Dirty Mr. Styles
A Short Erotica Tale By Stacey Taylor Often Writing As Nikki Bastion
Literotica Edition
Dirty Mr. Styles © 2011 Stacey Taylor All Rights Reserved
.One.
'Morgan Humphrey Styles, Attorney At Law'
read the newly stenciled sign on the glass door. Though he was quickly nearing the age of retirement, Morgan Styles had no intentions of giving up his long held position as Karas Cove's only resident defense attorney anytime soon. Recently relocated to a brand new single office, and now with both a personal secretary and front office receptionist, as well as his handy paralegal, he felt on top of the world and ready to embark on a whole new caseload.
Styles had spent the last decade sharing offices with other attorneys arriving from out of town, as well as real estate lawyers and a title and loan company. The small, sterile offices made him feel less important than he truly believed himself to be and the constant noise and traffic made it nearly impossible to focus on the legal work he needed to complete on time.
Now, he had his very own office -- a long time coming. Rich pile carpet in deep rustic brown, a heavy mahogany desk, and matching bookshelves gave his personal office an exquisite, old world feel. Nothing beat the high back leather chair he'd picked out for himself down in Flagstaff. He'd even splurged for the office girls to have nice oak desks and file drawers. When he wanted to be, Morgan Styles was most generous.
The problem, however, was not an inefficient working environment (at least not anymore). The problem, as it had been for nearly 7 years now, since his wife's curious demise, was
personal
inefficiency. Morgan Styles stood a prominent 6 foot tall and was once quite the athlete. As he'd crossed into his 50s, the bulk and muscle had softened, ultimately turning to flab and fat.
His round, bulbous shape weighed in over 240lbs by the time he'd reached his current age of 63. His thinning hair had remained dark, though in recent years, streaks of gray permanently established themselves around his temples. Morgan Styles was even less enthusiastic about the man boobs.
At home, while he was hygienically correct, his busy schedule allowed a world of clutter to pile up in spots in most every room in his beautiful brown stucco home. He'd lost his housekeeper to a relocation and rarely bothered with grocery shopping anymore, choosing to dine at his favorite restaurants in town. It saved time and trouble.
Then there was his love life, or, to be frank, his sex life. Truth be told, both were non existent. He still yearned for somewhat of a sex life.
Somewhere along the way, his schedule removed him from any real social life after his wife's death. He'd not loved the woman in nearly 30 years, and while her cause of death had been ruled Undetermined, there were some in town who suspected an unsavory fate had befallen her, as within days of her funeral, Morgan Styles had removed all traces of his wife's existence from their home. No one had ever seen Morgan Styles grieve for the missus.
Not even at her funeral, attended by hundreds in and outside of the community, had anyone ever seen Morgan Styles appear to be a grieving widower. He seemed calm, assured as always, keeping a refined dignity on hand at all times. If Morgan Styles did grieve, he'd done so in isolation. It was his lack of emotion that roused some suspicions as to the true nature of his wife's death.
If Morgan Styles had been involved on some level, it behooved the local authorities and no charges were ever filed, nor was any investigation to take place. It seemed that her death, curious as it may have been -- a woman in surprisingly good health to simply die in her sleep in the comfort of her own bed -- could not generate enough suspicion to do much about. Since her death and subsequent removal from his reality -- not even a photograph of her remained anywhere in his home -- Morgan Styles continued his established work and dinner routine unabated.
Morgan Styles had a bit of a secret, though. He may have been in his early 60s, but he was still quite highly sexed and masturbated several times a day, usually imagining himself slipping his thick, squat little cock inside the luscious wet hole of any of the cute waitresses at his favorite diners, or the Temp who'd briefly worked for him a few summers previous. Mr. Styles loved his orgasms and enjoyed jerking off every chance he got.
During his nearly 2 hour drive down to Flagstaff, single lane traffic on 89 always helped facilitate his horny rush. He'd get just outside of town, pull into the scenic overlook lot to unzip his pressed slacks, then ease back onto the highway, leisurely fondling his prick for the drive, able to cum within a mile of entering the city. Morgan kept a packet of wet wipes on the seat for clean up and would pull over to repair himself professionally before continuing on. He thrilled at the notion of all the people in front of or behind him, passing him, having no idea he was pleasuring himself the whole trip.
When he would dine at the local steakhouse, one of the waitresses, a slender young woman in her early 20s with a surprisingly underdeveloped figure for her age, had been one of his favorite fantasy muses. After finishing his meal, Morgan Styles would steal into the men's room, lock himself in a stall, push his pants to his knees and stroke his little cock wickedly until he'd shot his creamy jism into the toilet.
Imagining her slinking into the stall with him, rubbing her hands along her tiny body and smiling at him appreciatively was enough of a fantasy he could finish in a minute or two. Jerking off to her was a favorite indulgence. It usually didn't take him long, nor did he make a lot of telling noises. What he wouldn't give to fuck her just once.
While not as enticing to him as the notion of some sweet young thing gobbling up his needful prick, he did tend to enjoy slipping out onto his patio when his neighbors were enjoying their hot tub. The wife (he'd assumed the couple had been married but didn't know for sure, he'd never met them) would always strip naked on their patio and stride slowly to the pool, stepping down and straddling her man for some splashing copulation. She was a bit too masculine and hard bodied for his taste but willful naked ladies were never a bad thing, he concluded. T&A is T&A and he loved some T&A.
In the dozens of times Morgan Styles had crept onto his own patio, the couple next door had never seemed to notice -- never saw him sitting in his bathrobe in the garden chair, leisurely stroking his cock while watching them fuck and suck each other for hours. Sometimes, he would sit on his patio fully naked and openly masturbate while watching the hot young couple; they never seemed to notice -- or if they had, they simply didn't care. Perhaps they were exhibitionists? Who knows. Morgan enjoyed his live porn act next door and had no intentions of disrupting the show.
What he wanted, and had been more seriously contemplating lately, was to hire himself a personal assistant; one with skills to help him organize his personal life, and one willing to help him find a woman who wouldn't judge him too harshly. His problem, that he could not escape, was that the pickings for the sort of gal he'd prefer were slim to none at his age. Not even his money (a good chunk of it inherited from his deceased wife) seemed to be enough for women these days. He was too well known locally to ever risk entertaining a prostitute, either in Karas Cove or in Flagstaff.
Then there was his personal secretary, Lena Gilbert, who'd worked for him for over a decade. He'd hired her in her early 40s when she still looked reasonably attractive, specifically
because
she looked reasonably attractive. Once he'd gotten to know her, however, Morgan Styles recognized he felt nothing for her in any other capacity than employee -- and she was indeed fabulous at her job. She kept his office running in tip top shape.
Lena, however, had an ongoing, well known crush on Morgan, always going out of her way to make her attraction known (though with proper discretion, of course), always feeling that he would choose her in the end to avoid being alone. When she wasn't reminding him of it, she was perfectly willing to wait until he figured out that he loved her all along.
She would be waiting a very long time.
Morgan not only did
not
love her, he mostly found her rather repellant. She was a tall, thin woman but her overly tanned flesh had begun to resemble dry leather. Her overly dyed red hair had begun to resemble dry broom bristles, and her deep, raspy voice, while never from smoking, tended to make him feel he was conversing with another male. That was mostly where the problem with Lena Gilbert was, as far as Styles was concerned: she was just too mannish for his tastes. That, and she seemed utterly pathetic waiting around on his affections, wasting her life, ignoring his acknowledgment that what she desired stood no chance of ever happening.
Though Morgan knew that he, himself, was certainly no physical catch, he couldn't help be true to his genuine desires and tastes. He wanted a woman who looked and felt like a woman. He wanted curves. He wanted a nice set of tits he could fondle and suckle. He wanted a pert, round ass he could spank, and a tight pink pussy he could do all sorts of naughty things to.
Morgan Styles would often experience quite lucid dreams of much younger girls, perhaps barely legal, inexperienced, and hungry for attention, wealth, and training. Oftentimes Morgan would become so aroused by its immersive reality he would ejaculate in his sleep. Awake, Morgan found himself distracted by younger girls he'd encounter throughout the day, and struggled to restrain is naughty, perverted urges. So as not to risk his reputation, he found a happy medium with secret fantasy of horny pre teens, or with the kinds of women who were legal, but didn't quite look like it.
Still, he was rudely aware of the facts of the matter. Women like that were eager for hot, young, well built studs, or men who'd maintained an appealing physique. Those sorts of women would never find him appealing, what with his pudgy round face and double chin, dark thinning beard, his fat, thick little fingers, or his big, round tubby ass. He knew it...but he still hoped.
He'd been thinking quite awhile that if he hired himself a personal assistant, she could help him find just the right woman -- this was clearly a job for a woman's point of view.
Briefly, Morgan had entertained the notion of approaching Nancy Utemeyer (his paralegal), and perhaps Kitty Lopez (his receptionist) -- both were quite young 20 somethings and seemed to be fairly in the know about girl things, or dating things, but in the end, he decided against it. Nancy had a boyfriend and seemed overtly -- if not overly -- religious, believing in the sanctity of matrimony, and he had no desire to remarry. Kitty was single, overweight, not quite appealing enough and usually annoyed him with monotonous tales of the book club she'd recently joined. She didn't appear to have much of a social life as it was, so probably wouldn't be the best option.
No, he would hire himself a personal assistant. After he had an opportunity to see her organizing his pitiful personal life, getting to know her somewhat, then he would appeal to her feminine expertise to help him find a woman suitable for him, and of course, give him some pointers on how to make himself more appealing to women, even at his age...and weight.
Morgan Humphrey Styles was an old, perverted fat ass in need of a good woman, an attractive woman, a young woman...a sexual woman.
