Marcia’s Work Party
By The Continental PsyOp.
A good man. A nice guy.
He has a good job driving construction cranes. His wife works as an accountant for a local chain of tire stores. They have no kids.
“Greg, there’s going to be a work-thing this weekend,” his wife, Marcia, who pronounced her name in three syllables: Mar-see-ah, tells him on Thursday. It’s August, the end of a long, hot California summer.
“Uh-huh.”
“So, I gotta go to it.”
“Like, for overtime?”
“Well, not overtime.”
“You don’t even get paid? What kinda work thing is this?”
“Well, Greg, it’s only kinda a work thing.”
“What kinda work thing?”
“Well, it’s going to be a party. A party at Charlie’s.”
“At Charlie’s?”
“Yes, at his house.”
“You’re going to his house on the weekend?”
“Sure, Greg, of course. Charlie and Leighla, that’s Charlie’s wife, you know, are throwing a kind of team-building retreat for everyone, all of the employees and staff across all three of Charlie’s stores.”
“A retreat?”
“Yes, and kind of like, a thank you, a thank you to us all, for being such a great team over the past year. A chance to just hang out, by the pool, and relax, together, as a team of co-workers.”
“He’s got a pool?”
“Oh, yes, a great pool, with a great view, way atop the ridge, you can see the Pacific from there, it’s incredible, anyway, since it’s a pool party, or, since there’s going to be a pool there, that we’ll probably use at some point, I’m going to need to get a new bathing suit. So, I can’t do our date night tomorrow night, I’ve got to go shopping for new one-pieces.”
“Ugh,” moans Greg. “Does that mean I need to bring my bathing suit? And be in my skivvies around your co-workers?”
Marcia brightens.
“Good news, Greg, you don’t have to worry about any of that!”
“I don’t?”
“No, it’s employees only. No spouses, no significant others–other than Leighla, of course, since she’s the hostess, but Charlie’s the host, but it’s just a company event, just for company people. Charlie said, ‘It’s like being at work, so don’t plan to have too much fun!'” Marcia laughs like it’s still so fresh and funny to her.
Not having to go to the party is a relief to Greg, but he does not say that to his wife. He thinks it is another crappy aspect of his wife’s indoor, office job.
But women can’t have good jobs in the outdoors like he had, like men had, like men were meant to have.
So Greg misses her the next night, Friday, their date night, but that saves him from having to shell out for dinner and a movie; instead, he heats the leftovers Marcia left for him. Marcia told Greg that she’s having dinner at the Mall with one of her work girlfriends who agreed to go shopping with her.
Greg watches what he wants to on television, some show Marcia would never agree to, and he feels naughty enjoying his time by himself.
Marcia comes home tired from shopping. She’s still in her work clothes, but she’s bought herself a new pair of sunglasses, which she’s still wearing.
It’s late, but the sun is just setting.
Greg asks her to model the swimsuits she bought for herself, but Marcia refuses and tells Greg she’s taking a shower and going to bed.
When Greg comes in later, Marcia is already asleep in her dowdy, ankle-length cotton gown, the air-conditioning on high and the house nice and frosty, despite the late-summer heat outside.
Greg goes to sleep, not even thinking about his wife’s upcoming work party.
*****
2. GREG, BEFORE MEETING MARCIA
Aerial Boom Lifts look so easy; everyone thinks they can operate one themselves. After all, in every movie, the hero steps onto the cockpit of one, pulls the knobs, pushes the buttons, and the crane lifts him or her, but usually him, up to the roof.
Easey peasy, lemon squeezie.
But on the ground, red tape requires a Mobile Elevating Work Platform Certification to operate a boom or other aerial lift properly. But a MEWP Certification was only one of the major equipment certifications that Greg got at that Technical School. All that expertise was eventually enough to get into the Operating Engineers Union, and that meant jobs, the best jobs, the best pay, and easy living to retirement.
It also meant a lot of sitting around, and waiting, and then operating, in often dangerous conditions, a lot of equipment that he neither owned nor maintained, but was hired to run to precision nonetheless. It meant a lot of lower back pain, some knee pain, and a general roundness and chubbiness.
Socializing after work meant beer, lots of beers, and to find a girl to go home with Greg, that meant lots of beers, for her, and to be charming enough to take her home with him, lots of beers, for Greg.
But the work kept coming in, and the money kept stacking up, and Greg kept following all his friends to the bars where some, but not all, of that money went to numb the pain, first with liquor and then with whatever pussy he might be able to trap for the night.
His work was both sedentary and hard on the body, so the idea of working out after he got home from driving machines all day was an idiotic one. The idea of using his days off not to lie on the couch but to drive even more machines — no, even if only exercise machines — no thanks; the couch and the sports on satellite television were much easier. Besides, Greg had been drinking since he woke up that day off, so staying on the couch all day was his way of being responsible.
If he really had enough scratch together, he might call that escort service from out of the phone book. Orange County’s yellow pages had twenty pages of them, and another fifty pages of Adult Entertainers, meaning strippers.
But high-quality hookers were expensive, very expensive. But oh, to touch those bodies and to smell those smells.
*****
3. MARCIA, MARRIED
Marcia’s driver’s license had some truths and some lies. Her married name. True. Her birthday, making her twenty-eight. True. Five foot four. True. One hundred sixty pounds. Lie. The scale ranged between two-ten when she was being careful and two-twenty the week before her period.
But, although not on her driver’s license, she wished it could be: the number in her life that always gave her a permanent sense of pride: forty-two-double-D.
True, she had a bit of a soft tummy, from sitting down all day every day, at work, and at home, but those tits were more than a handful, and her cleavage was a blessing for all whom she showed it to.
Which, even Greg knew, was many.
Most of Marcia’s work tops were boob tops. And if Greg thought about it, which he tried not to, he could imagine all the different ways and times of day when Marcia had bent forward and given–another employee, or perhaps a customer–a look at those lush, full, womanly tits.
Man-magnet tits.
Marcia thought she had the best possible size: sure, still large enough to hurt her back, but not large enough that she’d need to consider a reduction, and large enough that she would, never, ever feel insecure about her chest, and she never had.
The older she got, the more Marcia became comfortable flaunting those tits. The older she got, and the longer she was married, the more she did flaunt her soft, white skin; her bra-filling, eye-catching, perfect double-D tits.
Her tits caught the eyes and the admiration of all. Marcia never begrudged a friend, colleague, or stranger a look. Not even a lingering look, when she could tell the man was taking the chance to fancy his naughty thoughts and fantasies for her: bending her over or letting her mount him and ride. Either way, making Marcia’s big, succulent tits bounce from a thorough stranger-fucking.
The thought made her smile every time, and kept her coming back for more.
She was a married woman, but her light exhibitionism, each time triggering eyes and smiles and maybe, maybe, a naughty, flirty comment here and there.
But no grabs, no squeezes, no violations.
The world rewarded Marcia for showing off her beauty by admiring her, in a way that only made Marcia wish to keep on showing off that perfect, sinful skin, right there, where all those buttons were undone or where that sweater made that deep V.
Right down into Marcia’s big, soft, man-pleasing tits.
She knew her ass was perpetually flat. She sat on it all day. She knew she was perpetually chubby, but she knew that chubby girls got the same eyes the thin girls got, and chubby girls could get fucked as much as they wanted. Well, at least as much as thin girls.
*****
4. LOVE BLOOMS
Marcia and Greg were friends first.
Then they flirted. Then they flirted sexually.
Marcia was an amorous woman, comfortable in her size and her form.
Greg was a sweet, nice guy, always insecure because he thought he had a smaller-than-average penis.
But after their flirting and natural chemistry, sweet Greg summoned the courage to ask Marcia out on a date.
She accepted.
They went on the date, then after the date, she fucked him without him even having to ask or bring it up.
She fucked him, and she served him with her body. Swallowed his cum that first night, let him tit-fuck her soft double-Ds that night, cum all over her face and her tits from that tit-fucking that night, and Marcia smiled and laughed like a porn star and like a loving fiancée; she fucked him like a whore, but also like a girlfriend, that very first night.
Marcia felt worshipped. She had wanted a new boyfriend, and one appeared—one who sincerely loved her body, her sass, and her chubby beauty.
Greg had stars in his eyes.
A new girlfriend. A wild, chubby animal. Sensual, obedient, open to everyone of Greg’s suggestions.
Road-head? Check. Blow-jobs for no reason at all? Of course. Fucking how and when Greg wanted to fuck? Marcia was more than ready.
Fucking Marcia up her big fat ass? Marcia smiled and bent over for it, hungry and willing for Greg to do her “back there.” Even for him to cum back there. Cumming wherever he wanted was one of Greg’s many privileges with Marcia over the first part of that fall. Then, in winter, they spent time together, and so they began to grow together.
Marcia fucked him on the first date, and every date thereafter was mostly an excuse to meet and to fuck. Marcia was always ready, always ready to become quickly aroused, too. She had a dirty sense of humor and a sexual outlook that Greg was happy to play into.
It was all very classic, very traditional, very safe.
Very fun.
Very intimate, leading to the post-lovemaking afterglow, where Greg asked Marcia to tie him up and to use him like her human sex toy.
“I love you, Marcia, and want my whole body to be for your pleasure, however you want it.”
Marcia’s eyes gleamed with devious possibilities that the relatively innocent Greg could never dream about.
Again, she accepted Greg’s suggestion.
She had been a Scout; she understood knots. She showed Greg a few nights later.
For Marcia, it was total freedom, a wanton buffet—a chance to be her true self.
For Greg, it was sensory overload.
Partly, because it began with sensory overload.
He was quickly and easily tied to Marcia’s bed frame. She planned this, she practiced this. She had everything at the ready.
Greg was willing. More than willing. Completely obedient, no brat he.
In no time, he was naked on his back.
In no time, Marcia was naked from the waist down, and her hairy, wet cunt was right on Greg’s mouth. And chin. And nose.
She fucked his face for a change. Marcia fucked Greg’s face with her chubby cunt, riding the features of his face, seeing which structures produced the best sensations on her lips, on her clit, on her opening.
Riding his face with no thought for his comfort at all. Not even acknowledging him.
Letting him breathe when she remembered to.
Greg felt for the first time in his life like an object.
Marcia would never tell Greg if or how many men’s faces she had already ridden like objects in such fashion. But the first time she rode Greg’s face, she did tell him how and when to suck, to lick, to fuck her with his tongue as hard as he could, using her boyfriend and his oral orifice like the human sex toy he offered himself up to her as.
So sweet, so kind. So generous. His needs were her needs.
And oh, did she have needs that night.
Marcia rode Greg’s face to one big, shuddering orgasm. Then, she took a short break, not a break on Greg’s face, no, not at all; she didn’t get up yet, but she took a breather to compose herself. At the same time, Greg held his breath as he needed to. Then Marcia made Greg resume his rhythmic licking, slower now, because Marcia used Greg to build herself up to come second, which was also marvelous, and then, because she was a greedy, naughty girlfriend, to a third come on her boyfriend’s half-suffocating face.
Greg’s breathing had not been a priority for Marcia. Her pleasure had been her priority; rightly so, as Greg would agree.
Greg felt so proud at her pleasure, at how long she used him for, and felt so glad he was going to be able to breathe again.
Marcia was generous. She teased and toyed with his cock, stripped off her top until she was nude, and then mounted Greg, letting her bound boyfriend watch her breasts bounce while she rode him hard.
Greg came inside her, and it was one of the best orgasms Greg had felt thus far inside this hypnotic, addictive Marcia—this amazing woman.
Marcia laughed.
“You just came in me? I didn’t come at all,” she said, not mad. But glad to be honest. “Did you see that, hun? When I rode your face, I could come again and again, Greg. So, I can orgasm, the problem isn’t me, you see that, don’t you, Greg?”
“I see.”
“What do you see?”
“You can orgasm fine. Fine from oral.”
“Very good, Greg. But when you fuck me, you come, don’t you, Greg?”
“Yes, Marcia. It was so good, baby.”
“That’s nice, honey. But I didn’t come, did I?”
“No, honey,” Greg admitted.
“I can’t get off on your cock, honey,” Marcia told her boyfriend. “Do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because you’re too small. You know that, right? About yourself, honey?”
“I–I am?”
“You are, honey,” Marcia said, calmly, reassuringly, still atop her boyfriend’s soft, spent cock.
“N-no, it can’t–”
“Shhhh,” Marcia cooed. “It is. And, you know that it is, don’t you?”
“I guess.”
“C’mon now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know, baby. It must suck knowing you’re not man enough to please me.” Marcia erupted in giggles, but she was the only one laughing. “I mean, your mouth and tongue are great, honey,” she continued, “but this little thing ain’t really a showstopper, is it? Other girls have had to have told you this before me, haven’t they, Greg? About your little dick? I mean, your little thing comes fine every time he’s inside me, but I never, ever, not once, not a single time, have had an orgasm on your cock.” Greg’s cock twitched, stiffening, and they both felt it. “Doesn’t it suck to know I can’t get off on your small cock? That I’ve been fucking you for months now, that people know I’m your girlfriend, but not once has your penis made my pussy come? Not once. Not a single vaginal orgasm from you and your thing.” Marcia was smiling, teasing him with complete power and utter glee. Feeling Greg’s erection, filling her again, for what that was worth.
“What should we do to a boyfriend who comes inside his girlfriend but doesn’t get her off?” Marcia mused, deviously. “Huh? What should we do to a boyfriend who comes inside his girlfriend but doesn’t make her come, too? Huh?”
She answered her own question by getting off Greg’s stiff cock and sitting on Greg’s face as quickly as she could, letting what was left of Greg’s cream pie slide out into his open and obediently willing mouth.
Marcia laughed like an evil Queen.
“Eat it up, honey. You don’t get Momma off, too; you gotta take it back. Refund!” Giggling and riding his face, not for pleasure but for power.
Greg considered it the hottest night of his life.
Marcia considered it the new world order.
Everything was the same as before, as hot as before, as intimate and sexual as before, as sweet to the outside world as before. Still, every time thereafter Greg and Marcia had sex, Greg came, Marcia did not, and she did not even try to come to try to pretend to come.
Nonetheless, Greg shot his gooey jizz into his fat girlfriend’s horny, cozy snatch. Marcia spread her fat thighs and opened her thick legs and took her sweet, loving boyfriend’s pleasureless jizz–pleasureless for she took no pleasure from the fuck, for this was her servicing her relationship, servicing the outward partnership she enjoyed projecting to her family and friends and to the world–. She received the leg-shaking (his legs shaking) proof of his climax, his pleasure, his simple, manly goal achieved.
He was now docile and compliant and never protested what happened next.
Because next was always the same.
Greg came inside Marcia’s cunt.
Greg lay back, out of breath,
Marcia mounted Greg’s face, fed him his cum right back to him, and fucked his face as roughly as she wanted until she came.
Greg had fucked Marcia’s ass before she revealed to him that his small penis meant little to creating any orgasmic sensations in her vagina. When Greg asked his girlfriend if he could still fuck her asshole, “Of course, darling,” Marcia replied. “Your little penis is easy to take in my butt. You’re never a problem back there, it never hurts with you!”
Marcia did not tell him beforehand, but after he came up Marcia’s ass (she was on her back in bed, legs and hips raised with a pillow; he was standing by the side of the bed, humping steadily), she calmly told him, “sit down,” and helped him lower himself to a sitting position there on the floor, at the edge of the bed.
An easy position where Marcia could sit her cum-filled ass right onto Greg’s mouth.
“Eat it up, Greg,” she told him. But he got the idea, quick.
Greg licked her asshole so good, he did not even flinch or hesitate. Greg knew it was dirty, kinky, filthy to be licking his girlfriend’s asshole, even dirtier to be licking his own semen out of her shithole, the shithole he just plowed for five minutes until he seeded it. But even dirtier than that was Marcia making him do it. Her wanting, demanding, requiring it from him.
For the next two months, Marcia fed Greg three creampies a week out of her pussy and her ass, and then, before they had dated for an entire year, Greg proposed marriage and Marcia accepted.
Greg had stars in his eyes.
Marcia would eventually get cold feet, nearly back out right before the ceremony, but was at the right place at the right time, said the right words, and made Greg her husband.
Who or what Marcia had been doing to get over her “cold feet,” Greg never asked and never knew.
Where she had been before she showed up at their rehearsal dinner, or what happened after the rehearsal at the Church, Greg never, ever wondered about. Greg was smart.
Greg knew Marcia was worth having, worth keeping, and Greg knew when to stay quiet and when to kiss his new wife’s big ass, literally and figuratively.
She had never let him see her fully nude before they married, and she never let him see her fully nude on their wedding night, their honeymoon, or ever after.
Marcia would not shower while he watched, would not strip for him, and kept her own hours and her own schedule.
Greg loved her blossoming dominance, loved her boundaries and her rules. He knew he could not please her in the primal way a woman needs to be pleased–fucked into submission, fucked into cloud-headed pleasure.
But Marcia had, in her dominant way, fucked Greg into submission. Marcia fucked Greg so good, his head went all cloudy and gooey, so gooey that Greg had no complaint eating up every drop of gooey goo he had shot into his wife.
Greg was not the sort of man to tame his wife, to make her do his bidding, to make her want to give her body to him completely without thought or shame.
Marcia, however, tamed Greg, making him, by all outward appearances, and most inward ones, too, a happily married man.
Greg never thought about what was going through Marcia’s mind that first night when Marcia tied him up. He never wondered what she was thinking about those three times that night when she came on his face before she rode him and received him and told him he could not meet her needs.
Marcia rode Greg’s face, and she came, and Greg felt so glad to play his part in his Love’s pleasure, that Greg never, ever wondered what went through his Love’s head while she returned his semen to him, and why that ritual made her faithfully orgasm each time.
Greg just chalked it up to his superior oral skills. He really did try his best.
Of course, after the marriage and the honeymoon, the pressures of life cooled sexual intercourse down to a Saturday Night ritual.
One that always ended with Greg eating his own cum out of his wife’s unsatisfied opening.
When every blowjob began ending in a snowball–Marcia French-kissing Greg’s cum into Greg’s mouth almost as quickly as it came out of his modest cock–Greg began to stop asking for them. Greg was content to have a regular thing with his wife for Saturday nights, with an occasional bonus fuck if he took her out to a nice Date Night on Friday.
*****
5. LEIGHLA
Leighla enjoys being the boss’s wife.
This house. This backyard.
This pool.
She can walk around in her tiny white bikini, showing off her perfect, all-over tan (when she adjusts her straps, the observant notice, and the subconscious of the unobservant also notice: no tan lines).
Sure, she has a white mesh coverup like a poncho-shaped net (“Oh, so Charlie caught you, huh?” Naughty laughter). Sure, she has most of her bottom covered by the bikini; sure, those tiny white triangles fully cover her pert, athletic breasts.
Sure, she is tall, and sure, most of her height is in her legs, and sure, those legs go all the way from the ground to the tiny string of her bikini bottom.
Sure, she’s blonde and thin and blue-eyed, and any one of her husband’s three-dozen employees can look her up and down and salivate all over her.
Sure, so long as they do it discreetly.
They do.
Leighla loves being the Queen of the party, lording her beauty and her wealth over her husband’s serfs, slaves, and vassals. But of course, Leighla would feel that way.
Look at her blue eyes, blonde hair, fine breeding, and finer stock. Look at her high shoulders and long, long legs. Leighla is clearly descended from royalty. From nobility, at least.
So, of course, she’s the second wife of the landed gentry here in sunny Orange County, California. It’s in her DNA. This is her genetic destiny: to strut around poolside, the perfect hostess, making all of her husband’s serfs, slaves, and vassals feel welcome.
Noblesse oblige. All one before Christ. And through Him, of course. But, all one in His eyes.
Though some might have pools and perfect skin and fine golden hair that they barely even have to shave their legs, it’s so fine, but those pools and perfect skin and golden hair are things given to them by God for them to preserve and keep and treasure.
As we keep holy the Sabbath by having a killer pool party, Leighla might think, if she pondered such cosmological mysteries on her trips to the South Coast Plaza to ponder killer minis and radical tube tops and whatever skin-baring styles were that season’s new trend.
Leighla was the least-dressed of anyone at this company pool party, spanning all three of her husband’s Big-Name-Chain tire stores’ personnel. But everyone at the party was taking the pool party aspect seriously. Nearly all were in swimming attire and in the pool.
Holding drinks, chatting, eating appetizers, but doing so in their bathing suits, in their boss’s rich water.
Gossiping as quietly as possible about how hot the boss’s wife looks in her tiny white bikini.
How sexy she is, barefoot around the pool.
How much of a man, Charlie must be, to keep her busy.
The tire sales staff is mostly male, and mostly attached, and their girlfriends and wives mostly wear their highest heels around the pool.
Leighla, barefoot and tanned, in Nordic white to show off her tan, looked like the effortless Southern California Princess that all the women at the party wished they could be. Effortlessly cool and slender.
Leighla does not mind the gossip.
Let ’em look, she thinks. She wouldn’t dress this way if she didn’t want them to look, if they didn’t deserve to look.
Leighla knew that Charlie wanted them all to see her as proof of Charlie’s might—the ultimate prize in this house of many prizes.
Want prizes like this? Charlie implied. Stick with me. Stick with my tire stores, do what I tell you, and the feasts will keep coming.
Such as ever has been the Feudal Bond.
Charlie was a fine feudal Lord, and with his smooth manner, handsome looks, and comfortable success, a fine member of the Orange County gentry.
A perfect host, perfectly paired with the perfect hostess, Leighla.
She admires the other women’s bathing suits, the girlfriends in bikinis, the young wives in bikinis, and the older wives in one-pieces. Most of the suits were daring; this was Orange County, after all, and most were extremely well-filled out; this was still the United States, after all, and at least half of the busty women at the party were naturally busty.
But none quite had the total-package, surfer-girl-next-door mystique as Charlie’s trophy wife, Leighla. She felt the glamour and grandeur in every look she got from Charlie’s employees and their wives.
The longer the afternoon went on, the more they drank, the more obvious it was.
No matter how little she wore, none of her husband’s people would dare touch her, or say a thing out of line, or do anything more.
She lorded her beauty and her hotness over them the way Charlie lorded his money, the way Charlie lorded her over them.
After making another round, making sure she knew every guest by name and making sure each was “having at least an okay time?” followed by sweet laughter, Leighla felt herself every inch the modern major doyenne she knew herself to be.
Yet, as she looked around the poolside, she wondered, “Where is Charlie?”
*****
6. MARCIA AT WORK, AND AT PLAY
Marcia is good at her job. She gets there early, she is never late, and she never takes too many or suspicious days off.
She stays late whenever needed.
She is also good at her job. She is thorough and calm; she checks her work and avoids mistakes. She’s a valuable asset to Charlie’s modest empire.
Charlie, per Marcia, is the best boss ever. Of course, he’s Charlie. He’s silly and conceited and so annoying, he’s really just such a ditz sometimes. He’s vain and full of himself and just so very Charlie.
He’s also tall, and handsome, and he was born rich, Orange-County-rich at least, and then he was athletic in college, and now he’s, well, just Charlie.
He’s just the best.
Of course, Marcia does not get to see Charlie that often because he has so many different stores to take care of. But Marcia dresses every day in case Charlie comes into the back office where she works.
The youngest, cutest, and bustiest accountant in the accounting department. Who is often the only accountant in the accountants’ office because one is on maternity leave and the other is only part-time, only mornings.
Marcia and her cleavage have the whole bullpen-style room to themselves most afternoons.
Marcia loves how welcome she feels at Charlie’s chain of tire stores. If Charlie’s in the kitchen, getting coffee, Marcia is welcome to squeeze past him, making sure her big, full breasts brush against his arm or his back.
If Charlie is in his office and Marcia has to go over figures with him, Marcia loves making sure her top is low enough to show the cups of her bra, so Charlie gets a nice dose of tits and lace while going over dense figures.
Marcia never comes home, even when she comes home late, smelling like cum, tasting like cum, or even seeming like sex at all.
Marcia is a hard worker and a good accountant.
She brings it up first to Greg. “Oh, Charlie said Leighla, that’s Charlie’s wife, was accusing Charlie of cheating with ‘those girls in accounting’ because Charlie’s been staying late every night going over the next quarter projections. Charlie says she’s taking extra diet pills, trying to get ready to be a guest at her younger sister’s wedding next month. So, she’s like a real suspicious, jealous bitch right now.”
Marcia’s stories make Greg laugh, and make Greg doubly glad to drive a boom crane and to work around men all day.
“Weirdly, she would be so insecure,” Marcia said with a smile, “I mean, she’s like, gorgeous, and you know she has no reason to worry about me. I’m happily married to the best small-dicked ass-eater South of the Ten.” Marcia giggled. “Charlie’s wife was like, a runner-up for Miss Orange County, I think, but she won Miss Huntington Beach, but lost to some beautiful Asian girl who was Miss Irvine. Charlie was telling me, the other day…”
Greg chuckled along at the silly gossip and thought nothing more of it.
*****
7. UNEXPECTED PHONE CALL
Charlie’s chain of tire stores has an official, private, in-house corporate directory.
Of course, there are copies at the office, but he keeps one at home, too.
It’s a bad party, and a bad Saturday night, when the Human Resources Official Directory has to be brought out.
There were a lot of low voices first. Lots of sharp, angry sentences. Between Charlie and Leighla, of course.
“She’s passed out.”
“Let her sleep it off.”
“No.”
“C’mon.”
“In our house.”
“That’s where the party was.”
“In our house, Charlie.”
“My house. This house is from the pre-Leighla years. The house at Big Bear, that’s our house. That’s us.” Charlie slurs his words because he is tipsy.
“Goddamit, Charlie.” Leighla raised her tone because she thinks she had the right to be angry. There is a woman, after all. A chubby, busty, fat woman. Asleep on Leighla’s linens in a second-floor guest bedroom.
Charlie is understanding, but not for his wife. “C’mon, haven’t you ever drunk too much at a party and needed to sleep it off? We served her, it’s the least we can do, we can’t have her driving home, we’d be responsible.”
“She served herself,” Leighla retorts. “No one forced her; this wasn’t pledging, this was a nice way to give back to the people we count on, and she ruined it.”
“She didn’t ruin it, she enjoyed herself, and we enjoyed having her.”
“You’re gross.”
“You’re over-reacting.”
“Be a good employer and handle this.”
“Be a good hostess. Let her sleep it off, she’ll be fine, we’ll be fine, and tomorrow she’ll be embarrassed and go home to her husband, and no one will ever think about it again.”
Charlie walks out of his grand master bedroom, which he shares with Leighla but used to share with his first wife, and returns to the party. The matter is decided. Leaving the room is usually how Charlie signals that the decision has been made, and appeal is futile.
But Charlie has given Leighla an idea.
First, she goes through the sleeping woman’s phone. Locked. Password, not biometric, or Leighla would have easily used the woman’s face or finger.
Then, Leighla has to go to Charlie’s office, to the binders where she knows all the business stuff is kept.
Charlie is back at the party, which is starting to wind down now that the sun has set, leaving the true connoisseurs. Leighla is going through the documents until she finds the Binder with the headcount and everyone’s emergency contacts.
It’s dark outside, but Leighla hears the party is still happening; Charlie and his die-hard pals are still whooping it up with the die-hards who are left. The women have covered up some because of the evening chill, but for most, that means pulling on a bottom, leaving their bikini-clad tits out and visible for all.
Miles away from that hilltop party, Greg is watching one of his favorite shows, happy and content.
His cell phone rings, unexpectedly, surprising him. It’s an Orange County number he does not recognize. He thinks it’s probably a wrong number, but he answers it anyway.
“Hello?”
“Um, hi, is this Gregory, Marcia’s husband?”
“Um, yes, speaking.”
“Great. This is Leighla. I’m, like, Charlie’s wife and stuff, and this is, like, my house and all. And like, your wife, your wife is like, passed out in an upstairs bedroom, and you should probably, like, come and get her. Okay?”
“Okay,” the ever-obedient Greg says, and without delay, stops what he was doing to drive the twenty minutes up into the hills where his wife was passed out in one of her boss’s beds.
Greg knew where the house was; Marcia had proudly pointed out the turn and the street many times before.
He drives in a daze.
*****
8. THE CLIMAX ALREADY TOOK PLACE
Greg drives through the open gate and parks on the front lawn.
Many cars are still left.
Greg walks through the unlocked front door. He sees people he recognizes, people he knows from other work parties, work Christmas parties, Holiday parties, and other events with work people that Marcia dragged Greg to as her plus-one: co-workers’ birthday parties, colleagues’ weddings.
Marcia’s co-workers.
Greg recognizes them, but not only then. The biggest shock: all their spouses. Everyone’s spouses, with people mostly standing in couples, as employees and their non-employee spouses talk to other employees and their non-employee spouses.
Everyone was there with their spouse or significant other, Greg immediately clocks.
He can hear Marcia’s words in his ears—her lies.
“No spouses. Just for company people. Just for us!”
Greg’s stomach is doing funny, squiggly things and feeling everyone’s eyes on him: everyone and their significant other.
Clocking his sudden arrival.
No doubt they all know that his wife is asleep upstairs. Passed out upstairs.
They all know.
They are all looking at him. They are trying not to make it obvious, but they are all making it obvious. They are all looking at him and talking among themselves. Quiet things they can’t say too loud, lest Greg hear them.
Greg knows immediately that they all know his wife. They all know Marcia and have strong opinions about her.
They know her boob tops and her being all alone in her bullpen office at the headquarters location of Charlie’s empire.
They know his wife and how she is at work; they know even better than Greg does.
And they’ve all shared stories about her. He can tell when his eyes scan around the room, seeing faces he knows, and they try to avoid eye contact with him.
Greg knows this is how a loser feels; these are the thoughts losers have to process. Someone has won tonight, and it has not been him.
Greg knows he will never call Marcia on her lie because part of the twisting in Greg’s stomach is the pride he takes in having such an independent, cunning wife who thought enough about things, thought enough about him, and cared enough about him to lie to him.
Who thought enough about herself to be sure to lie to him.
And if there was a winner tonight, Marcia may already have been her.
Greg knows that with Marcia, he is never going to get the pretend, the fake. He is always getting her as she really, truly is. She’s not afraid to be herself around Greg, and Greg loves that.
Leighla comes right over to Greg. She’s still wearing her white bikini top, but the cool night air has descended, and she now has a pair of silken harem pants covering her bottom and legs.
This is the first time that such a hot woman has come over to Greg so quickly and excitedly.
“Oh, hey Greg, thanks for coming, she’s upstairs.”
She doesn’t even have to tell Greg to follow her; he does so instinctively.
In the upstairs hallway, outside the spare bedroom, Leighla finally tries to blurt things out:
“You know, Greg, she wasn’t alone in this room tonight.”
This is all happening in a dream for Greg. The late summer air, driving up to these heights. The weird remains of a party that had been going on for hours and hours. His wife, on the other side of this door, needs rescuing. He needed to get to her; he had been called, and he was obligated.
Everyone was watching and waiting.
Leighla’s amazing presence, her scent, her voice, her being, her vulnerability: she was like a character from a dream. Telling Greg secrets and hinting at secrets.
“Ok,” Greg says, brushing her off, dismissing her, not wanting or needing or caring to hear the truth and not wanting to have to respond to it in the way this glamorous Leighla wants him to.
Leighla huffs and stammers. “Aren’t you, aren’t you…Don’t you want to, to him?”
Greg shrugs.
Leighla tries her next trick: opening the room’s door. “See?”
She turned and left to go back downstairs, to tell Charlie that ‘the husband’ was ‘very angry at you, Charlie boy, and probably going to come beat you up!’ Charlie laughs, hearing it.
But she leaves Greg to the particular pleasure that few husbands get to witness: his wife, passed out in a strange bed, with the husband having no idea as to what the past half-dozen or more hours of his wife’s life have been like.
A large, chubby woman, sleeping deeply and soundly atop this soft, well-made bed.
She seems very contended with herself.
She smells of alcohol and sun-tan lotion, and her breath is boozy and sour.
She has on an opaque, but tight, maxi-length halter dress, colorful, but the room was mostly dark, the only light coming in through the window.
Greg recognizes the halter dress as the usual cover-up Marica wore over her one-piece bathing suits, but as Greg gets closer to his wife, he sees she has no bathing suit on underneath; she has nothing on underneath her nearly backless halter dress, and the dress’s top barely contains her large breasts.
The cover-up has bunched and pulled; were she sleeping in a different position, it would be vulgar and obscene. But the way Marcia is currently posed on the bed, she looks like a big girl, true. Undeniably fat and round and soft, but posed in a way that Rubens posed his models, and thus, looking surprisingly sexy despite being drunkenly comatose.
Greg notices that the room itself is a mess. The bed’s linens had been disturbed and hastily pulled back up before Marcia had settled down atop them. The pillows were distributed unevenly, two at the head and one near the foot of the bed, as if perhaps it had been under Marcia’s hips at some moment.
Or under her knees.
Greg approaches her slowly, softly.
She looks like herself, smells like herself, but also like something else, like a party she was going to, but a party that she did not want her husband invited to.
Greg reaches out, touches her, feels her warm and unmoving, unresponsive to his touch, but there and heavily there under his hands.
“Babe,” he says. “Babe, c’mon, I’m gonna give you a ride home.”
Consciousness comes to Marcia.
In the dark, her eyes open. Her hand reaches up to her husband.
She pushes her husband away. “Leave me alone,” she slurs out, still intoxicated.
Greg lifts her to a sitting position, but Marcia’s slinky spine slumps back down. “Leave me the fuck alone,” Marcia tells her husband, oblivious to the foreign bed she’s in.
Oblivious to where her bathing suit has gotten.
She’s a big gal and tough to move, but Greg tries his best, tries to get her legs over the side of the bed, tries to get her to be ambulatory, to leave this bed owned by some other man, by Marcia’s boss.
It seems hopeless. So Greg does the only thing he can do. He gives up.
The people left at the party–fewer than the number who saw Greg arrive–are now doubly shocked at Greg’s footsteps descending the stairs when he comes down without his wife.
They look at him, like he had one job, to get this woman out of this house.
And yet.
And yet, Greg.
No one looks more disappointed than Leighla. Who is the only one at the party who will talk to Greg?
“She won’t get up,” Greg tells her, “so I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, I don’t want her here all night,” Leighla replies, haughtily, like she’s speaking to a manager.
The room is silent.
Then, a cheerful, handsome man comes over: “Relax,” he says. “I’ll get her home somehow.” This is Charlie. He’s smiling, and Greg has an immediate excuse to leave.
Which Greg takes.
Marcia got herself into this. She can get herself out of this. These people made Marcia their problem; she can be their responsibility tonight.
Greg drove twenty minutes home, down the hillside roads, feeling like he was still in a dream. He slept on his side of the bed and waited for everything to be better in the morning.
*****
9. GETTING HOME
Of course, Marcia planned to cheat.
Of course.
Don’t foolishly think otherwise. She could have dragged Greg with her like everyone else dragged their spouses. But Marcia knew she did not have to do that. She could be free.
She could be at the party without any anchor, without anyone holding her back or looking for her if she disappeared for awhile.
Marcia went to that party planning to fuck.
She drove herself up to the house, not nervous but bubbly. Confident. She was going to get railed, and it was as simple as that. Who cared if the wife would be there? He had a wife, she had a husband. Same difference. Big whoop.
A hostess is never more vulnerable than she is at the start of the party. When the guests start arriving. A hostess like Leighla is busy, meeting and greeting everyone, and being the proud chatelaine. She is busy, so busy as the party begins. The guests, the party prep, and checking on every little thing.
One place a hostess doesn’t need to be, and where she is seldom to be found, is in an upstairs bedroom.
Especially if a husband and a slut have snuck off there, very quickly. For the slut to start on her knees, with a blowjob, but to end it on her back, with a cream pie from a married man, a cream pie from a husband, just not her husband.
Marcia went up there “to change” into her bathing suit. That was the excuse.
the new one-piece that she bought the night before, thinking about this exact moment.
So, of course, Marcia had an excuse to lock the bedroom door. She was getting changed.
So of course, Marcia had to strip all of her clothes off, taking off her top and her bottoms and her bra and her panties, standing in this strange bedroom totally nude; her perfect, full tits bared to the winds. Of course, she could be nude in this stranger’s house–could be? Why did she need to be nude in this house? Nudity was essential. She was getting changed into a one-piece bathing suit. Nudity would be a requirement.
The door needed to be locked in case anyone might accidentally come in.
And if someone knocked on the door, which someone other than Leighla did, asking her if she had seen Charlie, or if she knew where he might have gotten off to, Marcia could try not to laugh at how Charlie might have gotten off right in her mouth, right there, seconds ago. She was still on her knees, while someone was knocking and saying, “Charlie? Are you in there?”
“No, I’m getting changed,” Marcia called out. After she swallowed the cum in her mouth, of course.
“Have you seen Charlie?”
“Nope, haven’t seen him.” His dick was literally in her hand and in front of her nose.
Was Charlie already in this room, waiting for Marcia to enter, lock the door, and drop to her knees? Lurking in a closet, watching his chubby employee strip, letting him engage his fantasy and fetish for voyeurism, before she gave obedient, kneeling oral? Did they plan this, or was it another happy accident in Charlie’s blessed life?
Marcia would never tell.
But of course, with anyone looking for Charlie now going off in another, wrong direction, there was plenty of time for Marcia to lie back on this bed, naked, and let Charlie get a second nut off, right inside her married cunt this time.
Her large tits and belly bouncing and rolling while she got covertly plowed by her sexy boss.
And came on his cock from the way he stretched her and from the fucking she gave her.
By the time Leighla was wondering where Charlie was, he was already dropping his load inside Greg’s wife.
Marcia never admitted she did anything with Charlie, never flaunted it, or owned up to it. But Greg always knew, always would wonder, and Greg always knew for sure that if Marcia told him that Charlie’s cock was bigger, then Greg would never dare question or doubt her.
Of course, she knew.
It was obvious, really, Greg could admit to himself now.
What Marcia did not plan on was what came later, after that first victory fuck to start off her private party with Charlie. She could have left then and there, right after that first fuck. She had gotten what she wanted; she fucked her lover in his own house, while his wife was present, while her husband was home alone, unaware.
She got away with it.
But things got out of control when Marcia stayed to gloat.
Feeling that just-fucked glow and the double-smugness of walking around a wife while that wife’s husband’s cum was dripping out of a cunt not between the wife’s thighs.
Marcia felt her power by the poolside, felt her power over skinny Leighla so much that she stopped feeling skinny Leighla’s power over her. Marcia felt the power of her freshly-fucked cunt, freshly-filled by another’s husband; freshly-filled with another’s husband’s essential essence.
The baby-juice. Marcia giggled to herself, then laughed, laughing harder and harder, the only one in on her private joke.
She felt her energy radiating; she wondered if people could tell that she was preferred over Princess Leighla today.
Marcia was so smug, yet so angry still in a way, that it made her reckless. It made her drink more than she needed to, since she had been stone-cold sober when she got fucked at the start of the party. She did not need booze to cheat on her husband; Marcia did that fully intentionally.
Cheating on Greg was always a sober decision for Marcia.
But the booze flowed, making the other guests very, very convivial.
Very naughty.
They arrived happy to bare skin and baring it. Tits and tats abounded. Then the drinking socially lubricated everyone to the next level.
The conversations, teasing, and playing started getting tipsy, then playful, then naughty, then kinda raunchy.
Secrets were bared, sexual innuendos were percolating everywhere.
People were getting turned on.
So when the wet t-shirt contest started, egged on by some of the sluttier girlfriends who wanted attention for their rampant sexuality, Marcia joined in, too.
First, she did so comically, as the fat lady moved in ways that made fun of her size, made fun of her rolls. But then Marcia got into it. Getting into showing her full, sensuous body to all of her co-workers. None of whom knew she had just gotten fucked by their cheating boss, their hot stud of a big-dicked boss, but who started cheering her on as she danced and as she uninhibitedly teased them with curves.
Marcia was not the first woman to flash the crowd, or the first one to get completely naked and get into the pool. But she wasn’t the last one, either.
These women were proud of their breasts, proud of their bodies, and not shy about using their sexuality to quench their desires. Women, a lot like Marcia, really, minus general pride in her body.
And yet, tonight was special.
The stakes kept being raised.
First, the women flashed a single breast, teasingly. Then, flashing both breasts became the next escalation, quickly followed by tops coming off totally.
But when the first one dropped her bikini bottoms, too, showing off her tight landing strip, to raucous cheers, the other women could not be outdone, and they would not be out-slutted by the first woman daring enough to show her boyfriends’ co-workers her snatch.
Marcia surfed this energy, high off the thrills of being already fucked and desired out of wedlock.
Marcia’s husband never got to see her naked, but Marcia ended up having no problem stripping off her one-piece entirely and splashing nude through the pool with the other wild party guests. Letting them look her all over, however they wanted.
That was the confidence that having Charlie’s cum inside her gave her.
Marcia ran all around, totally naked and without a care, and never once told anyone they couldn’t or shouldn’t look.
Marcia was already fucked but still making dicks hard, and it turned her on. She deserved extramarital sex; she knew it and had no guilt. She had big, huge tits, bigger than most of the natural women at the party, and being topless then naked around them, made her feel glamorous and sexy, even with her thunderous thighs and hanging tummy.
When it was time to dry off, Marcia and the other skinny-dipping guests did so, but Marcia’s new bathing suit had disappeared, lost long ago when she tossed it aside an hour or so earlier, joining the nude-fest furiously; so she put her cover-up back on. Skin-tight, it hugged her curves, making her look even more touchable and grabbable.
Marcia had been drinking so much and was so drunk that someone suggested that she lie down, and Charlie, the good host, escorted her upstairs to help her lie down.
And help lay her down, Charlie did. Again.
Marcia was hungry and desperate for another stretch around her boss’s cock.
Because that was the key difference for Marcia between Charlie and Greg.
Marcia actually orgasmed when Charlie penetrated her. Unlike her husband, Charlie’s cock got her off. Marcia would never think to make Charlie refund his own cum out of her. Charlie deserved to shoot his cum into her, and when Charlie did, Marcia was happy to have Charlie’s cum stay there.
Charlie had the confidence of a man with a cock that made women weak, then made wives beg for another chance as he was already discarding them and moving on to another small-busted cutie.
Charlie’s casual fucks of Marcia at that party were nothing like the way Greg fucked Marcia, not even when he was courting her, when she was hot and desperate for it.
Marcia knew they had to be fast, that they could not fuck for hours.
And still, any time Charlie gave her was more than enough. He made her come yet again, and her brain was cloudy and fuck-drunk, again.
So fuck drunk, that when Charlie daringly said to her, “Hey, some of my friends thought you were really hot,” it turned Marcia on, and she said, “Oh yeah?
“Yeah. If they promise not to tell their girlfriends, can they get a turn, too?”
“Oh fuck that’s so slutty,” Marcia said.
“I know, right? So hot though? You want to let ’em in? They’ve been watching us, watching how good you take it.”
“Oh fuck that’s so hot,” Marcia said.
Marcia thought they would go one at a time, but then they both came in together, at the same time, already undoing their pants.
She had seen them at the party, had been introduced to them only briefly. They were Charlie’s oldest friends; they went way back with him and knew exactly how to handle the situation. This wasn’t their first rodeo; this wasn’t even their first fat girl rodeo.
They kept her very busy.
And the funny thing is that even though their cocks were not as big as Charlie’s, Marcia had no problem coming on them, over and over, from the decadent threesome these two guys, old-time friends of Charlie’s, not his employees, were giving to Marcia, suddenly and out of the blue.
A threesome with two strange men, and they could make Marcia come just as easily as her big-dicked, rich-boy crush.
Their cocks stretched her open and hit her spot, and she was powerless to stop herself from letting it happen, powerless to stop herself from enjoying it.
Yet another thing today that she would not be able to tell Greg about.
How one mounted her without even asking her if she was ready, while the other slipped his cock right into her mouth, as if, of course, she’d take it and suck it right away.
Which, of course, she did.
No kissing, no touching, just open her mouth and take this man’s cock inside her wet, married mouth. Marcia met a man through his cock.
Marcia had no idea that these old friends of Charlie had often come around to pick up Charlie’s discards. The ultimate sign that Charlie was done with a woman–for women had made themselves easily available to him his entire, privileged life–was when he shared them with his friends, these and others, for them to double-team or take turns on or spit roast or gangbang or otherwise enjoy, like they were doing on this chubby married slut, because once Charlie turned a slut over to his dogs, that was the surest sign he would never want to stick his dick in that woman again.
Charlie gave sloppy seconds to his friends; Charlie did not fuck second after his friends had their turn. Noblesse oblige, and all that, after all.
The whole experience was so deliciously overwhelming, her surprise group sex, that Marcia passed out, deeply and naturally, not having drunk herself comatose but having been fucked into a coma, the semen of three different men washing through her body, and none of that intimate fluid came from (pun intended) her husband.
She had been a proper pool party slut. A company party whore.
In that upstairs bedroom where her purse and her phone were, she fell merrily asleep.
The two guys left her there and went back to the party, rubber-legged from the working over they had given Marcia.
Greg had drained himself three times into Marcia, and these two had each had her twice themselves.
Three men, seven loads, and Marcia’s overall feeling, finally, of what she was truly worth.
An hour or so later, when Greg rocked her awake, it was even more overwhelming than getting spit-roasted by two relative strangers. Her husband was not supposed to be here. Her husband, who was not supposed to be here, was not supposed to be touching her, seeing her, feeling her, smelling her, while covered in the sweat and the nuts of three other men, the only one of whom Greg even remotely knew was Marcia’s boss.
This was her time. This was her fun. She quite explicitly did not invite Greg along.
What was he doing here?????
Not that she cared, but he needed to go away as fast and completely as possible.
Greg gave up so quickly and easily that Marcia would not even remember the next day that he had been there.
Marcia would have no recollection of how she got into the back seat of her simple, daily driver.
After more time passed, and the only guests left were Charlie and his two closest friends, and after Leighla made it clear that either she slept in the house that night, or Marcia did, but not both of them, Charlie and his two fit pals grabbed hold of the sleeping Marcia, their cum-filled fuck-prize, carried her downstairs as gently as they could, helped themselves to full, farewell squeezes of Marcia’s big, perfect tits, and loaded her and her purse and her phone into the back of her car.
With her keys from her purse, Charlie drove her car back to her house, while one of Marcia’s other lovers of the evening drove Charlie’s sporty Jag convertible, trailing behind, to pick up Charlie and take him home, once their noble duty was done.
Marcia woke up on the drive home, as the other of her new lovers was in the backseat with her, ostensibly to stop her from puking in her own car, but in actuality, there was no danger of that with Marcia now.
She still had only her cover-up on, her bathing suit now long forgotten. Her tits were pulled out of her cover-up; she looked sexy and slutty in the best of ways. The sneaky fucking and the group fucking, her hair now all messy, the being driven home in the backseat of her own car, made her only sexier looking, and made her feel like she was living someone else’s life.
I deserve this, she felt with pride. I deserve wild nights like this. I’m a wild woman, I need to act out and express myself like this.
She’s awake and sober enough to give Charlie a hug and a kiss when he parks her car in its usual spot on her house’s driveway. A friendly, sweet, hug and kiss that accompanies her saying “thanks for a great party, boss man, see you on Monday,” and then Marcia walks to her front door, unlocks it with her keys from her purse, and goes inside her house, barefoot; her backless swimsuit cover-up baring her bare, fat ass to the three men who each had taken a husband’s liberties with her, while her real husband was inside this simple house.
Charlie and his friends drive off into the night, back up the hill to Charlie’s house, where Leighla is waiting. Leighla did not flash anyone at the party, and she never took her clothes off to skinny-dip in her own pool.
In his house, Greg is already asleep or half asleep. If he hears his wife getting home, he does no more than roll over in place, staying on his side of the bed.
Greg and Marcia will never talk about this party again, and they will stay married for thirty more years, until her death from diabetes.
Marcia never lets Greg see her fully naked.
The End.
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