My Wife Her Boss His Des

This is a continuation of my first story, "My Wife, Our Stories, Her Boss," which was imperfect in many ways, as is this. I'm really new to this and apologize for the amateurishness. I do think I have a couple of good ideas to investigate for those of you who enjoy this genre, and would welcome any feedback that would help me to make them better.

Less helpful is feedback that is cruel or insulting. I get it if this genre isn't your thing, hot wife and cuckold stories are a niche market, to put it mildly, and if you don't like them, that's totally cool-you do you! But don't bother continuing to read this one if it's going to make you angry. Life is too short! And there's no point trying to attack people who are trying to explore their desires in what's supposed to be a safe space.

OK-sorry for the preamble. If you DO like hot wives, vixens, bulls, etc., I'm hoping you'll find some stuff to like in this story.

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A Business Meeting (My Story)

As I mentioned in my last installment, my wife, Amanda, recently returned to work. And while it wracked me with guilt, I had to admit that it had punched our sexual fantasies up a notch or two.

Again, as I mentioned last time, these fantasies frequently revolved around her boss, Eric. She would never act on them, of course (or at least I thought she'd never act on them) . . . but they were fun. For both of us.

In any case, I'm writing this update because last week the strangest coincidence just entered our life, with interesting effects.

The senior partners of my firm had delegated to me the job of working with Eric's firm, and Eric in particular, on a new project. I can't go into details here, but it suffices to say that my bosses needed me to get the work done, and they would NOT be interested in hearing that the deal fell through because of my marriage-related anxieties.

So one day, in the middle of the work week, I ended up commuting with Amanda-both of us going to her building, rather than splitting up as we made it downtown.

"Sweetie, I don't actually think we should walk in together," Amanda said to me. "I think it's a little weird-I want this to be my work, my professional space, and I'm not totally sure I want everyone gossiping about the fact that my husband is negotiating with our firm."

"I get it." I said. "No problem. You walk in first, and I'll grab a coffee downstairs. My meeting with Eric isn't until 9:30 in any case, and I can't arrive too early without conceding a little bit of power and authority to him," I laughed. "And my bosses need me to nail this one."

"OK sweet-I'll see you upstairs in that case. I'd better run, because Eric will want me to prepare his office to receive a very important client." She winked, and kissed me. And I have to admit that it did make me feel loved and special. And for a moment is dispelled the anxiety I was feeling about the meeting, and even a little of the longer-term, underlying anxiety I was feeling about our marriage.

I waited half an hour, as promised, and then proceeded up the elevator to Amanda's floor-Eric's floor.

When I walked in I was greeted not by Amanda, but by a fetching receptionist named Claire. No more than 24, Claire looked to be soaking up everything the city could offer a girl with her special gifts, chiefly extraversion and next-level hotness.

"So you're meeting with Eric?" She asked?

"Yes-I think I'm his 9:30." I responded.

"Ooohhhhh-you're Amanda's husband, aren't you?" she cooed in a sing-songy voice.

"Yes, I am, but I promised her I wouldn't mention it."

"Oh don't worry, I won't mention it. In this office most of the girls who work for Eric pretend they're not married." She laughed.

I didn't quite grasp (or want to grasp) what she meant by that and was about to ask a follow-up, but in the meantime the door to Eric's office opened, and Amanda's enchanting eyes emerged, recognizing mine, and I walked in as she walked out.

Eric sat behind an almost excessively ornate mahogany desk. If he were even 20% less charismatic than he was, I think I'd be tempted to say that he was trying too hard. Everything was mahogany, ivory, wrought iron, gold, leather. It was almost the sort of office you'd imagine Hemingway having if he were transported to 21st C New York and given a high-level position at an investment firm.

"Did this really work on people?" I asked myself. Did it intimidate men? Did it attract women? I had to admit that it definitely seemed like he had his shit together, and gave me confidence in him as a potential business partner. As a husband whose wife worked with him, well . . .

"Good to meet you," he said as he shook my hand with a slightly too-firm grip. "I look forward to getting some big things done this week."

"Absolutely," I said.

Just then Amanda walked back in with coffee; I turned to her and smiled; he noticed.

"You understand that while we are doing business here this week, I will not be able to take your relationship with you wife into consideration." Eric stately firmly and somewhat more formally than I had expected.

Caught a little off guard by this, I quickly agreed, "of course, of course. We should come to an agreement if it makes sense for our firms; the fact that we are connected through my wife should play no part in it."

"Excellent. I'm glad you understand. Over the next few days as we meet to negotiate, Amy will of course be here, supporting my work, responding to my requests, but let's all of us pretend that the two of you are not married. This week she is not your wife at all, but rather my employee; she belongs not to you, but to me."

As he said this he glanced over at Amanda; she giggled slightly and cast her eyes down. I tried to make eye contact to get a sense of what she was thinking, but I couldn't quite catch her eye. I suppose she was already playing her role. It was true what he had said: in this room she was Eric's assistant, not my wife. I guess I had to get used to it.

She had told me that he called her Amy, and at first I almost thought that this was an instance of a senior executive just getting a subordinate's name wrong. It made me slightly upset on Amanda's behalf, but it also seemed a little funny.

But now that I was in their presence, and now that I saw how she reacted to it, it seemed far closer to a nickname or pet name. Far more threatening.

As Amanda set his coffee and paperwork down on his desk I thought I caught her resting her hand on his shoulder for balance-but I had to be imagining this.

"Do you need anything else, Mr. Cooper," asked my wife-my own wife, calling me by my last name.

"Um-no, no. I'm fine."

At this Amanda walked around to the side of Eric's desk and sat on it, perched there, ready to take notes on the meeting from Eric's side.

It was all so strange-there was my wife, pretending not to be my wife, and perched next to Eric on this almost obscenely large and excessively ornate mahogany desk.

"Are you sure that Amanda wouldn't like to sit down in a chair?" I asked.

"No, no-Amy, you prefer sitting on my desk, don't you?" he stressed the word Amy, rubbing it in that he had this pet name for her, and that she liked it.

So there she sat, on the edge of his desk, the fabric of her tight skirt hugging the curves of her hips. Fuck--even if she weren't the love of my life-even if I were any random guy doing business with Eric-I think I'd try to keep the talks proceeding just to keep looking at those hips. I couldn't stop myself from staring, and what's weird is that even though she was my wife and I had every right to look, I felt strangely guilty, and as though I needed to stop both of them, both she AND Eric, from catching me as I kept stealing glimpses of her body.

Her hips would rock ever so slightly as she'd readjust herself periodically, her hair fell down one side of her face and onto her breasts as she sat slightly bent to one side. And her breasts sat heavy in her blouse, straining against both the fabric and the buttons, when she shifted I could periodically catch a glimpse between the buttons of the bra that lay beneath . . .

Eric proceeded to talk business, laying out the ground rules for our talks that week, telling me stories of his work with my boss in the past. I nodded frequently but was lost to my seemingly illicit desire for my wife.

How the hell had he engineered this? I was feeling guilty and humiliated for looking at my own wife in front of him. And somehow, even though it was impossible, I began to think that he knew this. And his wide grin as he talked about the deal we were aiming for began to seem a lot less about whatever it was he was saying, and far more about the position that he knew he had me in.

Whatever words we said at that point were unimportant. The bare facts of the matter were these: I was a man, in a room with another man, and my wife somehow belonged to him.

It was too much.

The rest of the day was a blur. As though I were drunk or drugged . . . as if I had stumbled into some other world, one adjacent to this world, but just a step or two to the side of it.

The events of the morning swam in my head the whole day, haunting me. Not in a bad way, precisely-I was constantly aroused by memories of Amanda's hips and how they looked atop that desk. I didn't know if I was jealous or aroused or both.

At home that night I brought this up to Amanda.

"Sweet, are you entirely comfortable with the role Eric has you playing at work-isn't it a little weird that he has you sit on his desk like that instead of in a chair?"

"Oh, sweet! He doesn't mean any harm-he gets all the girls in the office to sit on his desk. And I have to admit that they all like it. They get a little thrill out of being close to him."

"And what about you, do you get the same thrill?"

"Oh stop-do we really have to talk about this now? Why talk about work when we're at home? Unless you'd like me to tell you a little story in bed, that is?" I could tell she was caught between not really wanting to recount the facts of the day, and preferring to go to bed for another evening of fantasies and lovemaking.

"We don't have to talk about it, really, if you'd prefer not to-we can just restrict ourselves to discussing our fantasies of your work. But it just all seemed so unusual to me somehow . . . Don't any of the clients complain about it being somewhat inappropriate when you sit like that?"

She laughed as if I had guessed a secret. "Hmmm . . . I'm not sure I can really tell you too much more about that without giving up company secrets, and now that you're a potential business partner, I think I should keep my lips sealed."

I moved towards her from behind and grabbed her by the waist. "Well, tonight I'm your husband--why don't you tell me the truth?" I caressed her breast from behind and began to get a little turned on. "Or why don't you tell me the truth, mixed with a little fiction?"

"Whatever can you mean?" She laughed, as she let her head fall back against my shoulder.

"You know what I mean-what if you start by telling me a little bit of the truth, then keep going until we get to some things that aren't quite true . . . . maybe some things you wish were true, or fantasize were true . . . why don't you make me try to guess where the truth ends and fiction begins . . ."

"Mmmmm! I see what's happening here." She cooed. As she spun around, grabbed her glass of wine from the table and flopped down on the sofa. "You got a little jealous--or excited-or jealous AND excited by what you saw today. Is that it?"

"Well . . . I didn't say that precisely . . . just that now that I've actually seen the place, I'm kind of wondering if that will make our fantasies about what happens there more exciting . . . or more threatening."

"Well, there's only one way to find out," she laughed, as she took a sip of wine. Sitting up straight, with a newfound confidence, she began. "Now that you've seen it, now that you've met Claire, now that you've met Eric, now that you've seen me sitting on his desk. You probably really wonder what happens in that office when you're not there, don't you? Shall I tell you, baby? Do you want to know?"

I moved to sit close to her.

"Why don't you sit back, and have some wine, and let Amanda tell you a little story. I like your idea, so I'll make this half fact, half fiction, and I'll let you piece together which is which."

I sat back in my chair, and listened to the familiar, soothing, and erotic voice of my wife . . .

Growing Intimacy (Amanda's Story)

So, baby, I do have a really good-and truthful-opening to this little story. The long and the short of it is that the sitting-on-the-desk thing isn't an accident. You want to hear more, don't you? Good!

A couple of weeks back Eric was out of his office, and I went in to organize some things for him . . . and, if I'm being honest, to snoop around a bit. As you know from being there today, he has some interesting and sometimes somewhat silly things in there, after all.

Some of those photos of his-of Eric hunting, mountaineering, diving-initially I thought he was just trying too hard . . . like a guy who wanted to be James Bond or something. But the thing is, for all of the other women in the office, he IS James Bond. You wouldn't believe the things that they say . . . or do.

But those are stories for another time. What I want to explain to you now is just how easy I'm finding it to slip in and out of both of those perspectives. Initially he seemed ridiculous, but when I'm talking to the other girls . . . or when I'm alone in his office . . . or now when I'm telling you stories, I'm finding it a bit easier to work my way around to the James Bond perspective.

So as I walked through his office, I found myself strangely drawn to the desk. For some weird reason it's one of the things people in the office just can't stop discussing . . . gossiping about how much it cost, talking about how good Eric looks sitting behind it. I found myself wanting to just explore it a bit, so I walked up to it and poked around a bit. It was neatly arranged . . . not much was there except a legal pad and a single fountain pen. But what got me was the way it felt. As I moved my fingers across it was such an unusual surface. It was smooth, but just a little tacky-it felt sensual in a way I could quite explain. And even though you obviously can't tell how heavy or dense something is from just touching its surface, it somehow had this unusual solidity to it. It felt as though if the roof caved in, if the building collapsed, this damn desk would still be where it was.

I'm sorry for going on and on-I really meant to just tell you one little secret about how things went today and I still haven't gotten there!

But, anyway, in my reverie about how solid and smooth and sexy or whatever this desk was, I found myself doing a little spin and sitting on the edge of it, maybe to see how it would respond to me weight, or how it would feel to sit there, or-I don't know. But then, to my horror, Eric walked in as I sat there, and I was a little shocked and paralyzed. I wasn't doing anything ridiculously wrong . . . I mean it's a little weird for me to be sitting on my boss's desk, but it's not like it's a violation of some moral code or something . . . but still I felt as though I'd been caught doing something very bad, and a little shameful.

I couldn't move, but he settled me down a bit by saying something like "good to see you're settling in," and I laughed. But then he asked if he could say something a little more honest and-I can't remember exactly how he put it-I think he said, "Amanda, would you mind if I said something a little inappropriate but complete harmless?"

I was taken off guard, but he continued.

"Amanda, I am struck by the way you look there, sitting on my desk. Would you mind sitting there a moment longer for me to process it?"

This was extremely odd, but I felt like I was in the wrong, and this didn't exactly empower me to jump off the desk, give him a weird look, and walk out. So I said, "OK," as he began to walk around me, gazing at me with an intensity that made me a little uncomfortable, but also a little interested in what he was going to say next.

"Amanda I need to be able to say some things that could be taken to be inappropriate, and I am going to have to ask for your consent, in advance, for me to say some things of a sexual nature to you."

I was now getting extremely nervous . . . was he going to come on to me right then and there? Should I run out of the room? Why am I not feeling offended? Am I hoping he doesn't say anything more, or that he does?

In spite of the fact that the moral voice in my head, not to mention the ring on my finger, were telling me to get out of there, I said, "OK, just as long as you don't say too much--I'm happily married, after all."

"Don't worry, Amanda, I do not intend to make any advances of a sexual nature at this time. But I do need to say, for the sake of the firm, that the contours of your hips and thighs as you sit on that desk are attractive and sensual in an almost unmatched way. And I think I would like you to periodically sit there, in precisely that way, as you take notes during some of my meetings with potential clients."

Once again I was torn by radically divergent impulses and emotions. This was shocking-totally fucking beyond what was appropriate in a workplace, and he was coming perilously close to pimping me out to get business for the firm. But at the same time I found myself flattered by the attention, I consoled myself that what he was asking me to do wasn't overtly sexual, and that it was more or less what I had just done of my own volition.

Just sitting on his desk. Nothing more.

And if the eyes of other men would be on me because of that, it wouldn't be unlike what any woman in the city faces every time she ventures outside onto the street. And he said that he wasn't going to make sexual advances on me "at this time," what a weird way to put it. And why do I find that simultaneously relieving, then disappointing, then hopeful?

He interrupted my disconnected thoughts, "Amanda I am sorry if anything I have said offends you, I am only stating plain facts. Your body, particularly as it is arrayed now as you sit on my desk, will have a certain effect on men. I am not asking you to do anything inappropriate, and I am not asking you to do anything I do not do myself."

"What on earth do you mean by that?"

"Come on Amanda-we are both of us adults. Do you think I do not put thought and energy into displaying myself in this way? You and I have an effect on people, Amanda. We can draw people to us, make them forget themselves, even forget their own better judgment, to do anything they can to stay close to us." As he said this he began to prowl across the office, looking out the window and out at the harbor. "Don't you think I know the effect I have on the women of the office? on the men? On the clients we seduce into working with our firm? On their husbands and wives? Sex and sensuality are everywhere: in every room, in every conversation, whether the people in it recognize it or not. It would be irresponsible of me not to take advantage of this for the good of the firm."

He was good at talking. And handsome. And undoubtedly this is why I was listening to and coming extremely close to falling for this line of argument. It gave me a little shiver of pleasure when he included me in his little group of-what? Super-seducers? It seemed so ridiculous, I, a middle-aged housewife and Eric, the hottest, most powerful bachelor in the city. But how could I not want to be part of that little group, to want to dream for a moment that I could have the effect on men that he did on women.