Maria Rios O'Flannery was the admin for the Marketing director, who officed two doors down from me. She was a medium height girl of Cuban descent with long dark hair as black as mine but natural; deep brown eyes, and tan skin.
She dressed well but not in a flashy manner, usually conservative skirts and shirts and jackets and flats or low heeled shoes. Her shirts concealed an ample bosom, at least as large as mine and as I later learned, all natural.
Maria had been with the company for two years before I got there. She was a couple of years older than me. She managed her job with quiet efficiency that effectively hid her hot temper and boiling Latin blood.
Perhaps her most outstanding feature was she was the only woman at the company who was not openly afraid of me.
Oh, I don't mean the women were afraid I'd hit them or fire them or even yell at them (I never yelled at women. Yelling was reserved for men). They were uncertain of me; I was the first female executive at the company and many felt threatened by my position and title. Although I tried to be open and friendly with everyone and not act "like the boss" women - and men to a lesser degree - still kept their distance.
Maria on the other hand treated me like I was one of the office staff. Not disrespectfully - Maria treated everyone at work with respect - but by obvious warmth and friendliness.
Before long we'd developed the habit of having lunch together in the break room. Maria was always on one diet or another - "My Cuban genes will make me a fat Latino one day" she'd say - usually eating tuna and crackers or celery or carrot sticks.
I on the other hand was blessed with some weird metabolism. Now over thirty, I could eat and eat and eat and never gain an ounce. Regular sessions at health club kept me toned but I never gained or lost, just stayed at 105.
At least twenty pounds of that was probably from my fake tits.
Anyway, in deference to Maria I'd restrict my lunch to a TV dinner, usually Lean Cuisine or some such tasteless drivel. Fortunately I'd go on business lunches fairly regularly; I'd eat like a horse on these occasions.
Sometimes a couple of the men would join us; sometimes one or two women. We were never exclusive and I made a point of never appearing to play favorites with Maria. She didn't work for me anyway; there was no problem.
Maria was married to a man of Irish descent, John O'Flannery. John was tall and muscular, a former college football player. Maria told me he'd been drafted by the Eagles and had warmed their bench for a couple of seasons before being cut. He was now a successful accountant.
They had a nice house a half mile from mine. No kids: "We're DINKs," Maria told me. "Double Income, No Kids."
Maria and a couple other women went to happy hour every Friday. She invited me several times; I always begged off but finally gave in. One afternoon Shelly, Maria, Lea, and I piled in my Mercedes and drove a short distance to a place called The Captain's Den.
It was fun in a noisy sort of way. The band started up after we'd been there a few minutes; a couple of men danced with Shelly (the youngest) and Maria (the biggest boobs). Nobody got too drunk. We left around 9; I drove everyone back to their cars. No big deal.
After a few weeks the Friday happy hour became sort of a normal thing. Lea and Shelly would usually go; sometimes a couple of other girls would join us. Sometimes men from work would show interest but since most of the group was married we discouraged this.
One evening Lea and Shelly couldn't go (date and period). On the way to the bar Maria suggested we go to her house instead and I have dinner with her and her hubby. I was reluctant at first, but she encouraged me. "I'll just call and have him start dinner," she said. "We can just leave my car; I'll pick it up tomorrow morning."
I thought it was a bit odd that John O'Flannery, six foot four, two hundred thirty pound ex-linebacker and successful accountant was "starting dinner" on command from a phone call but I dismissed the feeling. Too sensitive, Staci, I told myself.
Maria's house was a little bigger than mine, with a neat, well manicured lawn. I parked beside John's pickup truck in the driveway and followed Maria in.
John was in the kitchen; the smells from various pots and pans made my mouth water. He smiled at me warmly when Maria introduced him then returned to preparing dinner. I followed Maria through sliding glass doors onto a large deck shaded by a canopy beside a small swimming pool. She excused herself to "go get comfortable", returning in a few minutes in shorts, a halter top, and flip flops.
John brought us drinks, excellent apple martinis, not too strong. We drank and chatted for nearly an hour. From time to time John brought us fresh drinks.
I was a little tipsy by the time he announced dinner was ready. Maria and I went inside, sat at the dining room table. Dinner was enchiladas, salad, tortillas. It was delicious; I ate like a pig! Maria nibbled a bit, obviously still dieting.
After dinner she and I returned to the deck with more drinks. I was quite toasty by now, the food providing only a temporary reprieve from drunkenness; and so was fairly receptive when Maria suggested I "get comfortable".
She ushered me to her bedroom, picked out blue jean shorts and halter top. The shorts were ones she'd worn in high school, she explained, much too small for her now. They were much too big on me but didn't quite slide off my butt. The halter was a better fit, a little big but not extremely so. Apparently my silicone boobs were about the same size as her natural set. I slipped out of my skirt, jacket, shirt, panty hose, and heels and pulled on the borrowed clothing.
Dressed almost alike, we returned to the patio. I noticed an eight foot fence around the back yard; none of the neighbor houses were visible. It was cozy.
Dishes washed and put away, John joined us. There were only two chairs on the deck. In my half drunken state I didn't think it weird that John sat on the deck, a bit in front of Maria and slightly to her side. When we'd run out of appletinis he'd go in and make another batch.
