Avant propos: This story is the third part of a series, and while you no doubt would enjoy the first tales you can read and appreciated this one in itself.
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Elliot's Wife
As I think I mentioned in the first part of this tale, I met Diane Barr, wife of our editor, Elliot Barr, at the publisher's extravagant Christmas party, and immediately began trying to get in her pants. When I sobered up the next day – or was it three or four days later? – I decided that the better part of lechery was discretion in which better part I have saved my job. (I'm a coward, just like Sir Jack)
But then, the bumptious Elliot challenged me to fuck Doris, the middle-aged advertising manager and heiress. I have already described how he proved insufferable in my defeat and dismissive in my success. So, discretion be damned, I fucked his wife.
Anyway, following our January romp in the hay – explained in unconscionable detail in the previous chapter – Diane and I avoided each other for a month. She came to the office a few times to pick up or see her husband, and walked right past my desk without a glance. I usually got up at that time and went to the store room to gather pencils and note pads, so I wouldn't have to be polite when Diane and Elliot emerged from his office.
All this time, I thought of her often, flashbacks about her warm body next to mine and those delicious juices that stained my sheets, and even fantasies about fucking her in the booth at the Christmas party. I really wanted to fuck her again. When she would pass me at the office I would get hard viewing her terrific tits protruding through her sweater and remembering how they look and felt. And that ass, of course.
But, for the most part, I kept busy, fucking Sally, the women's tennis coach at the nearby college, and trying to fuck this 17-year-old high school student with big tits and the mayor's Creole secretary with a big ass: a blow job from the former, a stop sign from the latter.
Then came Mardi Gras. I had planned a weekend in New Orleans with Sally for my monthly Saturday off, but Friday afternoon Elliot decided to go fishing for the weekend and I had to replace him. Boy was I pissed.
Fucking Diane Barr again now took on a new urgency.
Diane taught a morning kindergarten at one of the Catholic schools in town. They had no children so she would be alone in the afternoons. Elliot was in his office from 6 or 7 in the morning until 4 or 5 in the afternoon, with an hour or more for lunch with politicians at Tony's or Wednesday's Rotary dinners at the Holiday Inn.
So, one Wednesday in March, I waited in the newsroom until Elliot stuck his Rotary pin in his lapel, put on his jacket and left for lunch – after lecturing me from his papal throne about the difference between a borrow pit and a barrow pit. I adjusted my tie, grabbed my own jacket and scurried over to Market Street to call on Diane. She had just returned from her morning at school and was having a sandwich alone in her kitchen when I rang the doorbell.
"Elliot is not here. He's goes to Rotary on Wednesday." So to maintain my gentlemanly manners and proper etiquette I said, "I didn't know ."
She knew I knew. She also knew. "Not today," she said, avoiding pretensions. "Maybe next time. Maybe later. Maybe never. I'll let you know." I left in disappointment for the Wednesday special at Nick's. (Might have something to do with why I hate spaghetti so.)
For the next two weeks I tried to make up my mind what I wanted more: to make love to a beautiful woman or to slam my cock up Elliot's wife's ass until she yelled for me to stop – which I wouldn't. Now, I wasn't even sure if I'd even get the chance to do either.
At last, the first Friday in April, as I was walking up the steps to my apartment the telephone rang. It was Diane. "Wednesday" was all she said and hung up. Not so sure about church calendars but this obviously was my Good Friday.
When Wednesday came, after visions of sugar plums dancing in head for five days, I left the office early and parked my very recognizable TR3 on Bertheaud Street behind of my landlord's house. (I lived above the garage in the back and usually parked in the street.) I then took the long way to Market Street. I must have smoked half a pack of Camels in anticipation and/or fear. (Elliot often scolded me for smoking too much.) When I reached my destination, I walked around back and knocked on the screen door.
"Thank you for using the back door," Diane said. "I didn't think I had to say too much in my phone call." She was still in her kindergarten teacher costume, ill-fitting slacks and a pull-over that showed off her ripe tits to the extent allowable by nuns. "Have you eaten?"
"I'm fine," I lied again – I wanted to get down to business just in case Elliot came home early after his meeting. "A cup of coffee? Or maybe you'd prefer a drink? Or maybe both. I think I still have a bottle of Armagnac in the liquor cabinet."
"Sounds fine." I had no idea what Armagnac was. We sipped our spiked coffee on the sofa in the living room. After a few minutes I put my arm around her shoulders, then took her face in my hands for a long, wet kiss. She melted, her body limp in my arms; my member rigid in her hand.
"Not here lets go in the other room." She rose from the couch and led me by the hand into what was certainly the guest room. In the room, I kept moving to touch her, but she kept retreating. I got the hint and stood at the foot of the bed wondering what was next. Diane stood looking in the mirror, her back to me, purposely blocking my view, and took off her ear rings and drew her sweater over her head, revealing a black lace bra pulled tightly in the back to hold her big breasts. She then let her pants drop to the floor. Her panties were black lace, too.
Still in her working heels, she turned and walked toward me in silence. I don't think she knew what to say either. She waited for me to move first, and I did. Touching that soft skin again I was head-over-heels in lust. After a long tongue twisting kiss, she undid my tie and pushed my jacked from my shoulders and let it hit the floor before clumsily unbuttoning and removing my shirt, the whole while nibbling on my ear. I kicked off my loafers as she began to fumble with my zipper. She swiftly removed my trousers, dropping to one knee as my hardness immediately poked out through the slit in my shorts.
She licked the tip of my penis and looked up and shyly stuttered: "I love your taste, Jack. You're the only one. Elliot is such a prude." She then proceeded to give me the greatest blow job. I was shaking when I came, and after stopping briefly in surprise as my sperm hit the back of her throat at 50 km/hr, she resumed her sucking and swallowing until she had taken every ounce.
No longer quite so shy, she put on my tie then stood and pressed her warm body on mine. She proceeded to apply another love mark to my neck as I unhooked her bra and cupped my hands on those delicious bare breasts. She pressed close to my own bare chest and reached down to grab my reemerging cock. "You get back up in a hurry," she smiled.
