There's nothing better than fucking a married woman. Nothing. The chase, the struggle to do the right thing and giving in to the wrong thing, the secrets and danger: nothing makes me feel more alive. Whenever I met a married woman at work, at Barnes & Noble, I sized them up as to fuckability. None had interested me until she arrived.
She became cafe manager after being in the store for six months. She transferred from a Dallas Barnes & Noble as a barista, got promoted to cafe lead four months after that, and cafe manager two months after that. It was the fastest fucking promotions the store ever saw, and rumors abounded that it had less to do with her barista skills and more to do with her pussy skills.
Which wasn't fair. She was one of the best cafe people to come through the store and, frankly, she got promoted most likely because no one else wanted those positions. Who could blame them. Working in the cafe was shit work, and I put in my time there and I wanted to cut my fucking throat every hour I was back there.
But she loved it. She beamed her big smile at every customer and never seemed to have a bad day. She got along with all her baristas and came into the store to work on her time off. Everyone respected her and, if anyone said anything bad about her managerial skills, they bookended it with high praise and respect.
She loved everyone in the store. Except me. She fucking hated me.
She was nice and said hello and laughed at the casual jokes you make with people you work with but aren't close to. It was through other people that I learned that she hated me.
She found out I threw parties that, most of the time, ended with people fucking. Most of the time in my bed with me either participating or filming the goings on. She found out I was flirting with one of the other baristas, one much cuter and hotter than her, despite knowing she was married.
"There's something not right about him," she told a friend of mine. "His sexual appetite makes him selfish and careless with people."
That pissed me off and for a few days I hated her, too. Maybe I got so pissed off because she was partly right.
But then I would see her across the store. Usually when she was walking around the cafe, a rag in her hand that she twirled as she walked. She would bend over a table as she wiped it down, and the sight of her large ass made my heart pound. Then she'd bend over another table, this time facing me, and I could see straight down her shirt and her huge tits would nearly spill all over the table. Her long red hair would fall forward and around her neck and I had a terrible need to push it out of the way so I could see her better. I could imagine pulling up her black skirt and ripping a hole in her tights, forcing my fingers in so I could push them deep in her pussy and feel how wet she really was. At that point in the fantasy, I'd always say Fuck under my breath and turn away, completely won over.
*************
Then the worst thing that could happen did happen. I got transferred to the cafe.
I fought it, I argued with management, even pleaded. But no. I was the only person on the book floor who was cross-trained to the cafe and the cafe needed help desperately. It would only be temporary, they assured me.
Bullshit. Things like that are never temporary.
My first shift in the cafe was with her. I was determined to be a pissy little bitch, throw things, make drinks wrong, fuck up as much as possible. I walked in the back to get my apron and found her elbows deep in dish water, scrubbing a plate smeared with chocolate. She looked up and said, "Thank you so much for working back here. I know it sucks for you and I'm sorry. But I really need you."
I melted like a goddamn candle. And got hard.
Then the usual happened which happens between people when they work in retail. We started talking during downtime. She was the manager so we could get away with it. Nights were the slowest and we talked the most then. It wasn't about anything personal. We talked politics and religion, discovering we had the same ideas. Our conversations became so involved that we wouldn't always notice when customers walked up.
One Friday night a group of us were going to Appleby's after work. "Half price appetizers," I told her. She laughed. She laughed a lot.
"You laugh a lot," I pointed out. It slipped out.
"I laugh when I'm happy or entertained."
"Want to come?" That also slipped out.
The laugh died and she frowned. "My husband's picking me up." She said it as an excuse, even though it wasn't a reason not to go.
"I heard you were married," I said, lying. I had no idea she was married. "You're not wearing a wedding ring."
"I don't like wearing it to work. I don't want it to get damaged." She turned and went to fill the mop bucket.
I was disappointed. I wanted her to go. The fact that she was married, though, really excited me. It was then that I decided I was going to fuck her.
About a month later, I had a party. I try to have at least one party a month. I invite all the single women I know, buy a lot of alcohol, and once everyone is drunk, play spin the bottle or truth or dare. I've made out and seen naked most of the college aged people I worked with.
I invited her to the party.
She shook her head, pressing her lips together, but her eyes were glittering. "I'm a manager. I can't party with booksellers and baristas."
"No one will say anything. We've had managers at parties before."
"Everyone warned me about this," she said. The conversation got cut short when one of the other assistant managers wandered over to chat, bored with the bookfloor which had been quiet for hours.
So I gave up on her and didn't press it.
At the party, I started drinking fast. I didn't bother with beer and went straight to whiskey cokes and shots of Yager. I have a high tolerance, so I only got buzzed after a couple of hours of drinking like this.
It was around eleven when she walked in. With her husband.
She was wearing a button up t-shirt, half unbuttoned with a white lace tank top underneath. Her breasts were on fucking display, as if she was holding them up in her hand to me. Her husband was a shorter, skinny blonde that girls would find attractive because he looked like a stoner surfer. I had no idea why they were together.
Strangely, they separated almost immediately after they arrived. She looked awkward, gripping her purse in both hands, looking around. She didn't really know anyone else. I went up and told her she looked like she needed a drink.
"What do you have?" she said, gratefully.
"Everything."
She laughed. "Gin and tonic."
I took her to the kitchen and poured her a strong one.
"You got abandoned," I observed.
She nodded. "He's smoking in that back bedroom."
"You don't?"
"I can't. It makes me insane."
Then she told me the most ridiculous story about getting high and attacking her husband with the Fist.
"The fist or your fist?"
"No, The Fist. It's like a dildo but shaped like a fist." She demonstrated the pose with her own arm. "I beat the shit out of him."
I laughed. I liked the idea of it. "Why did you bring him? It's cool, but I'm just curious."
"He doesn't know many people and he wants a social life."
"So he's going to use yours?"
"It's not like I'm using it. He likes to smoke pot and not have to pay for it. And he doesn't meet many women."
"I'm sorry?"
She took a drink and her face started turning pink. "We're in an open relationship. He can fuck men and women and I can fuck women."
"That doesn't sound fair."
She shrugged and looked away and took another drink, a longer one. "I don't care. I'm afraid that if I don't allow it, he'll do it anyway."
"You don't want to be with other men?"
"He doesn't want me to be with other men."
"Do you fuck other women?
"Not anymore."
I took a very long drink and said we needed to do shots. We did one, then another, then another. By the fourth, she laughed and asked if I was trying to get her drunk. "Maybe. Yes." We stared at each other for a long time. Then someone came in the kitchen, wanting to do shots with us. She declined another and went off in search of her husband. That was the last I saw of her that night.
***********
I wasn't scheduled to w;ork with her again for another two weeks. I befriended her on Facebook. already had her phone number: working in the cafe, we had each other's numbers in case we needed to have a shift covered, or be called in. I'd never texted her before. One night, after a few beers, when I knew she working (and knew she'd have her phone) I texted the safe text: "What's up?"
Her reply, a couple minutes later: "Trying to close."
"Busy tonight?"
"Ugh, I wish. I'm soooooooooooo bored."
"Who are you working with?"
"Jared."
"Sorry."
"We're almost done. I made him work. I brought my whip ;)"
I felt stirrings. "Are you in black leather?"
"Corset and stiletto boots hahaha."
I shifted uncomfortably, my insides turning to ice. I struggled to think of something clever to say, but I went blank. So I said one of the things I promised myself I wouldn't ask: "Did your husband go home with anyone from the party?"
I knew the answer: he hadn't. But it was a easy way to bring the subject up, the subject of her being a swinger.
"No. But he hooked up with someone he met on tindr after we got home."
Then another thing I promised I wouldn't say: "It's so fucked up you can't fuck other men."
"That's life."
I didn't know what to say to that. I opened another beer and downed half of it in one gulp. "Want to play Truth?"
