Caught in the Act
I should have known by the crisp click of her heels against the bamboo corridor that it was LuAnn on the warpath-so imprinted in my memory, the solid sound of her approach would haunt me for months. But while that tap tap tapping noise still has the power to evoke every angered refrain that spewed from the woman's red smudged mouth, it seems strange that on that day that tapping sound didn't register in my brain cells until it was too late. I'd averted her wrath once before, just two months prior to my fateful reckoning, when she dropped into Tate's office unannounced, wearing running shoes this time, so we had no advance warning at all. That day we were lucky. She breezed in so fast that she barely noticed that I was crawling on the floor, presumably to pick up a pile of scattered paperclips that Tate hastily threw against the carpet to cover up our crime. In truth I'd been half under his desk with my mouth covering his naked and very erect cock. I came up with a handful of paperclips in my closed fist and a sincere apology. After casting me a suspicious glare, she brushed me off, announcing that she needed to speak with Tate in private. I was more than happy to oblige. Dodged a bullet, I thought then. But I wasn't so lucky on the second occasion.
LuAnn threw open her husband's heavy office door as if she knew what she'd see. There was no hiding the fact of our misbehavior. I was naked and Tate might as well have been. As I recall his pants were at his ankles as he stood behind me, leaning into my naked derriere with one hand squeezing the right ass cheek he'd so meticulously caned just minutes before. Damn, that hurt! But what a sweet hurt it was at the time, the kind that sets off sparks inside the brain, that flusters the senses, that suddenly shoots a spark cuntward, setting off another spectacular series of orgasmic highs. I'd grabbed the edges of the desk on either side, my knuckles white as I tried to handle the horrific tension. I loved every second of that last fuck. But suddenly the sound around me magnified in volume-the tapping heels, the shrieking voice, a door banging back against its hinges. Tate's wife LuAnn is only five feet two, but she packs more bitch per pound than any woman on earth.
"And you thought I didn't know!" This didn't sound like the typical opening salvo in a war that had been in the strategic planning stages for months. The two parties had been staking their territories for as long as I could remember. I tried to stay above their game, wisely keeping my kinky affair with my boss carefully scripted to 'safe' days only. Okay, so we'd been getting a little lax in recent weeks. As for me, I got the feeling that I'd been set up; Tate was hoping to get caught, at least on a subjective level. Of course he wouldn't easily give up a fine 'piece of ass' like mine. He loved me for my body: the slender thighs, and perky breasts and toned ass-key physical features in Tate's book of female assets, although I certainly wasn't the only female in Chicago with Tate's ideal form.
Bailing out of the inevitable disaster would have been as simple as ending the affair the day before we were caught-just as we planned to do. We had to 'lay low', Tate had told me, while we sat huddled over greasy cheeseburgers in a grimy diner just south of town. Being in public with my boss meant dining in the dirtiest greasy spoons in the city. I agreed we'd cool it for awhile. But the next day, lured by a renewed sense of the verboten, we were back in his office playing risky sex games. He said he couldn't give me up. And why would he, when sex was defined by him, according to him, on his turf, on his whim, in whatever way his imagination would allow. He had the perfect set-up for the sex he craved, and it would be a big hassle to start over with a new female when he already had me trained.
On the surface, he had a rich trophy wife, the pic