Bad day.
âBad dayâ didnât even begin to encompass the events of Jimâs Friday afternoon. As well-paid upper-level manager of a huge accounting firm, he had to depend on a lot of different people to get a job done; the office was a finely-tuned machine. But when someone didnât do their job, everything broke down. Luckily, Jimâs managerial style kept this from happening very often. He was a tough boss, no doubts about it, but he was also kind, gentlemanly, and everybodyâs good pal. But this new guy was driving him up the wall. He would be fired on Monday, but until then Jim just has to bear the embarrassment of missing another deadline and losing a big account.
It was after 8 PM when he left. Up until about 4 PM, he had been looking forward to a quiet dinner at home with is beautiful wife Karen, but after that all he could think about was strangling Wayne Carlson until his eyes popped out of his head like champagne corks. But we wonât get into that. The last one to leave, he locked up the main office door and stalked to the elevator, punching the button for the garage level so hard it made his thumb hurt. He fumed, muttering all the way down the 47 floors, and emerged in the dark garage. His executive parking space was waiting for him, as was his new toy: a brand new Audi RS 6. He opened the door and put his briefcase on the passenger side, then stood up outside the car to take off his jacket. He was getting a little hot around the collar, in more ways than one. He loosened his tie and jumped in the car, giving it some gas as he started it to make it roar to life in a satisfying fashion. He sped out of the garage as fast as he dared, taking the turns at a breakneck pace, tires squealing. The man at the gate saw him coming and simply opened the gate before he got there; no one else in the garage had a car like that, or drove like that. Jim gave him a quick salute as he sped past, cutting off another car as he darted out into the busy city streets.
He was feeling better already. Spying an open corridor in the maze of evening traffic, he downshifted to 3rd and stamped on the gas, hearing the tires screech for purchase and feeling his back sink into the seat as if he taking off on a jet. Within minutes he was on the highway and really opened it up. With 450 ponies at his disposal, he tore like heck down the left lane at over 100 mph, feeling better and better as the engine wound higher and higher. He cut across three lanes of traffic to make his exit, and didnât stop speeding until he was in his driveway in picture-perfect suburbia.
The front door was open a crack, allowing Jim to push it open violently with his foot, the knob crashing into a coat rack. His wife Karen was standing near the sink in the kitchen, and just shook her head.
âHi honey!â she called out, hearing his things drop on the floor by the door. âHow was your day?â
Jim simply muttered expletives, barely keeping himself under control. Usually, his wifeâs quiet obliviousness to his daily trials was refreshing; it made him realize there was life outside of work. But today it wasnât working. He fumed silently, slumping down at the table. She turned to him, dinner already made, and set in front of him a pint glass of beer and a plate of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Jim muttered a genuine âthank youâ and shoveled down his food in minutes. He got up with is beer and left the table. He walked through the living room and to the front door, where he picked up his briefcase and carried it back into the family room. He switched on ESPN to watch the highlights and opened the case. Jim took long pulls from the beer as he looked over the dayâs losses, working the numbers over in his head.
He nearly dropped his beer. He had estimated far too low. Carlsonâs slow action came with an opportunity cost of tens of millions of dollars. The company could have been on easy street. Steam virtually shot from Jimâs ears. He chugged the last of his beer and gently set the glass down on the coffee table, his hands shaking with rage. He ran them through his hair and looked towards the kitchen. Karen was there, looking beautiful as usual, knowing well enough to leave him alone for a while to let him cool off. She wore a simply white smock, the outline of a white lace bra underneath. Her pants were a pair of tight khakis, the thin material showing her panty line well. Her feet were clad only in little white flip-flops, and an apron covered her front. Suddenly, looking at her ass, he was overcome with lust. He had to take her, right there and then.
He stood up from the couch and walked slowly into the kitchen, taking in the surroundings in a sort of stupor. His rage had given him a huge adrenaline rush. She was making cookies; rolling out the dough and cutting shapes, probably for her kindergarten class. A tin of Crisco shortening sat on the counter near her right hand. She didnât turn around as he approached; probably thinking he had come for another beer.
Karen jumped a laughed a bit as he sidled up behind her and put a hand on her ass, squeezing firmly.
âOo!â she cooed. âMy my, Jim, has the office given you a hard-on for once?â
Her question was answered as Jim pressed his big cock against her ass through his pants. He was so hard that it almost hurt. Karen started to try to turn around, but Jim restrained her gently, letting her know what he wanted. She complied. She felt his fingers fumble quickly with her button and fly, and suddenly her pants were undone. She grabbed hold of the counter and thrust her ass out as Jim jerked her pants down, just low enough to expose her panty-clad bubble-butt. The term âpanty-cladâ only held for another split second before those two were jerked down off her ass. No other clothing had been touched; her shirt was in place, and she still wore the apron, somehow adding to her sexy allure.
