This story in Mature category could just as easily be in Erotic Couplings. Also, a mild fetish.
An opportunity is a good position, chance or prospect for success, an appropriate or encouraging time or occasion ... a situation or condition favourable for attainment of a goal.
So, maybe picking up an excellent new employment position, when it seemed my working life was over and done, was a huge opportunity for me. Now, if only an opportunity to reopen my sex life could open up as easily. You see, I am enduring my second marriage breakup; surely good hot sex is not over for me?
I most likely made the decision to retire a little prematurely. I am only 63 but had attained what I deemed to be financial security. Sick of working and tempted by having the time to do anything I wanted seven days a week was very appealing. Not so appealing, as it turned out, for my wife, who upon hearing my declaration to retire, immediately advised me she wanted a divorce.
Sometimes, life can be a bitch. She must have tolerated my presence around the house, when I was only home at nights and on weekends, while still working, but as soon as I was at home and close by her every day, she decided she wanted out. I never considered ours a bad marriage ... it was my second and I believed I had learnt the pitfalls from my first. But now, both have gone the same way, each after 19 years coincidentally and both at a point when the kids left to go to college.
I won't review the ins and outs of each marriage ... although therein lies a cause for failure. For me, insufficient sexual
ins
and
outs
as the years went by. I must have been attracted each time to the wrong kind of woman, the kind who embrace wild and uninhibited sexual pleasures while courting and until that day I placed a ring on her finger ... but once married develops a propensity for going-to-bed-headaches and extraordinarily long menstrual periods to limit the opportunities (there's that word in the story title again) to engage in regular marital sex. My preference has always been for sex at least five times a week, but that frequency was never on my wives' agendas.
Oh well, so be it. My biggest regret is that each, in their own way, took me to the cleaners financially ... hiring good lawyers that successfully bled me dry. Maybe it was my fault, for leaving my shares and investments portfolios too exposed and for trusting these women to be around longer than 20 years.
So, at 63, I was back out looking for a job. Nothing too physical at my age. I found one quite quickly, but anyone looking in on my new work situation would classify me as being a fish out of water. The company is a get-up-and-go I.T. business with 18 employees, none of the staff, but me, over 35. The owner is a woman, she is a knockout ... a drop dead gorgeous 40-something with an intriguing career path.
She -- Angela by name -- was a contestant in one of the big beauty pageants that still proliferated toward the end of the twentieth century before the so-called women's movement pretty much wiped them out. From winning one of those, she became a model ... a good one too, so the stories say. Apparently made a lot of money from there, studied further, became engrossed in computer programming, took her time before investing in a venture that is now bounding along successfully.
Along the way, she married a guy she openly describes as a hunk. He's a former Olympic swim star, made his own small fortune from sponsor endorsements during his athletic career. Brad's a bit older than her, nudging 50, I'd say.
Anyway, Angela interviewed me for a position she wanted to create, and it turned out that I was exactly what she was looking for. An older man to be the Office Manager, handle the finances ... the wages and paying the accounts, but most importantly, being a sage, old and wise man to keep the 18 under 35's in check.
I've been there six months now and Angela appears very happy with the way I've settled in and how I administer the office, freeing her up to concentrate on what she does best, developing new concepts to increase her fortune. I haven't seen much of Brad, I've only met him a couple of times. I recall seeing him on TV in his competition days. He has matured quite well, obviously looks after himself and still fits Angela's description of him as what women like to call a hunk.
So, that brings you up to date on my circumstances at 63 and why I find myself working in this office environment with a gorgeous woman boss and keeping a disciplinary eye on eighteen young guys and girls.
From that first job interview, and ever since, Angela has struck me as a bright and bubbly woman, very adept at what she does, caring and considerate for her staff. Really, she is almost the perfect woman ... if indeed one exists. Oh, sorry about that ... said with all the bitterness of two failed marriages.
However, I have been concerned for about ten days now. Angela hasn't seemed to be her regular self of late. So noticeable to me, despite only working here for six months, that on Friday last, I barged into her office late in the day, sat down at her desk, and asked, "Are you ok, Ange? Anything bothering you?"
"No!" her response almost too quick, then a pause before adding, "Why do you ask?"
"I'm sorry, it's obviously none of my business, but you don't seem yourself this week. I can't believe that work would ever get you down, not with your upbeat attitude to everything, but if there's anything I can help you with, just call out. I do enjoy working here and I want to assure you that I'm always here for you."
Up close in the personal space of her office, she appeared forlorn and downcast. It just isn't her usual demeanour, but she denied anything was wrong, so who am I to keep pushing? I withdrew. Five minutes later, she walked by my office, pausing at the door to say, "Thanks for caring, but I'm good, Ray."
I don't like to see her sad like that, not her normal self. I gave it some thought over the weekend. Am I looking too deeply for something? Maybe she's just having a bad period ... from enduring two wives over forty years, I know about that.
She doesn't get in until late on Monday, it's so unlike her. She gave a very cursory hello as she passed my office door, not stopping, going directly to hers. At around 1.15, I hear Angela on the phone in her office next door to mine. Fortunately, most of the staff are either out getting lunch or have adjourned to the rec room at the far end of the office, where they can play pool, throw darts or just veg out to eat in their lunch break.
Quite rare for her, Angela is screaming at the top of her voice, "I knew it, Brad. You fucking dead shit, screwing around behind my back. How long has this been going on?"
There's a brief silence where she gives him a chance to answer her accusations, but then her tirade resumes, "Who is she? Do I know her? How young, Brad? Oh my god, you are one sick puppy. Surely, you have some decency about you. For god's sake, you are fifty and you're out screwing some 20-year-old cunt? God, you're a dickhead, what did I see in you?"
I rise from behind my desk, walk from my office to her door, next to mine, and lean in to pull her door closed, trying to ease her embarrassment in the eyes of staff. I return to my office ... I can still hear her screaming at her husband through the wall. "So, what are you expecting to do? Are you intending to go live with her? Oh, really! Listen, you fuckwit who can't keep it in your pants, I want you gone. I don't care how you do it, but I don't want to see you, or any trace of you, in my home, by the time I get home tonight. Just fuck off out of my life."
Wow! In the six months I've worked for her, I've heard Angela drop an occasional, "Oh shit" and "Fuck it," but this is something else. She maintains a barrage using almost every curse word imaginable, "Go live with your fuckin' whore cunt, Brad, I hope your dick falls off."
Silence again, I stand, walk to my open door, looking toward the far end of the office. A couple of staff members are standing at the rec room door, curious at what they have overheard. They withdraw back inside when they see me emerge from my office. I am unsure what to do. She rebuffed my attempt to check on her wellbeing on Friday, should I try again or leave her alone to stew in private?
Concerned for her, I go to her door, knock lightly and open it. She is at her desk, tissues in one hand, sobbing. She looks up at me on hearing me at her door. "Not now!" she yells angrily. I withdraw, without saying a word, closing her door behind me.
Twenty minutes later, sitting at my desk, I hear a sound. Looking up, Angela is standing, profiled in the doorway, her superb shapely body as beautiful as always. Silhouetted by the bright lights from the general office behind her, I cannot clearly see her face. "Can I come in?" she asks politely.
"This is all yours Angela, you can go wherever you want," I'm somewhat chastened by her abrupt and dismissive,
'Not now'
a moment ago.
She closes my office door behind her, coming across to the guest chair on the opposite side of my desk, "Have you got a minute? I need to talk to somebody sane."
I soften, "Feel free Ange, you know I'm here for you."
She takes a minute or so to compose herself. There are still tears although she is no longer sobbing ... more like whimpering. I hate to see such a beautiful woman so distraught. "Sorry to shout at you, I was quite emotional, you obviously heard all of that, the whole office probably heard it. Oh, thanks for closing my door."
I nodded, "That's ok, just trying to protect you at a vulnerable moment."
"I can't believe it! I think a doctor would describe me as in shock. My husband has turned out to be a fucking cheater. How could he do that to me? Two weeks ago, I'd have scoffed if anyone had suggested he could be a cheater. But a couple of things made me suspicious. The fuckwit regularly gets home late, even has excuses for us not to have sex. That doesn't suit me at all, I've always been hot for good sex, and we had that in our marriage. But his unexplained late nights and literally starving me of sex, caused me to have a snoop on the weekend. I checked out his phone while he was showering, found some incriminating text messages, even found a pair of women's panties in his jacket pocket ... they weren't mine."
Is it cathartic for Angela to reveal her personal and intimate life to me? She goes on, but I'm still back where she admitted how she's always been hot for good sex. I am seated at my desk ... opposite me is my beautiful boss, tearful and vulnerable ... and I feel a pulsing in my cock every time she so expressively uses words like
fuck
and
cunt
. In my head, a mental image forms of her, naked on her back, legs spread in the air, and some man -- might have been Brad, couldn't he at least look like me in my daydream -- on top of her, furiously fucking her. I considered her gorgeous the first time I met her six months ago and working with her five days a week since merely endorses that view.
I try to focus, concentrate on what she's telling me, "Ray, I felt guilty for doing it, but I inspected the panties. I can tell you I've seen enough dried cum in my life to know it when I see it ... there was plenty in the crotch of those panties. Why were they in his pocket? Did this bimbo cunt give them to him as a trophy after fucking or did she plant them there for me to find them ... and I did?"
