It happened in the town's fanciest nightspot. My husband, newly married, three months – Adrian's his name – had never brought me here before. But this was an office affair. On expenses I assume. So was different.
What happened was different too.
I suppose I had the opportunity right at the outset to steer things in another direction. But I didn't know that at the time, so didn't take it. So things ended up ... well, a little embarrassing I suppose.
After traipsing carefully down the wide stairs to the basement night sport in my three inch heels, having already had wine with dinner, we processed around the dance floor in a long important-looking office crocodile of people, making for a thickly-upholstered horse-shoe-shaped banquette before an oval table for dining – though I don't think they served food so late, besides we'd eaten already – that the Chairman had reserved for our party.
'One for the road,' Adrian's Chairman had suggested as we left the restaurant.
The others had agreed. Of course.
He was the Chairman.
So we'd all come here.
How I ended up in the middle, between the Chairman and Brett Villiers, Head of Human Resources, I'm not sure. But thinking back on it now I suppose it was the Chairman himself who steered me into the horseshoe ahead of himself. Villiers – I'm guessing here – probably knew of his Chairman's little idiosyncrasies where pretty newly-weds of junior staff were concerned, so made sure he was heading round the other side. Boxing me in, as it were. Regardless of how it happened, and whether it was deliberate or not, it happened. So there I sat, hemmed in, like the filling in a sandwich, with the hem of my little yellow dress hiked pretty far up my thighs.
I could of course blame Adrian. It was he after all who told me to dress as I did. Who told me to look as 'sexy as a honey pot on heat' as he rather vulgarly put it. Who had me model the little yellow cocktail dress with and without panties, with and without bra, to see what turned him on most. The thinking being, as he explained, cupping my pussy and making me squirm in the mirror of our bedroom when we were meant to be getting ready for the evening, that if it turned him on, then it would turn these older guys on 'something terrible'. Adrian believes, I think, that if they admire his wife of three months, then they'll admire him. Who knows if he's right?
Not me.
Adrian ended up on one of the ends of the horseshoe, diagonally across the table from where I sat.
Then he started telling one of his jokes.
They are never good. But this was worse than never.
It was half way through the joke's set-up that I felt the hand on my knee beneath the table. It is here, on sober reflection, at a later date, when things didn't all become so heated, that I had the opportunity to put a stop to what followed. But I didn't take it. I decided to leave the hand where it was. There were a couple of reasons for this. First, it took me by surprise. This was the Chairman's hand. At this stage in my upbringing I believed Chairmen were fine upstanding gentlemen, despite what you read in the tabloids about all these bankers. Added to which he – in fact we – were in a public place, surrounded by his staff and a scattering of wives. Well, three wives, including me. Second, I wasn't sure what was the right thing to do. I mean, if your husband's Chairman decides to put a hand on your knee, is it merely to indicate he wants to talk to you? Say something? Impart a confidence? Or might he have mistaken your knee for his own? I really didn't know. I could have shot him a covert glance to see if he had, perhaps, some confidence he wished to impart. But I didn't do that either.
I sort of ... froze.
Adrian's jokes tend to be very long-winded. This one, about the coyote that got run over by a ten ton trailer rig that swerved around a traffic island to avoid an old woman with a cat – see what I mean about shaggy – was a long mother of a joke. We had been introduced to the coyote, Jimmy something-or-other. I had done nothing about the hand on my knee. Then I felt the Boss's calf against my own. Again, and largely for the same sort of reasons, I did nothing. I left my high heeled pump where it was, my knee where it was, and the calf of my leg where it was, which now, was hard against the Chairman.
Both of us stayed as we were.
Both of our eyes were on Adrian. My fingers were round the stem of the glass before me on the table. A crème de menthe and brandy, or something. The Chairman's left hand was on the table. His right was beneath the table, on my knee. It seemed to me that we were both pretending nothing was happening, but wondering what would come next. It was certainly what I was doing.
"So there's this ten ton trailer rig ..." the joke goes, Adrian's eyes sweeping brightly round the table, making sure everyone's engrossed. But the only thing engrossing me right then was his Chairman's hand, now travelling up my left leg with the fingertips caressing the inside of my thigh. Something in me said that the hand would wander up my leg a bit, get the idea of how soft the skin was, perhaps, at the top of my thigh-high stocking's self-clinging tops, then return home. Mission accomplished, or something. But then I felt the fingers on the sensitive skin near the inside of the top of my leg and realised that to get there they must have eased my already high hem up another inch or two. It was then that I started to suspect the quick-look-and-then-off hypothesis, probably wasn't going to happen. The caress was too hungry for a start.
The fingers dipped further between my legs. As if they wanted to check to see if the lower curve of my leg was as round and smooth as the curve at the top? Perhaps. Who knows what goes through men's minds when they find the upper regions of an acquiescent woman's leg beneath their fingertips? For that's what I seemed to have become. Acquiescent. Acquiescent, but hardly uninvolved. It was, after all, my leg.
"At eighty miles an hour ..." my young husband, out at the end of the horse-shoe, droned on, as his equally young wife, firmly in the middle, felt his Chairman's fingers make a light pass over her pussy, to find the soft little morsel draped in silk. Adrian had chosen a pair of skin tone panties to go with my dress. It matched the bra I had insisted on wearing. He had suggested I do without underwear, but I'd I told him to take a hike. The finger made another pass, checking geography.
Perhaps I might have stopped him here? Stopped him on the basis that, as he was the Chairman, I had given him certain leeway that would not normally be given ... to most, well, other men. Other, shall we say, less important men. Specifically, in terms of how long I had permitted his hand to remain on my leg ... unobjected-to, as it were. But now that we were into the torso region, it was only to be expected that a well brought-up young lady, married-as-well I might add, would have to – regretfully, even – draw the line. But I didn't draw the line.
I didn't draw anything. Other than a slightly muted breath. Part of the reason for this, was to do with where we were. And the company we were with. And the importance of the occasion to Adrian's career. And consequently my quality of life, I suppose – although I'm sure that was of secondary importance at the time. But another part was, that I didn't know how to properly bring it to an end. Other than reach down and catch his hand, or wrist, or forearm, and pull it away. But what if he didn't want it to be pulled away? We could end up in a tasteless wrestling match.
Besides, would the other men around the table be particularly concerned if all their Chairman had done was touch young Adrian's wife? Would it really be considered a matter of such importance that I ruin the evening for everyone else? For I might, if the wrestling got really unpleasant. Or even spilt a drink.
Men never like it when that happens. Especially if it's theirs.
I might spill the Chairman's drink. Then where would we be?
Another consideration, of course, was the fact that most men consider me ... well, pretty ... sexy. 'Dishy' is an adjective often used. As is 'hot'. So most of them, I remember thinking at the time, would probably themselves be thinking at the time, if they were in the Chairman's shoes, sitting where the Chairman was, with Adrian's rather dishy wife displaying as much leg as I happened to be displaying right then – and so handily placed – that they might be tempted to feel it as well. So I left the fingers where they were, between my legs, starting to toy with the silk and the softness beneath. I tried to focus on the stupid joke.
"On highway ninety-three..."
Who cared about highway ninety-three, I wondered, as for reasons I even now can't entirely explain, I let my knees drift apart. I didn't even find it in me to object when the Chairman's hand went between my legs and started to fondle. Seriously.
I did not object, either, when his fingers slipped my panties aside and started to work on the skin, and the bits between, that had started to moisten alarmingly. I kept the rapt expression on my face. But I was hardly as calm inside.
This was clearly not going to be as easy as a quick 'stroke and go'. He seemed to be set for the season. I took the corner of my lip between my teeth, and unobtrusively started to chew it.
By the time Adrian had got to the bit about the crossroads, and the coyote's changing plans, his Chairman had eased my leg over his own. It now sat apart from its pair, angled up and over his knee, the right leg still demurely on carpet. His fingers had found my clit, travelled the length and breadth and depth of my pudenda, and all it comprised, and played around, some, at the entrance to my now freely discharging vagina.
It all became too much and I had a difficult-to-conceal, but pretty emphatic, orgasm, just as Adrian was coming to the end of his joke. The two sort of came together. The loose-limbed shudder that swept through me was thankfully masked by the polite laughter and changing of positions that usually goes with the end of a long boring joke that nobody likes but everyone is too polite to stop in case they have to tell their own joke in its place and they can't think of one to tell. I changed my position, but only to ease down further in the seat. The Chairman's hand still up my skirt, in control of my private parts, sort of prevented me moving too much. Then, I must confess to my surprise, not to mention mounting horror, the Chairman himself told a joke.
