My Loving Family

Synopsis: Sarah's college lover abandoned her and her baby, but she meets a man on the train who comforts her. On an impulse, she gives him a blow job. He asks for a date later in the week, but she has other things to think about.

Part II -- Sarah's Story

Chapter Five

Two days later, I received a strange summons to Mr. Bose's office. It was almost unheard of for a receptionist to be called to the third floor, so I was frightened, but at the same time, intensely curious because I knew that if I were to fired, that message would have come from Personnel, not the executive office suite. After calling Sally to relieve me, I hurried into the ladies to make myself as presentable as possible, sadly wishing I taken more care with my hair that morning and had selected a different ensemble. Then I entered the elevator.

This was the first time I had been to the third floor and I had no idea what to expect, but even so, I was surprised at how drab and unassuming the furnishings were. The only difference I could see between the furnishings on the first floor and the third was the beige carpet. Otherwise, like the first floor, a receptionist's desk faced the elevator. The same cluster of chairs and coffee table occupied a small space against the wall to the receptionist's left. A dark hallway opened on the right.

I gave my name to the gray haired woman behind the desk. She nodded briefly, and picked up her phone. Then she really looked at me for the first time. "Mr. Bose will see you now," she said. "Third door on your right," she added, nodding toward the hall.

I smiled, expecting a smile in return, but her stare was entirely neutral, which, in the circumstances, seemed very strange. Puzzled and slightly frightened, I tapped on the third door. A metallic woman's voice responded from a small speaker over the door. "Please enter."

I pushed the door open. "Miss Kincade?" A pretty blonde about my age was standing behind her desk.

Nodding, I swiftly surveyed the rich furnishings of this room compared with the drab austerity of the reception area. My surprise must have been obvious because the woman smiled. "You're not the first person to see the incongruity." Her voice took on a confidential tone. "It's Mr. Boses way of impressing our clients. Come this way, please."

She led me to an ornate door. She tapped briefly, then without waiting for an answer, opened it and ushered me inside. "Miss Kincaide," she said.

A heavyset man sat behind a large mahogany desk. "Thank you, Miss Johnson," he said. "Please sit down, Miss Kincaide." He waved his hand toward a chair facing his desk, as I heard the door behind me close.

Sunlight streamed though a tall window directly behind Mr. Bose, making it difficult to read his features, or even to see them very clearly. He appeared to be a man well into middle age with thick graying hair and a pleasant smile. "I'm sure you must be wondering why I asked to see you, Miss Kincaide." He paused briefly, then continued, "Before getting into that, however, let me see . . ." He was thumbing through some papers in a file. I suddenly realized, with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, that it was my personnel file!

"Let me see," he repeated, "you've been with us now for roughly two years. Is that right?"

"Yes, sir," I said, wondering where this was taking us.

"Are you happy, here?"

Dumbly, I nodded.

"I understand you're a single mother. I'll bet you'd like a raise, wouldn't you? And maybe find a career path with us?"

More puzzled than ever, I nodded again, this time more enthusiastically. "I like working here, Mr. Bose, and I'd especially like to plan a career."

"Tell me about your family. It says here that your mother passed away several years ago. What about your father?"

"I don't know anything about my father. I never met him."

"Brothers? Sisters? Cousins?"

"I'm afraid not."

"You're not planning to get married soon?"

A quick bitter memory of that awful moment in Toronto flashed across my mind. "Not in the least," I said firmly.

"Nobody even on the horizon?"

Mr. Bose was beginning to irritate me. He was asking highly personal questions that he had no right to ask, but the tantalizing thought of a raise kept me in my chair. I shook my head.

Evidently, he realized he had pushed me about as far as I was willing to go. "Believe me, Miss Kincaide, I have a special reason for asking these personal questions. You'll understand why in a moment." Then he pushed a legal looking document across his desk. "This is a non-disclosure agreement; the same agreement our agents sign before going into the field to audit and otherwise inspect our investments. In exchange for your signature, we will raise your salary $100/month. In addition, you may be paid production bonuses as appropriate.

"However, unlike the business related subjects covered in the agreements our agents sign, let me stress that this confidentiality obligation includes any internal conversations or discussions concerning your employment or job assignments. Do I make myself clear?

"One more thing," Mr. Bose added, "I want you to go into this with your eyes open. You should realize that if you were to breach this agreement by disclosing to third parties the substance of any of those conversations or discussions, that you would be subject to immediate dismissal with prejudice and in addition incur considerable civil liability."

I wasn't entirely clear about the implications, although I knew that "with prejudice" would essentially amount to a negative job recommendation, as though I were suspected of being an embezzler, but that extra $100 in my paycheck seemed like found money. I nodded my agreement.

Mr. Bose smiled benignly. "I thought you'd see the advantage of this opportunity. He pressed a button on his deck.

The door behind me opened, and I heard Miss Johnson say, "You called, Mr. Bose?"

"Yes. Come in please, and close the door. I want you to witness Miss Kincaide's signature." Both Mr. Bose and Miss Johnson watched intently as I accepted the pen he offered and scrawled my signature on the dotted line. That's how I became the company whore.

It didn't happen all at once, of course. It was that chance encounter with Jack Longdon on the return trip from Toronto that caused it to happen at all. After Miss Johnson was dismissed again, I learned that Jack had mentioned our meeting to Mr. Bose, and had expressed his disappointment that I had not called him at his hotel. I'm not sure how graphic his description of that meeting was, but evidently Mr. Bose had some idea what had happened.

If, during the next 15 years, I heard Mr. Bose say "A satisfied client is a happy client" once, I heard it a thousand times. But I heard it then for the first time. "Miss Kincaide, I suggest you give Mr. Longdon a call at his hotel today, and accept his dinner reservation. After all, a satisfied client is a happy client."

He paused and frowned. Then he added, "This is a bit awkward, Miss Kincaide, but I've been married long enough to know that women in general are much more concerned about their appearance than men, especially out in public. Therefore, please let me make this as easy for you as possible."

He opened his wallet and extracted four $100 bills which he laid on his desk. "Why not take the rest of the afternoon off so you can make proper preparations?"

Although Mr. Bose had framed his request as a suggestion, I knew it was a veiled order; that it was part of my new job. Feeling already soiled by my ready acceptance of his outrageous proposal, I accepted the money. Consequently, I called Jack Longdon at his hotel as soon as I returned to my apartment. I suspect he may have been expecting my call, but he had the good grace to act pleasantly surprised.

"Why Sarah," he had said, "this is a pleasant surprise! I thought you had forgotten about me."

"It's just that I've been very busy, Jack. I'm sorry I couldn't call earlier."

After a brief chat, Jack said he'd have to make arrangements for dinner. "Shall we say at around eight o'clock?" That was fine with me. I told him I'd be out for the rest of the afternoon, but that he could leave a message for me on my machine if I failed to reach him when I returned from running my errands.

My first stop was at a neighborhood beauty salon for a cut, comb-out, and a manicure. Mr. Bose also bought me a facial while I relaxed, speculating how the evening might play out. Then I went shopping for a "suitable" dress. My clothes were either vintage undergraduate casual or severely conservative business clothes; high necked blouses, long pleated skirts and concealing jackets; that sort of thing. Hardly suitable for my new role.

The truth was, however, that I honestly didn't know how to dress for this kind of occasion without looking like a blatant streetwalker. I decided to seek expert advice. Consequently, as I searched through a half dozen stores crowded with racks of clothing, I was looking more for the right sales clerk than for the right dress.

I found her in a small clothing store. A young woman wearing a snug knit dress. She wore her dark hair in a stylish swirl on one side of her head, a tad too much lipstick, and a dress which revealed somewhat more cleavage than one might expect in a women's store, and which ended perhaps three inches above her knee. Not exactly a tart, but not Mother Teresa, either.

There were only two other women in the store idly browsing through the racks, so I had the clerk's undivided attention. After I explained my dilemma, and described my limited budget, she immediately led me to the designer dresses -- a strange place for a single mother on a limited budget. "Just how hot is this date?" I honestly couldn't tell her. "Well, how hot do you want it to be?" Again I shrugged.

She seemed baffled by my indecision, but we began feeling our way through the intimate designs that she felt suited my figure and my plans. When she found one that she was certain was me, one I wasn't even sure I could wear out of the dressing room, she pointed out that my underpinnings did not fit the cut of this "killer" dress.

Next stop: Lingerie. "Well, you'll need an underwire," she said, eyeing my generous chest. Then she snapped her fingers. "I have a better idea." She pulled open a drawer behind the counter, and removed a black lace bustier with hardly any cup at all.

I had never owned such an exotic undergarment before, so when I tried my new ensemble on in the dressing room, I was surprised at how everything balanced, and how the dress caressed my newly pert chest that threatened to spill right over the top at any moment. Nice engineering, I thought.

The sales clerk laughed at the look on my face. Then, without commenting on my cotton flower-sprigged panties, she asked, "Do you have any thongs?" When I shook my head, she said, "You don't want a panty line."

Frankly, I blushed at the wisp of black lace she fished from another drawer and waved as if it were a hankie before dropping it silkily in top of the other garments. Panties? hardly!

Finally she added a package of thigh-high hose to the growing pile on the counter. I was eager to try on my new clothes in the privacy of my apartment and embarrassed by the attention I was drawing from the other shoppers who were watching me with avid curiosity. The clerk snapped her fingers again, and took the package of thigh-highs from the pile.

What now? A garter belt? I almost giggled at the thought of that much hardware under the slip of a dress we had selected. But no. She opened still another drawer and reverently brought a slim box to the counter, opened it, and pulled the tissue aside to reveal black silk stockings with a fine-knit lace top to grip my thighs.

As she wrapped my purchases and I paid with the money Mr. Bose had given me (and an additional $150 on my charge card), I saw that my audience had drawn nearer while the sales clerk made a big deal out of smoothing out the items and lowering them carefully, one at a time, separated by layers of scented tissue paper into the dress box.

I blushed again, to my dismay, as she arranged the lace thong on the bustier, remembering how exposed my heavy breasts were above the dress's decolletage. The salesgirl had laughed at my crimson face as I asked, "Isn't this a little . .?"

"Nope. It's what they are wearing, and frankly, I think this dress was made for you. One more thing. Shoes will make this outfit! Not the pumps you probably have in mind, but strappy shoes. Go around the corner to Trilby's, ask for Frank, tell him that Dolly said you need three inch heels."

"I haven't worn heels for . . ."

"It doesn't matter. Take them home and wear them for an hour or so around your apartment. Not too long. Just long enough to get used to the height, but before sore spots can develop.

"One more thing. Pick up a tube of darker lip gloss. Remember, you're not trying for a natural look tonight!"

The phone was ringing as I let myself into my apartment, and I quickly picked up the receiver. It was Jack. He had managed to get reservations for 7:30 in the most expensive restaurant in town.

It was a little later than that when my cab arrived at the restaurant. Jack was waiting for me in the vestibule. When he saw me being ushered through the front door, his jaw almost literally dropped. His obvious pleasure at my appearance was very complimentary; so much so, as a matter of fact, that I was somewhat embarrassed.

"Forgive me, Sarah. It's just that . . ."

"We're not sitting on a train in the middle of the night while I'm trying to take care of a crying baby," I said. "Tonight, she's in the care of her baby sitter."

I know I must have blushed at his next remark, "You mean I won't have to hold her again?" That was going a little too fast. Hurriedly I changed the subject but the maître d' interrupted us at that point and led us to our table.

The dinner, the elegant surroundings, and Jack's obvious admiration were intoxicating enough, but in addition, I had had a cocktail before dinner in an effort to quell my nervousness, and during dinner we were served two different wines. For a person unaccustomed to alcohol, especially one who had skipped lunch to comply with Mr. Bose's instructions, that was a substantial amount; enough, at any rate, so when Jack suggested going to a night club, I readily agreed.

We were seated side by side in the club. I was beginning to feel as sexy as I must have looked. I was going to make it as long as I did not glance down where my breasts rode proudly, in plain view with the silk of the dress warm against my shoulders. When he invited me to dance, I stood and led the way to the already crowded small dance floor.

The band was playing a slow number, so throwing caution to the winds, I wrapped my arms around Jack's neck, feeling my breasts firm against his chest while he pulled me tight enough against his body so his engorged manhood was pressed just as firmly against my abdomen. Almost immediately, his warmth, his musky odor and, of course, the manly object pressing against my belly caused a gentle clenching deep within me. Uh-oh, I thought as my head spun when he steered us in circles.

As we moved together, my nipples, always engorged, began tingling, telegraphing all sorts of messages and causing ripples of muscles tensing and relaxing, as if warming up for play, from my oh-so-alert belly around to the small of my back where his hand moved gently to stroke what must have been noticeable spasms, around and down to the moist curls within that lace thong and into my vulva.

Someone, not me, but someone was orchestrating that I had not used for a long time, and I found myself thrusting my pelvis hungrily against his.

He whispered, "I can't take much more of this. I'm afraid I'll embarrass us both. Would you like to come back to my hotel for a nightcap?" Without a moment's hesitation, I nodded. To be honest about it, I was as eager as he to shed the clothes that interfered with the meeting of our bodies and to take up where we had left off a few days earlier on the train. It never once crossed my mind that I was doing exactly what Mr. Bose wanted me to do. I was doing this because I wanted to.

Instead of pausing at the hotel bar for a nightcap, we practically raced to the elevator, and once inside, as the car rose to his floor, Jack held me in a tight embrace, his open, wet mouth sucking on my lips. One hand held his head against mine while the other one played naughty games and explored his impressive outline. I was so hot by this time that I did not care about the convulsion that his tongue's thrust in my hungry mouth had caused, resulting in dampness that the lacy thong could not contain.

Once safely inside his suite, neither of us wasted time. He had partly unzipped my dress in the elevator while I was fondling him, so it required only a quick reach and a shrug and I was standing before him with my dress and incredible wet panties puddled on the floor around my feet, wearing my bustier, thigh- high hose, and those strappy heels. I backed up toward the bed, and only then did I begin to undo the bustier. . .one hook at a time . . slowly, letting it fall where it may. I moved around the room, knowing his eyes were on me, eating me up as I strutted . . . for me as much as for him.

If a look could ravish, Jack had already impaled me before he opened his trousers. He was sitting on the bed removing his shoes. "Here, let me help," I said, strangely eager to serve him.

Wearing only my hose and shoes (I don't know why men find heels so sexy!), embarrassed by the way my milk-filled breasts swung every time I moved, I dropped to my knees and removed his shoes and socks. I did it as slowly as possible, seeing his sweat and enjoying prolonging what I knew was coming. I drew off the sock and stroked his foot. Daring him to rush me, to make the first move.

He stood. I unfastened his belt, unbuttoned his waistband, and lowered his zipper. His trousers dropped around his ankles. My attention was fixed on the seemingly huge bulge in his boxers. I exposed his magnificent penis, standing tall and proud, by gently tugging the elastic material over his jutting manhood. His hairy scrotum hung bull like, between his muscled thighs.

While I admired his phallus, he untied his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. Then he stood and pulled me to my feet and again held me in a tight embrace. I could almost feel my toes curl as I luxuriated in the feel of his warm, bare hairy body against mine.

He fell backward on the bed, pulling me down on top of him. I pushed myself out of his grasp. "I want to feel your bare hairy chest with my breasts," I said. I moved my torso back and forth dragging my breasts across his chest.

Unavoidably, my left breast was leaking, and slick trails of moisture followed their movement. "It's been over forty years since I last tasted mother's milk," he said as he captured my nipple between his lips and sucked it against his teeth deep into his mouth. My entire vulva seemed filled with sparks! Desperate with need, I straddled his body while I guided the tip of his beautiful penis into my hungry vagina. Then I slowly lowered my body, savoring the delicious sensations rippling through me as I felt his tool parting the moist, hot membranes in my body. I sat still for a minute or two adjusting to his size. Then I leaned forward again, this time rocking my pelvis back and forth while slowly swinging my breasts and dragging my nipples across his face.

"Hang on," he said as he wrapped his arms tightly around me. Then he rolled us over. I suddenly felt like a young girl about to lose her hymen when I heard him say, "I'm going to give you the fucking you deserve!"

He lifted my legs up to his shoulders and began slamming himself into me, seemingly penetrating me deeper and deeper with every hard thrust. A great tidal wave began to build deep in my loins, extending like a huge curling wave over me. I heard a woman's voice cry, "Oh, fuck me Jack, oh God, oh God, harder, HARDER, a little more, a . . .CRASH!!! The wave broke over me at the same moment I realized the voice was mine.