Authors Note: During 2005 and 2006, I submitted twenty-one, mostly well received stories to Literotica, under another name. My life has changed since then and thought my writing would too, so I picked a new name. New name, new writing style, right? Fortunately or unfortunately, my writing style has stayed the same.
If you don't like dominant men/married slut stories, please move along.
Those that read to the end, please take the five seconds necessary to vote.
Anonymous feed back is appreciated.
Feedback with email address is the ultimate reward for an authors writing.
Thanks to E and S for the story suggestions, modification and editing.
TE
She won't pay-up.
I have been in a rut for the last few weeks, but this morning, a Monday, I sprang from bed and got into the office early.
My corner office has a clear glass front, overlooking our showroom. Around the spacious floor today are a gleaming black Porsche 911, a red Porsche Boxster, two different model Land Rovers and 300, 500 and 700 Series BMWs.
I am the general manager of an upscale auto dealership. Mandy is young, around twenty-seven years old. Her official title is receptionist. Unofficially, she is our eye candy. She is 5'7" and 135 pounds. Her red hair is cut stylishly and is shoulder length. She has great taste in clothing and always showcases her full round breasts, slim waist and long athletic legs that end at her tight, heart-shaped bottom.
She starts work at 9am every morning. At 9:05 this morning she stood in my office doorway.
"Christopher, can we talk?"
"Sure," I answered. "Come on in and close the door."
That morning, Mandy was dressed in a white blouse. Two buttons were open and the collar was spread wide. The blouse highlights her breasts nicely. Her dress black pants were low on her waist and very snug around her butt. They were close-fitting and outlined a pair of sexy slim legs.
"Um . . . I want to talk about the bet."
When I didn't say anything, Mandy continued, "Listen, I just can't pay up."
Nodding slowly, I looked at my desk top, letting her wait. After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, I looked into her green eyes and agreed, "I understand, Mandy."
"I mean . . . if I wasn't married . . . well . . . maybe, you know?"
I took a few seconds before continuing, I wanted my answer to sound just as I'd practiced. "The truth is I never thought you would pay up. Listen, it's going to be a busy day." I dismissed her and returned to my computer as she sputtered, turned and left my office.
I couldn't help it. As she walked across the showroom floor, I had to watch the undulation of the most gorgeous ass I'd ever seen.
One week earlier: The bet
"You Giant fans are a bunch of pansies."
I walked into the lunch room as Mike and Terry, two of our top salesmen, were returning to the floor.
Mike rolled his eyes as I held the door open, let the two men pass, and entered to refill my coffee mug for the tenth time.
Alone with Mandy, I asked, "Why are they pansies?"
"Simple," she told me, "They're Giant fans and they won't bet me on the Super Bowl."
"What do you want to bet?"
With a gleam in her eye, she said, "Any amount. Five to one odds."
Shaking my head, I countered her offer, "I'll take a bet, but I'm not betting cash with an employee."
Mandy is a New England Patriot fanatic. A real nut. She smelled blood in the water and suggested, "Make an offer."
I thought for a moment. "If you win, I'll buy you take-out, for a week."
The young woman gave me a very under-whelmed look, so I continued, "I'll order your lunch, pick it up, pay for it, deliver it to the lunchroom and set out the lunch with a placemat and candle. I'll clean up when you've finished."
I could tell by her smile that Mandy was warming to the idea. Having the boss wait on her had a certain appeal.
"OK, that sounds like fun. And if, by some one in a million chance, I lose?"
I finished pouring my coffee. Turning from the coffee pot and leaning against the counter, I stared her down. "If I win the bet . . ." I looked around the lunchroom. "If I win, you have to show me your bare ass."
We had worked together for almost two years and had constantly flirted. I hadn't crossed the sexual harassment line so far.
Until right now of course.
We stared quietly at each other. I'll admit that I wondered if I had strained my relationship with Mandy. I finally shrugged and disappointingly headed back to my office.
"Deal," was all she said, in a quiet and shy voice, just before I reached the lunchroom door.
When I turned to her and cocked an eye, she got out of her chair and thrust out her hand. Wordlessly, we shook.
Final score: New York Giants 17, New England Patriots 14.
Over the next few weeks, I treated Mandy as I always did. Mandy on the other hand was quiet, embarrassed, and uncomfortable.
One slow afternoon, I was inspecting the showroom and making my daily rounds. I smiled at Mandy and was surprised when she shyly waved me over.
Her cheeks were slightly blushing as I approached. "I'm not saying I'll do it, but how do you see it happening?"
Not knowing what she was talking about I repeat, "See it happening?"
"Don't be a jerk, you know!"
When I just stared with a confused expression, she huffed, "If I pay the bet by showing you my ass."
"I hadn't really thought about it." That was a definite lie, I'd jerked off countless times to the fantasy. "Off-hand, you'd wear a skirt and be bare underneath. We'd go to the conference room and lock the door. You would spread your legs, lean over the table and pull the hem of your skirt over your back."
Three days later, that's exactly what happened.
Mandy's legs were long and tanned. The globes of her ass were full and round. Her pussy was hairless. She was wet and the lips of her twat were a deep red and wide open.
It was as if the world slowed. I noticed the goose bumps on each ass cheek and few missed hairs inside the crack of her ass. I counted seven wrinkles that form the star of her back hole.
God, she had a perfect ass. After collecting my bet, I reached out and pull her skirt back into place. "Paid in full," is all I said as I turned and left the conference room.
A new offer.
