I had been invited by my boss to dinner at his home. Marek Jablonsky was a paunchy, well-set man in his late forties, sort of overweight, a non-nonsense character who had a constant disapproving frown on his face. He was your typical ill-bred working class lout who enjoyed making others squirm with his offending comments. He hated everyone and thought everyone was a complete asshole. And to make matters worse he was a drunk. He had a bottle of Vodka in his office and made sure that he never ran out of it. It was my job to see that he didn't. He was usually fairly stewed yet surprisingly able to run his business. Yet at certain times, when he drank himself into oblivion, he couldn't function at all and let me run things. Then, when he woke up, he was completely oblivious to what had happened the day before. The only thing he doted on was his wife. She was a good cook and kept the house tidy. The only complaint her had about her that she yet to give him a son. And he really sobbed about that! He made me sick the way he babbled on about her, especially when he was well tanked.
Donna Jablonsky, a petite and slender creature as demure and timid as a church mouse, quietly served the evening meal. She flitted nervously about the table as she placed the plates, one eye always on her husband who had already consumed half a dozen beers. She knew what he was like when he was drunk and she seemed a little edgy. Like her husband she was Polish. Yet he was a second generation Pole and she, although her English was good, was not and still had her accent. He had met her while visiting his hometown of Gdansk, married her and brought her back with him. This was about three years ago. I don't know what in the world made her marry this drunken slob.
She was many years Jablonskynksy's junior and couldn't have been more than thirty. I was suddenly astonished that my boss's wife was actually quite good-looking. I had met her on several previous occasions and never gave her a second look. It had been winter during these encounters and she had been completely obscured by a thick, dark fur coat and scarf. She seemed the mousy type, very short and nondescript and I hardly paid her any attention. This was the first time I had seen her without a coat and suddenly couldn't keep my eyes off her.
Although she was prancing about on two-inch heels it was evident that without them she was rather short, about 5'1" and very, very slim. Borderline skinny was perhaps a better description. She had small, delicate hands with breakable wrists and slender arms. She had small, frail shoulders, had narrow hips, a small waist and straight and slender legs. Yet her fragile and slim body was nonetheless surprisingly rather well proportioned. Oh, the curves were there. And what curves! She had the smallest waist I had ever seen----I could have easily clasped both hands around it so that my fingers touched! The narrow waist naturally amplified her firm buttocks and well-toned hips and was what gave her that waspish, hourglass figure. I suppose that this exceptional narrow waist was what leant her that slim and fragile look whereas without it she'd have been as plain and straight as a garden rake. But the real eye-popping features on her slim body though, besides that tiny waist, were her breasts. She had an amazing set of firm hooters jutting out from her, full and perky ones that drilled through her dark sweater like tent poles, so firm and pointy that you could poke your eyes out. Their firmness and forward-thrusting nature made me wonder if they were real. Either that or she had to be wearing one hell of a padded support bra! It was unbelievable. No doubt about it. Donna Jablonsky had to have had the slimmest, most forward-heaving torpedo-shaped teats I've ever seen inside the cups of a mere 32 bra! A 32 (or less) was obvious, as she was very slim. The cup size, however, was hard to estimate. A D-cup? Maybe even bigger. Man, they were sticking out as if she'd shoved light bulbs under her top! It was quite a view!
She had jet-black hair, silky smooth and straight, the overall length falling just a little past her shoulders. The bangs were even and the ends curled inwards a bit. She had a pale skin tone, large green Bambi eyes and a small and pouting mouth with real thick lips. What a doll! She was definitely the feminine type. Tonight she was wearing a silky-thin wrap-around skirt that fell just past the knees, a smoky charcoal with a faint hue of red and gold floral patterns. I could make out her slim thighs through the diaphanous material. Over that she was wearing a finely knit black cardigan with a gold trim down the buttoned front. A silky scarf that sort of matched the thin skirt was draped over her left shoulder, the tied ends dangling loosely between her breasts. And those firm torpedo-shaped boobs of hers really pushed against that black cardigan, lifting it away from her body. It was a short cardigan and at certain times, like when she bent over the table, it slipped up her back and showed a lot of skin and the elastic waistline of the dark skirt. I was suddenly quite sexually stirred. She was elegant and quite charming. And she took care to look presentable. The fingernails were long and finely manicured, painted mauve, and from her right wrist dangled a narrow, gold chain bracelet festooned with numerous tear drop ornaments that chimed and clanged whenever she moved. It was no wonder that Jablonsky thought the world of her! She was quite the cute, little package!
This fragile and delicate physique of hers had an amazing virginal appeal----the slim and short stature of a child with the fully developed contours of a mature woman. She had the kind of ultra feminine innocence that made a man---any man---feel that only he was man enough to make her shriek and squawk like a virgin! And I admit that I suddenly entertained thoughts that would have made a whore blush!
After the dinner table was cleared, the wife dutifully produced a bottle of Vodka and a deck of playing cards. Poker was the game of choice. I knew that Jablonsky was a high roller and that a lot of cash could either be won or lost. It could go either way. I wondered what kind of a player he was, considering the fact that he was intent to drink himself silly again.
And so we started to play. Donna slipped into an easy chair and started to work on something that looked like a blanket. Her knitting needles echoed through the room like castanets. I stole a peek at her while Jablonsky studied his cards. She was sitting there, legs crossed, the thin skirt draped high over her raised knee, showing me a fair amount of slender ankle. The foot bobbed lazily up and down, the dark slipper-like pump dangling to and fro. I could notice her black sweater lifting and falling as she moved her knitting needles back and forth, her firm breasts pushing so forcibly against it so that I was able to make out the pointed tips. Yum, yum.
Two hours went by. The stakes were surprisingly high and already Jablonsky had lost close to two thousand dollars. He was foolish to bet large amounts on every hand, loosing it at every round. I was damn lucky. Within two hours I had doubled my winnings and was now bleeding him dry. Jablonsky stared at his hand. I had just raised him one thousand dollars. I had four Jacks and I knew that he couldn't possibly have a better hand. Sweat was pouring down his forehead. He was already extremely drunk, lisped and dribbled saliva when he spoke. "Shit! My f-first good hand and I g-got nothing to meet your bet," he lamented with a stutter. His eyes were glazed. "I'm gonna nail you, b-boy! This is a damn good hand! But I ain't got no money. D'you accept the television set? It's a big screen---worth h-hundreds."
I shook my head. "No. I got one." Jablonsky brushed back his hair and sighed. "Okay. H-how about my BMW? It's a f-few years old but it's still g-good."
"No. I don't want that old rust bucket." He made a face at me and stared at his hand again while I turned slowly to have a look at his wife. Donna's head had fallen against the side of the armchair and she was fast asleep. Looking at her shapely legs, the small hips and those pointed breasts gently rising and falling suddenly gave me a wicked idea. I turned, placed my hand face down on the table and stared at him. "I'll accept your wife," I said matter of factly. "Give me your wife for one night. She looks like she'd be loads of fun in the sack."
