wouldn't mind." I definitely didn't mind, but I also definitely didn't understand. Was this a come-on? Not possible, I told myself. I was unattached, but she wasn't. Not that I cared too much about Julius. He deserved whatever he got. Maybe this was just something spontaneous and innocent? I took the oil, squirted some on my palms and rubbed it into her shoulders. Her skin was soft, but the muscles underneath were toned, and moved firmly under my hands. I'd always found shoulder blades an attractive part of a woman, and Barbara's were nicely defined. I wanted to keep stroking those beautiful shoulders, but forced myself to stop. "Good enough?" I said, using my best 'nothing's going on here' voice. "Yes, thanks. Now just my calves, if you would." Just the calves. Well, that said it. No thighs, no come-on. And maybe some late-arrival modesty. I hoped I hadn't caused it by enjoying myself too much on her shoulders. I put more oil on my palms and began stroking her calves. Again, the muscles were firm and the skin velvety. And again, my hands were happy at their work. "Make sure you don't over-do it," I told myself, letting my eyes travel up her legs to the swell of her cheeks under the bikini. When I'd finished spreading the oil, I decided to give myself one last perk. Using both hands on each leg, I made a long final stroke from the back of her knee to the sole of her foot. Her response sent a message straight to my groin. As my hands neared each foot, she lifted it slightly. I can't explain it, but feeling her move with me that way sent a pulse of feminine grace all the way up my arms, down my chest and straight to erotic central. I stood up and tried to find the right words to leave with. Nothing came, so I used the time to wipe my hands on a towel. After a moment, she turned her head in my direction and said, "Good thing you put the oil on. I'm sleepy." "Well, enjoy your sleep," I said, picking up my briefcase. "See you tomorrow," she said, turning her head away from me again. "You'll bring the Uni-Band contracts, right?" In those few words, her voice had transformed from hostess to major stockholder. "Right. That and the new human resources stuff," I said, matching her tone for tone. "Okay," she said. And that was it. I took the short route through the pool gate to my car, and drove back to the office. The scent of her oil and the sense of her body was still on my hands. As I passed three account execs in the hallway, nodding and offering a brief greeting, I couldn't help a sense of one-ups-man-ship, adding silently, "Bet you never rubbed oil on the boss . . . " Silly. And as it turned out, wrong. * * * * * During the next week I began hearing a lot of sotto voce about Barbara and her poolside manner. The information elite in our office consisted of five or six people who understood the company's inner workings beyond a 9 to 5 context. They each had access to key documents, computer links or other private sources. Of course they shared information, and together they could paint a much clearer picture of Cor-Tec than you'd ever see in the quarterly reports. These were the people who knew what our financial statements really meant, how and why some of our key contracts were maintained, and who might be on the fence for continued employment. They also knew how much Julius had siphoned away, and what he'd done to hide it. I wasn't part of the group, but I had fringe access through a friend. And now I was hearing Barbara Birely's name as the latest group topic. Evidently quite a few people had been invited out to Barbara's pool, and in a couple of cases, things had allegedly progressed from incidental to noteworthy. Sloppy fifths never appealed to me, and the righteous portion of my libido took the high road, resolving to distance myself from the whole thing. The tiny fact that Barbara had given me nothing to distance myself from had no bearing on my new-found morality. And yet, the whole thing confused me. Barbara Birely just didn't fit the context. I had two more occasions to work at the house that week. During the first, Julius and Barbara were home together part of the time and alone other times, but whenever it was just Barbara she seemed busy elsewhere in the house. On my second visit, Julius was out of town. Barbara answered the door in the same robe she'd worn the week before. Seeing Barbara in that robe brought the whole suntan oil episode back in a rush, right down to the sense of her soft skin under my hands. She greeted me pleasantly, led me to the study again, and then excused herself. I worked as best I could, trying to ignore the sounds of occasional splashing from the pool, and the faint sound of her voice making and answering phone calls. In particular, I avoided looking out the window at her. If anything was going to happen, I told myself, she'd have to be the one to start it. But she never came back in the house. When I finished my work, I went out to the pool to get her approvals and found no one there. Walking back in the house, I called her name a few times. No answer. I put the papers she'd need on the study desk and let myself out. I couldn't decide whether I was disappointed or relieved. She was an attractive woman, but how many oil boys did she have lined up? And was I expecting more than oil duty? No. That was ridiculous. Or was it? Damn. The woman had me chasing my tail. * * * * * Another week went by before I was called out to the residence again. Time had softened the whole issue for me, but when she opened the door, I still had trouble meeting her eyes. And later when she called me out to the pool, I had trouble walking without bumping into things. No ceremony this time, no gin and tonic, no small talk. She was lying on her back, but sat up when I entered the pool area. "Think you can help me out again?" she said. She held the bottle of oil out to me. "Just spread it all over my back." I remember thinking I had the option of being too busy just then, but my legs ignored me. I walked over to her, took the bottle and sat down behind her on the lounge chair. Its metal legs scraped against the concrete deck as I added my weight. A light breeze rippled the water. A few small leaves from shrubbery that surrounded the pool bobbed up and down in the ripples. And now I'd run out of things to notice. She was the only thing left. I moved a few wisps of her hair aside before I began; beautiful soft hair with rich highlights turned amber in the afternoon sun. So much for the moral high ground. But not completely. In seconds, I'd found a new and better mission. I was going to find out what the story was here. Maybe she was in trouble. Maybe she needed a friend. Counseling. Something. Maybe if I pressed a little, I'd find a way to . . . well, I wasn't sure what I'd find a way to do, but somehow sliding my hands over her body seemed the perfect way to start. She didn't seem inclined to talk, and I had no idea what to say. So I began. I spread the oil low on the beautiful arch of her back, moving my hands in small circles. In moments, the lush feel of her skin had raced up my arms and through my body again. I kept my eyes on my hands. I had to. The only other view was over her shoulders to the upper swell of her breasts, and I planned on being able to stand when I was finished. I let the circles widen, spreading oil around the curve of her waist, then upward over her lower ribs. On their own, my hands began to squeeze and knead her skin as I rose higher, massaging the muscles. Oops. Not a part of spreading suntan lotion. I resolved to stop soon. "Don't," she said, and I removed my hands quickly, a flush building in my neck. "I'm sorry, did that tickle?" I asked lamely. "No. I just don't want oil on the bikini strap. Hang on minute." She leaned forward, reached back and untied the strap. With long feminine practice, she held the bikini in place pressing it against her body with her arms until she could bring her hands up to hold the cups. "Okay," she said. It was then I knew that I had no plan at all. Whatever nonsense I had in mind as her newest best buddy, her confidant, the brother she never had, was suddenly so vague I couldn't find even a small piece of it. The sides of her breasts were exposed, beautiful white skin against the tan of her back, and I stared stupidly. My hands were on auto pilot, and widened their circles with every stroke. If brotherly love didn't kick in quickly, I'd soon be massaging that beautiful exposed flesh, coating it with oil it had no use for. "You really are beautiful," I said. And what the hell was that? Dumb, inadequate, dangerous, uncalled for, and what genius decided I should say it? Now I was in trouble. No way to recover. "I try to take care of myself," she said. Well that was easy. What was I worried about? I let some time pass, and then decided, what the hell. "Did you want me to do the sides?" "If you need to." If I needed to? Did she mean if I wanted to? It was a strange non-conversation. And then my hands were circling gently up her sides, higher and further forward until I reached the sides of her breasts. It would be poor form to announce my arrival by pausing, so I let my fingers slide upward, lifting her breasts slightly. I could feel the weight of them, heavy but wonderful as I moved my hands down, then forward and up again. "Be careful," she said, her voice small now, barely audible. "Should I stop?" I asked. "The fabric. I . . . don't want any on my top," she said, and loosened her hold on the bikini top. It fell forward, opening more of her breasts to my touch, and nearly all of them to my eyes. The cups were loose enough now that I could see under them from behind, almost all the way to her nipples. The arousal was instant, and I shifted as best I could to relieve the growing pressure in my groin. I stroked the whole of her back, beginning low and continuing up under her shoulder blades, then moving forward to her breasts and back again. They moved delightfully under my hands, separating further from the bikini top. By now she was only holding it loosely, and the cups fell forward, exposing her beautiful dark rose-colored nipples. Without thinking, I leaned forward, drinking in every erotic detail; the tiny wrinkles at the base of each sweet bud, her soft plush areolas rising slightly from the breasts surrounding them. With a final stroke I slid my hands forward and cupped the full delicious warmth of both breasts. I let a moment go by, and when she kept her silence, I began circling her nipples with my fingers. When they responded, hardening at my touch, I held each between my thumb and forefinger, pulling gently up and back. "I love him dearly." That same quiet voice. "I think I want you to know that." "You love . . . " "Julius. He's the only one. Except you." Talk about cold water. I had no idea what was going on. I understood what she'd said, but it made no sense. I took my hands from her breasts and sat back. "Except me . . . for what?" I said, not knowing what else to ask. "It's all right," she said, her voice stronger now. Everything's all right. And thank you." She leaned forward and retied the bikini top. "Barbara, I don't want to be flip here, but, uh . . . I think I should be thanking you?" She stood up and smiled then, a beautiful big smile, almost laughing. "And that's why it's just you." I stood, and found I had no trouble at all doing so. Too bad. "What's just me?" "Everything's fine. Just leave the papers in the study again. I'll sign them later." And with that she touched my arm, gave me another smile, and dove into the water. When she broke the surface and saw me still standing there, she gave a small wave and said, "Bye. I'll probably need more work next week." I think I returned her wave, but the next thing I remember was siting in my car and turning the ignition. My hands still held the memory of her breasts, and my head kept hearing her words and seeing that smile. I suppose a part of me kept an eye on traffic, but it's a wonder I got back to the office in one piece. I had no memory of the road or anything on it. * * * * * Over the next few days I found myself listening hard for every hint of gossip. There was plenty, but not much about Barbara. A few people had been out to the residence, but Barbara had greeted them fully clothed and fully business. Speculation was beginning to die out. I listened, but didn't talk. I still had no clear idea of what happened between us. But the more I replayed it, the more I knew it should stay private between me and Barbara, and maybe that little kid's face I'd seen in the pool. Julius was a different matter. He'd been in and out of town repeatedly, and the inner circle noted an increase in billing from some of his dummy companies. Some of the more pathetically righteous wanted to expose the whole thing, but cooler heads prevailed. A move against Julius and the battery of attorneys he could afford was almost certain career suicide, regardless of what could or couldn't be proven. There was some talk about approaching Barbara directly, but a few cold facts quashed it. The Cor-Tec board had met only three weeks prior, reviewed his performance, and awarded him a massive bonus. Barbara chaired that board, and clearly had unshakable faith in her husband. The following Tuesday I got a call to go to the residence. I had no idea what to expect, but I was tired of thinking about it. I'd do my work and that's all I'd expect to do. Whatever she had going or needed was her problem, and the further away I got from it, the better off I'd be. Good decisions. Solid stuff. About time. When she opened the door, I was relieved to see her dressed in a jacket and skirt. I met her eyes with a clear conscience. "Good morning, Barbara," I said in my best ostrich mode, "Shouldn't take long today." She smiled at me, somewhere between business and gracious. "Good morning." She led me back to the study. "Would you like some coffee?" she asked. "Sure," I said. "Thanks." She left the room and I began pulling papers from my briefcase. When I had everything, I spent a few moments shuffling them on the desk, waiting for her to return with the coffee. Ten minutes went by. And ten more. I gave up on the coffee and started to work. It must have been another twenty minutes before I heard a sound behind me and turned around. Barbara stood there with a cup and saucer in her hand. She'd done it again, watching me from behind until I noticed her. "Ah," I said, ignoring a small annoyance. "I'd about given up." "I had to brew it," she said. "It takes time." "Now you've done it, clod," I said to myself. "Insult the boss. Good idea." I put on my best apologetic smile, "Uh . . . I didn't mean it took too long . . . I just . . . " She smiled again. Amused. No fair. Bosses aren't supposed to smile while employees squirm. "I know." she said. The smile stayed there while she put the saucer on my desk. "Enjoy. I'll come back later with a refill." I watched her leave, and then watched the door she'd gone through. Minutes went by. Thoughts came and went, but they spoke too softly to make sense of. Then a louder thought came. "Snap out of it, dummy. Do your work." So I did. Another hour went by. The work was done and the coffee was cold. I sat there knowing it was time to leave, and knowing if I tried to find her, she might not even be in the house. I spread out the papers on the desk and spent more time than I needed to marking each signature blank with an X. But that was it. Nothing else to stall with. I rose from the desk and closed my briefcase. There'd been no sound from the pool, but I looked through the window anyhow. The water was smooth, and the deck was dry. "What the hell are you waiting for?" I asked myself. A minute later my answer walked in the study door with a fresh cup of coffee. She was in the bikini again, with a towel over her arm, and nothing at all on top. She stood facing me, offered the cup with a small smile on her face, and said, "More?" I can't tell you romance filled the room. I walked over to her, took the cup and put it down. I felt like a robot, and she spoke like one. "Would you like to make love to me?" she said softly. "Barbara, I . . . I don't . . . " Those were all the words I could manage before her neck and cheeks flushed with embarrassment and her eyes fell to the floor. "No," I said, "please don't be embarrassed. You're a beautiful woman . . . " She looked up at me, first raising her head, and then her eyes. Beautiful soft green eyes. "It's all right," she said. "No, it's not," I said to myself. I can't think of anything more not right." And then I lost myself in those eyes, pulled her to me and pressed my mouth to hers. The kiss was chaste at first, a gentle moving caress of our lips. But as hunger for her built in me I pulled her closer, kissing her more deeply. Her mouth was wonderful, soft and warm, but I could sense a hesitance. Moving my lips across her cheek I whispered, "Is there a room we can go to?" "I . . . here. We should stay here." I didn't question it. All I wanted at that moment was whatever she wanted. And I hoped she wanted to feel my lips caress her neck, because that's what they did, without a thought from me. Her beautiful, soft neck, with just a hint of perfumed scent. I remember thinking I had to control myself, be certain I sensed her pleasure at each step before loosing myself in the lush softness of her. But I'd already moved my mouth back to hers, pressing my lips against her, urging her to a deeper kiss. And then her mouth opened to me, and the feel of her soft inner lips silenced all my thoughts. I kissed her for the taste of it. I pressed my hands stronger against her back, pulling her close to feel her body against my growing arousal. And I hoped, with one last vague thought, that I was a better man than I suspected. I found the hollow of her neck again and nuzzled gently on the tender skin there, licking, tasting, drawing stray wisps of her soft hair through my mouth. Her skin rose in a light scattering of goose bumps and her nipples began to harden. She pulled back a moment, a distant look in her eyes, and then loosened my tie and began to unbutton my shirt. And I remember still thinking that it wasn't right. Not yet. Maybe not at all. It didn't matter that her fingers were unbuttoning my shirt. There was something . . . something I should be careful of. I pressed her hand against my chest, holding her fingers still, waiting for her to look up into my eyes, but her gaze stayed at my chest. Slowly, gently, I put my hand under her chin and raised her head. Our eyes met, and as she watched I let mine fall to her breasts, linger a moment and return. I leaned forward, kissed her forehead, and then stood back. She looked at me for a long moment, and then, as if she'd suddenly recognized an old friend, her distance melted into a small, warm smile. Her fingers began to work at the buttons of my shirt again, her eyes still holding mine. When she finished, her gaze fell to my chest. With both of her hands she stroked it, and then moved in close to embrace me. Together we settled down to the plush carpeting and began stroking each other, opening each other, kissing and exploring. I can still remember every moment of what followed. Her wonderful body is a treasure I keep alive in my head, filled with image, touch, and taste. The feel of her lush breasts, the moist warmth between her legs, the intense excitement as her lips and tongue searched for ways to please me. And when we were both near, she reached up to hold my head, then slid her hands down my shoulders and across my back, pulling me toward her. I began a slow thrusting, trying to make the moment last but needing the release, needing her to explode with me. And then it came, overwhelming us both. With a great intake of breath, she cried out, "Yesss! God, yesss! Hard . . . please hard in me!" Our bodies crushed against each other, demanding and finding release only in the deepest part of our embrace. I can't remember it ever lasting as long as it did with her, and when we finished, all I could do was collapse beside her, kissing her arms and stomach. * * * * * We lay there together for a few minutes, our breath slowing. I found her fingers and traced them with my own. I turned to kiss her, but she rolled to her side away from me. "Barbara?" I asked, propping myself up on one arm. "Are you okay?" Silence. "Barbara?" I said again, and leaned over to kiss her cheek. It was wet with tears. "Barbara, what's wrong?" I asked. Despite the tears, her voice was firm. "It's just the orgasm. I do that sometimes. Stupid." Another long moment of silence passed, and then she spoke, her voice quiet but controlled. And distant. "Please don't tell anyone." "I won't." "But . . . don't hide it either. If people find out, then . . . they just find out." "What?" She didn't answer, still lying there, her face composed and her eyes staring into the distance. But the tears kept flowing. Searching for words, for a way to stop the tears, I said, "If I did something . . ." "You haven't done anything. It isn't you." She wiped at the tears with her forearm. "My Dad always said I was a spoiled brat. I guess I am." "I've seen spoiled. And you're not it." She turned to me then, and sat up, covering her breasts with her arm. "I haven't been very fair with you. I'm sorry." She paused a moment, looking at me, then let her eyes fall to the floor. "Do you know why I wore that stupid swim suit?" she said, her voice a whisper, "I didn't want you to take off so many clothes. I didn't want you to undress me. It seemed like too much. I thought I could . . . just . . . do it. And that's all." And then I knew. But I asked her anyhow. "Why?" "Maybe if I loved Julius enough I could let it go, but I'm too god damn proud to be taken that way. So the spoiled brat in me said, "What can I take from him? How can he feel it? Everything he has is mine. Except this." She stood now, wrapping a towel around her. "But you were so sweet . . . I enjoyed it way too much." And she smiled for just a moment. I think I was flattered, but it was hard to tell. I had to ask, "Why me?" "I'm sorry. Please don't be insulted, but those first days . . . you know, with the oil, you were so wonderfully inept. There were others . . . harder men. I could feel they wanted to take it from me. I couldn't have that. I needed someone I could give to . . . steal for . . . hide it with." All right. So I wasn't flattered. * * * * * It was time for me to go. We could both sense it. She watched me put my clothes on in silence. Nothing else to say or do, except one thing. For the record, I'd counseled myself against saying it. She was calmer, her tears were down to a trickle and the door beckoned. Stupid. But I said it anyhow. "Your husband's an asshole," I said. "Sorry." Big mistake. I turned to go, but I'd opened it all up again and she couldn't leave it. "I know why he does it," she said from behind me. "He just needs it for himself. Just to say it belongs to him." I turned back. The tears were a flood now, her eyes red and swollen. "You tell me what's right!" The control was gone. She was shouting at me, or maybe herself, her breath catching, her mouth twisted, slurring the words, "I just . . . Christ, why can't I do it right? I only ever wanted him to love me!" And that was all I could handle. Watching her stand there so absolutely alone, water streaming on her face . . . again . . . Jesus, that little kid peeking out, totally lost while her husband danced his ego. And the anger boiled up in me and spewed out, "Where the hell is he?" "No!" "Never mind. I think I know." And I was gone. I think I even slammed the door. * * * * * Fifteen seething minutes to the office, another five to find him in the third floor conference room. I wanted my fist deep in his asshole face, but a shrimp tray with a bowl of hot sauce came to hand first. I picked it up, palmed it upward like a waiter, pushed three very important clients out of the way, and smashed it square in his face. * * * * * Needless to say, my employment was terminated. But as I said at the beginning of this, things are okay. I had some trouble at first, not many interviews, and no offers. I think the word was out that I had a volatile side people might not want to deal with. But then I got a letter on Cor-Tec stationary: Dear Mr. Regan, I'm told you haven't been offered a new position yet. I find that odd, given the wonderful work you did at Cor-Tec. This letter is to advise you that as of this morning, I have verbally notified all Cor-Tec vendors that a valued former employee, specifically one such as yourself, qualifies as exactly the sort of individual our purchasing department would work well with. We here at Cor-Tec wish you the best in all of your future endeavors. Sincerely, Barbara P. Birely, Chairperson Cor-Tec Enterprises, Inc. P.S. It's over. * * * * * Barbara's P.S. had me confused for a while, until I understood it had nothing to do with the end of my visits to her home, and nothing to do with an end to her marriage. The last I heard, Mr. and Mrs. Julius Birely were doing fine, thank you, and Cor-Tec itself was strong enough to issue an employee bonus all the way down to the mailroom staff. Word has it they found a windfall surplus of funds after a corrected company audit. As for me, I've never been in sales before, but that doesn't seem to matter. Cor-Tec purchases something over thirty million dollars worth of goods yearly, with hundreds of vendors competing for the contracts. So far, I've rejected very generous offers from twelve of them. I suppose I'll take one eventually. End Comments are welcome, and should be addressed to: llxzt@hotmail.com -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----