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Subject: {ASSM} Stolen Moments (revised&reposted) MF ROM INFIDELITY
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Copyright, 1998 by the author
This work contains erotic material and is intended for persons
of legal age only.
It may not be reproduced or redistributed in any manner.


STOLEN MOMENTS (Revised) (And the annoying font errors removed, I hope.)
By Watcher


     My name is John Regan, formerly in accounts management
with a company I'll call Cor-Tec.

     I'm writing this from the ranks of the unemployed. But
that's all right. It was worth it.

     My journey to the soup kitchens began with my first view
of Barbara Birely (again, a substituted name) in something
other than a business suit.


* * * * *

     Barbara Birely was a magnificent woman. I'd known that
before, but seeing her that day standing in a bikini at the
edge of her swimming pool, the impact was even stronger.

     I'd spent most of the afternoon in the study at her
residence, working out details on a number of contracts.
Doing my work at the Birely residence instead of at the office
wasn't unusual. Neither Barbara nor her husband Julius spent
much time at the company's offices. Both had signatory
authority, and quite a few of the company's upper
management, attorneys and account people brought
their work to the Birely's upscale neighborhood for approval
and signature.

     If it had been anything like a regular home (for instance,
the one I lived in), I might not have worked well there. But
the Birely's quiet good taste (Barbara's I assumed) substituted
for an office atmosphere quite well. Where steel and glass
bespoke serious business at the office, rich but quietly
upholstered furniture, dark oil paintings and deeply polished
wood testified to dignity and serious enterprise in the
spacious study.

     My view through the only window with an angle on the
pool was obstructed by shrubbery, and when she'd
occasionally stepped inside to offer a soft drink or sandwich,
she'd worn a light robe.  But now as I stood up to stretch, I
moved closer to the window and found an angle that opened
a view to the pool's diving board.

     As I watched, Barbara put a hand on the board, as though
she were about to climb up on it, but then turned and simply
dove into the water from the pool's edge. The movement
caused a graceful thrusting of her breasts as she flexed her
knees and sprang forward. And then she was under water,
swimming out of my view. But it was enough. From her ankles
to her long auburn hair, Barbara Birely was a magnificent
woman.

     The brief view I'd had of her only served to increase my
jealousy of Julius Birely's good fortune. Beyond that lovely
body, Barbara was a gentle, gracious woman with a strong
mind. In business matters, she conducted herself with a
confidence reserved for those who have nothing to prove.
She knew how to lead a discussion, let it develop its own
energy, yet turn or even close down a line of thought without
rancor. In most cases, the speaker wasn't even upset.

     But that day I'd seen something else, something that
marked the day for me even more than my first glimpse of her
in the bikini. It was her face as she swam up and broke the
water's surface. I only saw it for a moment, but that was
enough. As the water flattened her hair and streamed from
her face, the practiced charm of her wealth and
responsibilities transformed to a child grinning from inside,
totally trusting the joy of the moment.

     It surprised me. Barbara's family had built Cor-Tec. As the
only heir, she held the majority of voting stock, and, I'd
assumed, inherited the hardened world-view that
characterized her family. Open-hearted trust had never been
their strong suit.

     Her great grandfather knew better than to deal with it,
choosing instead to amass the family's original fortune.  In
his turn, her grandfather had perfected the art of 'lawsuit first,
questions later.' Her father took the concept a step further,
turning cynicism inward until he couldn't trust even himself.
He'd put his only child Barbara in charge of company
matters early on, and wandered off to the Caribbean.

     I was new to the company, but I'd heard some of the
history and all of the gossip. There were problems that
Barbara was blind to. She trusted too much, and her score on
trust with Julius was only two out of three. She'd trusted him
to love her, and he did. She'd trusted him to run the
company well, and he did. But she'd also trusted him to be
content as steward of her family's fortune, and he wasn't.

     Julius was a thief, and more than a few of us knew it.  He'd
begun small, invoicing the company for non-existent services
through dummy companies, but soon graduated to siphoning
major percentages on certain contracts. Presumably, the
proceeds were in Switzerland. The early bets were that he'd
take up residence there himself soon, but so far he'd stayed
put, the model husband and CEO.

     Seeing that bit of vulnerability in her helped explain the
blind spot she had where Julius was concerned. The trail
couldn't be that hard to follow for someone with her level of
access and knowledge. But for me on that sunny July
afternoon, the question had changed from how long it would
take her to find out, to what would happen to the inner heart
I'd seen a glimpse of? Channel her into her grandfather's way
of thinking? Or even her father's?

     My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of ice tinkling
in a glass. I turned and was surprised to find Barbara standing
at the room's entrance. She'd just taken a sip from what
looked to be a gin and tonic, and her other hand held out a
glass toward me. I wondered how long she'd been watching
me staring out toward the pool.

     "Enough work," she said. "How can I enjoy myself out
there when I know you're in here slaving away?"

     "If that's for me, I'll take it," I said. "Everything you need
to look at is done. I can finish the rest later."

     I congratulated myself for sounding matter-of-fact.
Barbara hadn't worn her robe this time. She had a towel
wrapped around her waist, with only the bikini top covering
her beautiful full breasts. I stepped over to her and took the
drink, careful to keep my eyes locked on hers. She'd already
caught me trying to watch her in the pool. I wasn't about to
get caught looking again.

     "I can't sit down in here. My suit's too wet. Come on out to
the pool with me," she said.

     I followed her back out to the pool, took a chair and
sipped on my drink while she sat on a lounge chair reading
through the papers. She bent forward slightly as she read,
exposing even more of her tanned, smooth breasts swelling
above the bikini top.

     When she finished, she asked for a pen. I walked over and
handed her one. She signed at all the Xs, and handed back
the pen. "Really fine work," she said, "but you're not
finished."

     She stood, pulled the towel away from her waist
and laid down on her stomach. "Before you go, I need some
oil on my shoulders and the back of my legs. If you wouldn't
mind."

     I definitely didn't mind, but I also definitely didn't
understand. Was this a come-on? Not possible, I told myself. I
was unattached, but she wasn't. Not that I cared too much
about Julius. He deserved whatever he got. Maybe this was
just something spontaneous and innocent?

     I took the oil, squirted some on my palms and rubbed it
into her shoulders. Her skin was soft, but the muscles
underneath were toned, and moved firmly under my hands.
I'd always found shoulder blades an attractive part of a
woman, and Barbara's were nicely defined. I wanted to keep
stroking those beautiful shoulders, but forced myself to stop.

     "Good enough?" I said, using my best 'nothing's going on
here' voice.

     "Yes, thanks. Now just my calves, if you would."

     Just the calves. Well, that said it. No thighs, no come-on.
And maybe some late-arrival modesty. I hoped I hadn't
caused it by enjoying myself too much on her shoulders. I
put more oil on my palms and began stroking her calves.

      Again, the muscles were firm and the skin velvety. And
again, my hands were happy at their work. "Make sure you
don't over-do it," I told myself, letting my eyes travel up her
legs to the swell of her cheeks under the bikini.

     When I'd finished spreading the oil, I decided to give
myself one last perk. Using both hands on each leg, I made a
long final stroke from the back of her knee to the sole of her
foot. Her response sent a message straight to my groin. As my
hands neared each foot, she lifted it slightly.

     I can't explain it, but feeling her move with me that way
sent a pulse of feminine grace all the way up my arms, down
my chest and straight to erotic central.

     I stood up and tried to find the right words to leave with.
Nothing came, so I used the time to wipe my hands on a
towel. After a moment, she turned her head in my direction
and said, "Good thing you put the oil on. I'm sleepy."

     "Well, enjoy your sleep," I said, picking up my briefcase.

     "See you tomorrow," she said, turning her head away from
me again. "You'll bring the Uni-Band contracts, right?" In
those few words, her voice had transformed from hostess to
major stockholder.

     "Right. That and the new human resources stuff," I said,
matching her tone for tone.

     "Okay," she said. And that was it. I took the short route
through the pool gate to my car, and drove back to the
office.

     The scent of her oil and the sense of her body was still on
my hands. As I passed three account execs in the hallway,
nodding and offering a brief greeting, I couldn't help a sense
of one-ups-man-ship, adding silently, "Bet you never rubbed
oil on the boss . . . "

     Silly.

     And as it turned out, wrong.


* * * * *

     During the next week I began hearing a lot of sotto voce
about Barbara and her poolside manner.  The information
elite in our office consisted of five or six people who
understood the company's inner workings beyond a 9 to 5
context. They each had access to key documents, computer
links or other private sources. Of course they shared
information, and together they could paint a much clearer
picture of Cor-Tec than you'd ever see in the quarterly
reports.

     These were the people who knew what our financial
statements really meant, how and why some of our key
contracts were maintained, and who might be on the fence
for continued employment. They also knew how much Julius
had siphoned away, and what he'd done to hide it. I wasn't
part of the group, but I had fringe access through a friend.

     And now I was hearing Barbara Birely's name as the latest
group topic. Evidently quite a few people had been invited
out to Barbara's pool, and in a couple of cases, things had
allegedly progressed from incidental to noteworthy.

     Sloppy fifths never appealed to me, and the righteous
portion of my libido took the high road, resolving to distance
myself from the whole thing. The tiny fact that Barbara had
given me nothing to distance myself from had no bearing on
my new-found morality.

     And yet, the whole thing confused me. Barbara Birely just
didn't fit the context.

     I had two more occasions to work at the house that week.
During the first, Julius and Barbara were home together part
of the time and alone other times, but whenever it was just
Barbara she seemed busy elsewhere in the house.

     On my second visit, Julius was out of town. Barbara
answered the door in the same robe she'd worn the week
before.

     Seeing Barbara in that robe brought the whole suntan oil
episode back in a rush, right down to the sense of her soft skin
under my hands.

     She greeted me pleasantly, led me to the study again,
and then excused herself.

     I worked as best I could, trying to ignore the sounds of
occasional splashing from the pool, and the faint sound of
her voice making and answering phone calls. In particular, I
avoided looking out the window at her. If anything was going
to happen, I told myself, she'd have to be the one to start it.

     But she never came back in the house.

     When I finished my work, I went out to the pool to get her
approvals and found no one there. Walking back in the
house, I called her name a few times. No answer.

     I put the papers she'd need on the study desk and let
myself out.

     I couldn't decide whether I was disappointed or relieved.
She was an attractive woman, but how many oil boys did she
have lined up? And was I expecting more than oil duty? No.
That was ridiculous. Or was it? Damn. The woman had me
chasing my tail.


* * * * *

     Another week went by before I was called out to the
residence again. Time had softened the whole issue for me,
but when she opened the door, I still had trouble meeting her
eyes.

     And later when she called me out to the pool, I had
trouble walking without bumping into things.

     No ceremony this time, no gin and tonic, no small talk.

     She was lying on her back, but sat up when I entered the
pool area. "Think you can help me out again?" she said. She
held the bottle of oil out to me. "Just spread it all over my
back."

     I remember thinking I had the option of being too busy
just then, but my legs ignored me. I walked over to her, took
the bottle and sat down behind her on the lounge chair.

     Its metal legs scraped against the concrete deck as I
added my weight. A light breeze rippled the water. A few
small leaves from shrubbery that surrounded the pool bobbed
up and down in the ripples.

     And now I'd run out of things to notice. She was the only
thing left. I moved a few wisps of her hair aside before I
began; beautiful soft hair with rich highlights turned amber in
the afternoon sun. So much for the moral high ground.

     But not completely. In seconds, I'd found a new and
better mission. I was going to find out what the story was
here. Maybe she was in trouble. Maybe she needed a friend.
Counseling. Something.  Maybe if I pressed a little, I'd find a
way to . . . well, I wasn't sure what I'd find a way to do, but
somehow sliding my hands over her body seemed the perfect
way to start.

     She didn't seem inclined to talk, and I had no idea what
to say. So I began. I spread the oil low on the beautiful arch
of her back, moving my hands in small circles.

     In moments, the lush feel of her skin had raced up my
arms and through my body again. I kept my eyes on my
hands. I had to. The only other view was over her shoulders
to the upper swell of her breasts, and I planned on being
able to stand when I was finished.

     I let the circles widen, spreading oil around the curve of
her waist, then upward over her lower ribs. On their own, my
hands began to squeeze and knead her skin as I rose higher,
massaging the muscles. Oops. Not a part of spreading suntan
lotion. I resolved to stop soon.

     "Don't," she said, and I removed my hands quickly, a flush
building in my neck.

     "I'm sorry, did that tickle?" I asked lamely.

     "No. I just don't want oil on the bikini strap. Hang on
minute."

     She leaned forward, reached back and untied the strap.
With long feminine practice, she held the bikini in place
pressing it against her body with her arms until she could
bring her hands up to hold the cups.

     "Okay," she said.

     It was then I knew that I had no plan at all. Whatever
nonsense I had in mind as her newest best buddy, her
confidant, the brother she never had, was suddenly so vague
I couldn't find even a small piece of it.

     The sides of her breasts were exposed, beautiful white skin
against the tan of her back, and I stared stupidly. My hands
were on auto pilot, and widened their circles with every
stroke. If brotherly love didn't kick in quickly, I'd soon be
massaging that beautiful exposed flesh, coating it with oil it
had no use for.

     "You really are beautiful," I said.

     And what the hell was that? Dumb, inadequate,
dangerous, uncalled for, and what genius decided I should
say it? Now I was in trouble. No way to recover.

     "I try to take care of myself," she said.

     Well that was easy. What was I worried about? I let some
time pass, and then decided, what the hell.

     "Did you want me to do the sides?"

     "If you need to."

     If I needed to? Did she mean if I wanted to? It was a
strange non-conversation. And then my hands were circling
gently up her sides, higher and further forward until I reached
the sides of her breasts. It would be poor form to announce
my arrival by pausing, so I let my fingers slide upward, lifting
her breasts slightly. I could feel the weight of them, heavy
but wonderful as I moved my hands down, then forward and up again.

     "Be careful," she said, her voice small now, barely
audible.

     "Should I stop?" I asked.

     "The fabric. I . . . don't want any on my top," she said, and
loosened her hold on the bikini top. It fell forward, opening
more of her breasts to my touch, and nearly all of them to my eyes.
The cups were loose enough now that I could see under
them from behind, almost all the way to her nipples.

     The arousal was instant, and I shifted as best I could to
relieve the growing pressure in my groin.

     I stroked the whole of her back, beginning low and
continuing up under her shoulder blades, then moving
forward to her breasts and back again. They moved
delightfully under my hands, separating further from the
bikini top.

     By now she was only holding it loosely, and the cups fell
forward, exposing her beautiful dark rose-colored nipples.
Without thinking, I leaned forward, drinking in every erotic
detail; the tiny wrinkles at the base of each sweet bud, her
soft plush areolas rising slightly from the breasts surrounding
them.

     With a final stroke I slid my hands forward and cupped the
full delicious warmth of both breasts. I let a moment go by,
and when she kept her silence, I began circling her nipples
with my fingers. When they responded, hardening at my
touch, I held each between my thumb and forefinger, pulling
gently up and back.

     "I love him dearly." That same quiet voice. "I think I want
you to know that."

     "You love . . . "

     "Julius. He's the only one. Except you."

     Talk about cold water. I had no idea what was going on. I
understood what she'd said, but it made no sense. I took my
hands from her breasts and sat back.

     "Except me . . . for what?" I said, not knowing what else to
ask.

     "It's all right," she said, her voice stronger now.
Everything's all right. And thank you."  She leaned forward
and retied the bikini top.

     "Barbara, I don't want to be flip here, but, uh . . . I think I
should be thanking you?"

     She stood up and smiled then, a beautiful big smile,
almost laughing.

     "And that's why it's just you."

     I stood, and found I had no trouble at all doing so. Too
bad.

     "What's just me?"

     "Everything's fine. Just leave the papers in the study
again. I'll sign them later."

     And with that she touched my arm, gave me another
smile, and dove into the water.

     When she broke the surface and saw me still standing
there, she gave a small wave and said, "Bye. I'll probably
need more work next week."

     I think I returned her wave, but the next thing I remember
was siting in my car and turning the ignition. My hands still
held the memory of her breasts, and my head kept hearing
her words and seeing that smile.

      I suppose a part of me kept an eye on traffic, but it's a
wonder I got back to the office in one piece. I had no
memory of the road or anything on it.


* * * * *

     Over the next few days I found myself listening hard for
every hint of gossip. There was plenty, but not much about
Barbara. A few people had been out to the residence, but
Barbara had greeted them fully clothed and fully business.
Speculation was beginning to die out.

     I listened, but didn't talk. I still had no clear idea of what
happened between us. But the more I replayed it, the more I
knew it should stay private between me and Barbara, and
maybe that little kid's face I'd seen in the pool.

     Julius was a different matter. He'd been in and out of town
repeatedly, and the inner circle noted an increase in billing
from some of his dummy companies.

     Some of the more pathetically righteous wanted to
expose the whole thing, but cooler heads prevailed. A move
against Julius and the battery of attorneys he could afford
was almost certain career suicide, regardless of what could
or couldn't be proven.

     There was some talk about approaching Barbara directly,
but a few cold facts quashed it. The Cor-Tec board had met
only three weeks prior, reviewed his performance, and
awarded him a massive bonus. Barbara chaired that board,
and clearly had unshakable faith in her husband.

     The following Tuesday I got a call to go to the residence.
I had no idea what to expect, but I was tired of thinking about
it. I'd do my work and that's all I'd expect to do. Whatever she
had going or needed was her problem, and the further away I
got from it, the better off I'd be.

     Good decisions. Solid stuff. About time.

     When she opened the door, I was relieved to see her
dressed in a jacket and skirt. I met her eyes with a clear
conscience.

     "Good morning, Barbara," I said in my best ostrich mode,
"Shouldn't take long today."

     She smiled at me, somewhere between business and
gracious. "Good morning."

     She led me back to the study. "Would you like some
coffee?" she asked.

     "Sure," I said. "Thanks."

     She left the room and I began pulling papers from my
briefcase. When I had everything, I spent a few moments
shuffling them on the desk, waiting for her to return with the
coffee. Ten minutes went by. And ten more. I gave up on the
coffee and started to work.

     It must have been another twenty minutes before I heard
a sound behind me and turned around. Barbara stood there
with a cup and saucer in her hand. She'd done it again,
watching me from behind until I noticed her.

     "Ah," I said, ignoring a small annoyance. "I'd about given
up."

     "I had to brew it," she said. "It takes time."

     "Now you've done it, clod," I said to myself. "Insult the
boss. Good idea."

     I put on my best apologetic smile, "Uh . . . I didn't mean it
took too long . . . I just . . . "

     She smiled again. Amused. No fair. Bosses aren't
supposed to smile while employees squirm.

     "I know." she said. The smile stayed there while she put
the saucer on my desk. "Enjoy. I'll come back later with a
refill."

     I watched her leave, and then watched the door she'd
gone through. Minutes went by. Thoughts came and went,
but they spoke too softly to make sense of. Then a louder
thought came. "Snap out of it, dummy. Do your work."

     So I did.

     Another hour went by. The work was done and the coffee
was cold. I sat there knowing it was time to leave, and
knowing if I tried to find her, she might not even be in the
house.

     I spread out the papers on the desk and spent more time
than I needed to marking each signature blank with an X. But
that was it. Nothing else to stall with.

     I rose from the desk and closed my briefcase. There'd
been no sound from the pool, but I looked through the
window anyhow. The water was smooth, and the deck was
dry.

     "What the hell are you waiting for?" I asked myself.

     A minute later my answer walked in the study door with a
fresh cup of coffee. She was in the bikini again, with a towel
over her arm, and nothing at all on top.

     She stood facing me, offered the cup with a small smile
on her face, and said, "More?"

     I can't tell you romance filled the room. I walked over to
her, took the cup and put it down. I felt like a robot, and she
spoke like one.

     "Would you like to make love to me?" she said softly.

     "Barbara, I . . . I don't . . . "

     Those were all the words I could manage before her neck
and cheeks flushed with embarrassment and her eyes fell to
the floor.

     "No," I said, "please don't be embarrassed. You're a
beautiful woman . . . "

     She looked up at me, first raising her head, and then her
eyes. Beautiful soft green eyes. "It's all right," she said.

     "No, it's not," I said to myself. I can't think of anything
more not right."

     And then I lost myself in those eyes, pulled her to me and
pressed my mouth to hers.

     The kiss was chaste at first, a gentle moving caress of our
lips. But as hunger for her built in me I pulled her closer,
kissing her more deeply.

     Her mouth was wonderful, soft and warm, but I could
sense a hesitance. Moving my lips across her cheek I
whispered, "Is there a room we can go to?"

     "I . . . here. We should stay here."

     I didn't question it. All I wanted at that moment was
whatever she wanted.

     And I hoped she wanted to feel my lips caress her neck,
because that's what they did, without a thought from me. Her
beautiful, soft neck, with just a hint of perfumed scent.

     I remember thinking I had to control myself, be certain I
sensed her pleasure at each step before loosing myself in the
lush softness of her. But I'd already moved my mouth back to
hers, pressing my lips against her, urging her to a deeper kiss.

     And then her mouth opened to me, and the feel of her
soft inner lips silenced all my thoughts. I kissed her for the
taste of it. I pressed my hands stronger against her back,
pulling her close to feel her body against my growing
arousal.

     And I hoped, with one last vague thought, that I was a
better man than I suspected.

     I found the hollow of her neck again and nuzzled gently
on the tender skin there, licking, tasting, drawing stray wisps
of her soft hair through my mouth. Her skin rose in a light
scattering of goose bumps and her nipples began to harden.

     She pulled back a moment, a distant look in her eyes,
and then loosened my tie and began to unbutton my shirt.

     And I remember still thinking that it wasn't right. Not yet.
Maybe not at all. It didn't matter that her fingers were
unbuttoning my shirt. There was something . . . something I
should be careful of.

     I pressed her hand against my chest, holding her fingers
still, waiting for her to look up into my eyes, but her gaze
stayed at my chest.

     Slowly, gently, I put my hand under her chin and raised
her head. Our eyes met, and as she watched I let mine fall to
her breasts, linger a moment and return. I leaned forward,
kissed her forehead, and then stood back.

     She looked at me for a long moment, and then, as if she'd
suddenly recognized an old friend, her distance melted into
a small, warm smile.

     Her fingers began to work at the buttons of my shirt again,
her eyes still holding mine. When she finished, her gaze fell
to my chest. With both of her hands she stroked it, and then
moved in close to embrace me.

     Together we settled down to the plush carpeting and
began stroking each other, opening each other, kissing and
exploring.

     I can still remember every moment of what followed. Her
wonderful body is a treasure I keep alive in my head, filled
with image, touch, and taste. The feel of her lush breasts, the
moist warmth between her legs, the intense excitement as
her lips and tongue searched for ways to please me.

     And when we were both near, she reached up to hold my
head, then slid her hands down my shoulders and across my
back, pulling me toward her. I began a slow thrusting, trying
to make the moment last but needing the release, needing
her to explode with me.

     And then it came, overwhelming us both. With a great
intake of breath, she cried out, "Yesss! God, yesss!  Hard . . .
please hard in me!"

     Our bodies crushed against each other, demanding and
finding release only in the deepest part of our embrace.

     I can't remember it ever lasting as long as it did with her,
and when we finished, all I could do was collapse beside
her, kissing her arms and stomach.


* * * * *

     We lay there together for a few minutes, our breath
slowing. I found her fingers and traced them with my own. I
turned to kiss her, but she rolled to her side away from me.

     "Barbara?" I asked, propping myself up on one arm. "Are
you okay?" Silence.

     "Barbara?" I said again, and leaned over to kiss her
cheek. It was wet with tears.

     "Barbara, what's wrong?" I asked.

     Despite the tears, her voice was firm. "It's just the orgasm.
I do that sometimes. Stupid."

     Another long moment of silence passed, and then she
spoke, her voice quiet but controlled. And distant.

     "Please don't tell anyone."

     "I won't."

     "But . . . don't hide it either. If people find out, then . . .
they just find out."

     "What?"

     She didn't answer, still lying there, her face composed
and her eyes staring into the distance. But the tears kept
flowing.

     Searching for words, for a way to stop the tears, I said, "If I
did something . . ."

     "You haven't done anything. It isn't you." She wiped at
the tears with her forearm. "My Dad always said I was a
spoiled brat. I guess I am."

     "I've seen spoiled. And you're not it."

     She turned to me then, and sat up, covering her breasts
with her arm.

     "I haven't been very fair with you. I'm sorry."

     She paused a moment, looking at me, then let her eyes
fall to the floor.

     "Do you know why I wore that stupid swim suit?" she said,
her voice a whisper, "I didn't want you to take off so many
clothes. I didn't want you to undress me. It seemed like too
much. I thought I could . . . just . . . do it. And that's all."

     And then I knew. But I asked her anyhow. "Why?"

     "Maybe if I loved Julius enough I could let it go, but I'm
too god damn proud to be taken that way. So the spoiled brat
in me said, "What can I take from him? How can he feel it?
Everything he has is mine. Except this."

     She stood now, wrapping a towel around her. "But you
were so sweet . . . I enjoyed it way too much." And she smiled
for just a moment.

     I think I was flattered, but it was hard to tell. I had to ask,
"Why me?"

     "I'm sorry. Please don't be insulted, but those first days . . .
you know, with the oil, you were so wonderfully inept. There
were others . . . harder men. I could feel they wanted to take it
from me. I couldn't have that. I needed someone I could
give to . . . steal for . . . hide it with."

     All right. So I wasn't flattered.


* * * * *

     It was time for me to go. We could both sense it. She
watched me put my clothes on in silence. Nothing else to
say or do, except one thing.

     For the record, I'd counseled myself against saying it. She
was calmer, her tears were down to a trickle and the door
beckoned. Stupid. But I said it anyhow.

     "Your husband's an asshole," I said. "Sorry."

     Big mistake. I turned to go, but I'd opened it all up again
and she couldn't leave it.

     "I know why he does it," she said from behind me. "He just
needs it for himself. Just to say it belongs to him."

     I turned back. The tears were a flood now, her eyes red
and swollen.

     "You tell me what's right!" The control was gone. She was
shouting at me, or maybe herself, her breath catching, her
mouth twisted, slurring the words, "I just . . . Christ, why can't I
do it right?  I only ever wanted him to love me!"

     And that was all I could handle. Watching her stand there
so absolutely alone, water streaming on her face . . . again . . .
Jesus, that little kid peeking out, totally lost while her
husband danced his ego.

     And the anger boiled up in me and spewed out, "Where
the hell is he?"

     "No!"

     "Never mind. I think I know."

     And I was gone. I think I even slammed the door.


* * * * *

     Fifteen seething minutes to the office, another five to find
him in the third floor conference room.

     I wanted my fist deep in his asshole face, but a shrimp
tray with a bowl of hot sauce came to hand first. I picked it
up, palmed it upward like a waiter, pushed three very
important clients out of the way, and smashed it square in his
face.


* * * * *

     Needless to say, my employment was terminated. But as I
said at the beginning of this, things are okay.

     I had some trouble at first, not many interviews, and no
offers. I think the word was out that I had a volatile side
people might not want to deal with.

     But then I got a letter on Cor-Tec stationary:


     Dear Mr. Regan,

     I'm told you haven't been offered a new position yet.

     I find that odd, given the wonderful work you did at Cor-Tec.

     This letter is to advise you that as of this morning, I have
verbally notified all Cor-Tec vendors that a valued former
employee, specifically one such as yourself, qualifies as
exactly the sort of individual our purchasing department
would work well with.

     We here at Cor-Tec wish you the best in all of your future
endeavors.


     Sincerely,

     Barbara P. Birely, Chairperson
     Cor-Tec Enterprises, Inc.


     P.S.  It's over.


* * * * *

     Barbara's P.S. had me confused for a while, until I
understood it had nothing to do with the end of my visits to
her home, and nothing to do with an end to her marriage.

     The last I heard, Mr. and Mrs. Julius Birely were doing
fine, thank you, and Cor-Tec itself was strong enough to issue
an employee bonus all the way down to the mailroom staff.
Word has it they found a windfall surplus of funds after a
corrected company audit.

     As for me, I've never been in sales before, but that doesn't
seem to matter. Cor-Tec purchases something over thirty
million dollars worth of goods yearly, with hundreds of
vendors competing for the contracts. So far, I've rejected
very generous offers from twelve of them. I suppose I'll take
one eventually.



End

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