The Winifred Chronicles Ch. 01byHarveyMarcus©
The following story is for the entertainment of ADULTS ONLY, and contains descriptions of explicit sex. If you are not an adult, or reading sex stories upset you, or you are offended by subjects of a sexual nature - do not read any further!
This story is for entertainment only. It contains adult oriented material. This is a work of fiction. The acts and characters contained within are figments of my imagination and have no basis in fact. I do not practice, advocate, condone or encourage acts portrayed here. The characters in the story are entirely fictional. You need to believe that all of the characters are over the age of eighteen.
This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without the written permission of the author. This story may be freely distributed with this notice attached.
* * * * * * * * * *
This tale starts immediately after "Office Mating Ch. 3" where I got reinstated to my Director position by my boss's boss and met Clara's latest visiting niece Rose, a runner with strong legs who had a lesbian incident with her coach and was vehemently against letting me probe her pussy with my prick. I mean, what's with young women these days, anyway?
* * * * * * * * * *
The next morning I awoke with thoughts of Rose, my neighbor Clara's niece, who got some great oral attention but rejected the thought of full-on sex. Maybe I'd be lucky; Clara would work her over with a vibrator and send her home, artificially satisfied.
My day was all planned out: bowling in the morning with Smith and Jones, and then Harriett's return with her British assistant. And, if I were very lucky, somewhere in between or during, I'd find a young woman who'd appreciate eight inches of the Midwest's finest man sausage. There had to be at least ONE!
Smith hadn't been thrilled with the idea of bowling at ten A. M., just as the lanes opened. There wouldn't be many pretty young female bowlers to ogle, and his favorite waitress wouldn't be working that early in the day. Maybe she'd be in class at a local university or working her day job. None of us knew who she was or what he life was like when she wasn't dolled up in her waitress uniform at the alley.
I got out the old bowling bag, dusted off my Black Beauty ball and knocked the cobwebs out of my shoes. I'd had the same size feet since college, when I first bought that gear. Other bowlers probably considered them antiques, belonging in a locked glass case in some bowling museum, but they still worked for me. And the shoes saved me a few bucks on rentals when my buddies and me went out to the local lanes.
Traffic was moderate, putting me at the bowling establishment a few minutes early. The guy behind the counter, with his name Stan embroidered on his shirt, was still doing opening duties when I asked for a pair of lanes, so Smith and Jones and I would have some elbowroom. And, if I were off target, I'd just be throwing my ball down an alley we'd rented.
"Bar's closed," Stan muttered. "Snack Bar is open, though."
A folding metal gate blocked entrance to the normally dimly lit bar area. Neon flickered to life down the way at the Snack Bar counter, as somebody turned up that roller device that slowly cooked hot dogs to death. Heat lamps were tanning yesterday's nacho chips, and the smell of oil meant that popcorn would soon be available.
Smith came through the door just after my conversation with the clerk. "Hey, Harv, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" The greeting was punctuated by a hard slam on the back, one that contained more aggression than warm feeling. What did he have against me? I punched Smith's shoulder, and didn't pull it. He smiled but rubbed the point of impact.
Jones was through the door a minute behind Smith. "Hey Harvey." No physical contact, just a wave.
We jockeyed for position, taking seats around the electronic scoring desk. Combined, the smell of our socks and shoes polluted the air for six lanes in either direction. It took us no more than three frames each before we ran out of things to talk about, so the barb trading began. Smith wanted to know if I was gaining weight.
I ignored his question and parried. "Too bad the bar is closed. You won't have a chance to flirt with your girlfriend."
"She's not my girlfriend. I just like looking up her skirt, and she doesn't mind as long as she gets tipped for her trouble."
I held back a reply about how he might think about giving her a different tip, the tip of his dick, as she bent over. No need to flaunt my promiscuity with these two blabbermouths.
Smith asked about Annie, and I gave him some bullshit about her success at college. The truth was, I wasn't plugged into her schooling, just her coed pals. About half a dozen of them, one at a time back on my birthday.
"Jaqi is coming into town next weekend. She said if I saw you to say 'Hi.'" Smith wasn't happy about being the message courier, given his sour expression.
"Tell her 'Hi' back. What is she now, a senior?"
"Yeah, graduates next year. No more college bills, thank God. Too bad the job market is in the toilet. She'll probably come home and live off her old man." Smith wasn't too happy with that idea either. He put his emotions into his next roll, which splattered the ten pins in all directions.
"You know, Jaqi has a thing for you," said Jones.
Smith strutted back from his strike and aimed a finger at me. "Listen, you stay away from my kid." His face was redder than his favorite Christmas-themed bowling shirt, the one with "Ball Busters" on the back.
I raised my hands in surrender. "Sure. No problem. I don't expect we'll be running into each other. I don't hang out in the same places as college kids." Not that the idea hadn't crossed my mind.
Smith seemed to take me at my word, maybe the first time, and calmed down. However, from that point on he bowled awful. Maybe the mere idea of his daughter and me threw off the rest of his game. He didn't mark for the rest of the line.
We'd just started our third game when I saw the bend-over waitress come in and converse with Stan the opener. She was in a t-shirt and jeans. "Hey, look who's here." I pointed.
Smith dropped his ball at the sight of his favorite server.
"Hey, watch it!" hollered Jones. "I only got two feet."
The waitress looked over at the commotion, recognized us - I knew because she smiled - and headed straight to our lanes. She waltzed down two steps into our field of play. Unlike when she was working as a waitress, she had no make-up on, a distinct improvement. More pretty, less slutty. "Hi." It was a breathless sound, more exhaled than spoken.
"Smith here didn't recognize you in civvies," said Jones.
"Oh, maybe this would be more familiar." She turned to face away and bent at the waist. Even with jeans on, we all knew just how fine an ass she had. We'd seen it peeking out from her short black waitress uniform lots of times. She straightened, and so did my cock. "You're early today. Guess I won't have the chance to play our little game. Unless-" She approached Smith and took his chin between her thumb and index finger, "you'd like a cup of coffee."
Smith swallowed hard but didn't disengage from her light grasp. "Sure. Bring some for these two Bozos, too."
Her eyes rolled back and she shook her head. Her brown hair waved like the starting flag at the Indianapolis Five Hundred. "I'm off duty. What I meant was, would you like to go for a cup of coffee? With me?"
Smith looked at me and Jones. Shit, she was offering Smith the chance of a lifetime, to make good on his lecherous flirtations and have some quality time with a sexy young woman. I'd have accepted in a microsecond. But she'd asked Smith.
"Uhhhh," stammered Smith. "There's a Starbucks on the corner."
"Let's go to my place," she replied. "I make a mean latte, with milk that's really hot." The last word was a sharp exhale.
Shit! She was inviting him to her place? For coffee? For a bend over and fuck me, more likely.
She didn't wait for a reply. She led Smith away from our lanes, up the stairs and out the door. Any resistance on his part was feeble, because she led him out the door despite their relative differences in height and strength. Must not have been trying too hard to get away. I didn't blame him one bit. I shook my head. "I guess Smith forfeits this line." We had a standing deal, loser pays.
"He left his street shoes," said Jones. "I'll hold onto them for him. And his ball."
The young woman would be caring for Smith's balls within the hour. I was sure of it.
Jones paid for all three lines. I didn't have to outrun the bear; I just had to outrun one of my companions.
* * *
I was jealous that the sexy waitress picked Smith instead of me. I probably wouldn't have gone with her anyway, afraid to expose my promiscuous nature to my big-mouthed buddies. But the incident sparked lascivious thoughts. When I caught a glimpse of Sgt. Papa's Bytes and Pieces alongside the highway below me, I remembered the stealth videos of mismatched fathers and daughters that Zenellis had captured during his invitation-only encounter in Wisconsin. All at once, my curiosity overflowed about those videos. They were safely stored on four hard disks in my basement crawl space. I'd need a RAID drive cabinet to reassemble them into a useful configuration. In my town, the obvious place to shop for such an item was Sgt. Papa's used electronics emporium. I had time for a quick stop. Harriett and her Brit assistant wouldn't arrive for hours.
I swerved onto the immediately available exit ramp but made a sharp left turn before it became a highway merge lane. Just down the access road, his store was a rusty Quonset hut with a faded and flaked hand-painted sign that had seen better days. I parked on the gravel patch that served as his lot. Several cars were present. Maybe the Sarge was having a sale.
An electric chime played Revile as I swung the door open. Over a dozen long tables held mounds of surplus electronics, wires, batteries, motors, and logic boards for computers whose companies had long since disappeared but who lived on in my t-shirt collection. At the far counter, Sgt. Papa stood proud in his military short-sleeved shirt and matching cap. The caricature of his face on the sign depicted a younger proprietor. He was in an intense conversation with a young woman whose back was towards me. Only when her arm swooped her dark hair back did I see the blonde streak. Damn, he was tailing to Nashta, the pizza delivery girl.
I casually strolled towards them. Sgt. Papa glanced towards me, away from the young lady and the white MacBook covered with stickers on the counter. "I'll be with ya' in a minute, fella."
Nashta's hand was stroking the old Mac. She didn't look up.
"That's okay. Just curious what you've got here."
Nashta turned her head, her eyes wide, and stumbled back. "You!"
"I leave my house sometimes. Whatcha shopping for?"
She patted the MacBook. "I need computer for school."
"Listen, we're doing business here, fella. If you'd kindly wait your turn, this won't take long." Sgt. Papa held up his palm, intended to stop my interference.
Which made me all the more interested in their discussion. I had a feeling Sgt. Papa was going to take an inappropriate amount of Nashta's hard earned money. Not that old Sarge was a crook. Maybe just not the most trustworthy guy in town. "I know this young woman."
"Yes. He Mister Large Sausage."
The Sarge smiled. "Quite a nickname, fella."
"Nashta delivers pizzas to my house." I took hold of the computer, which was plugged in behind the counter. "That's my usual order."
"If you say so." The Sarge snickered, but then noticed I was opening the lid of the Mac. The tip of the power adapter cable glowed orange. The battery was charging, maybe because the Mac had been on the shelf for a while. Positive interpretation. Or maybe something more serious. "I'm just going to check this out if you don't mind."
The Sarge pressed his lips together. He wasn't appreciating my intervention. Nashta wore a concerned look. "Is okay?"
Clicking on the Apple, then About, the MacBook had been upgraded to one gig of memory. I clicked on More info and examined the power statistics. The battery had been cycled over five hundred times. The chemicals inside were long dead. "How much are you asking for this antique?"
"It works fine. Perfect for school. Five hundred." The Sarge crossed his arms. Not a happy soldier.
"Four hundred would be too much. And she'll have to buy a replacement battery for about one hundred thirty. Three fifty is a fairer price, and at that, you're making a few bucks." He probably got the computer from a school liquidation for a hundred, once of those One Student One Computer lease programs.
"Okay, three fifty, plus one hundred for the power adapter."
I ran my hand along the cord. It was dirty and rough. The owner hadn't been gentle. "A new one is only seventy nine. But you'll throw this one in, just because you're a nice guy, right?"
Sgt. Papa growled. "Okay, three fifty including the power cable. Final price."
Nashta smiled and dug deep into the pocket of her tight jeans. She retrieved a fistful of crumpled cash. We watched as she flattened the bills: singles, fives, tens and an occasional twenty.
"Three hundred and fifty," she announced with a smile.
"And you'll eat the tax for this promising student," I suggested.
Nashta put her hand on my chest. It was the first time she'd touched me. I looked down at her thin fingers and polished nails. "No. I pay tax." She counted out thirty-four more singles.
He unplugged the machine and the screen went black. Yep, the battery was shot.
Nashta smiled. "Is okay. I use plugged in." She pulled at my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. Not a peck. A long warm smooch.
I was sorely tempted to turn my head ninety degrees, to feel those firm lips against mine. But a public display of affection in front of Sgt. Papa was ill advised. He already thought the two of us knew each other intimately. No need to feed that fantasy.
"I repay you. I promise." Her grin lit up the room. With MacBook in her arms, the power cord dangling after her, Nashta ran for her car, the same one she delivered pizzas in. I stood a bit taller for having done a good deed for a deserving young woman, with no sex involved.
"Now, for me," I said.
"Huh?" Sgt. Papa dragged his eyes from the departing young woman's behind and tilted his cap.
"I need a four-slot RAID array box, SATA drives with a SCSI interface." I had an old PowerMac perfect as the host.
"Hmmm. Might be hard to find." Sgt. Papa disappeared down a deep thin aisle. A few minutes later he waddled back to the counter holding the exact item I'd requested. "You're a lucky fella. I have just this one."
It had a familiar logo - a black Z on top of a hound's-tooth pattern. "Where did you get this?"
"At a liquidation sale. Some company went belly up." Sgt. Papa hoisted his pants over his beer belly but they didn't reach.
Given the distinct logo, the drive bay had been used by Zenellis in his company. Maybe the exact one that had housed the drives I'd confiscated. "I'll take it."
"Five hundred bucks." He grinned.
The guy probably had a stack of them in back. "You wouldn't be able to get me a few more, would you? I'm putting together a small data center." My turn to be less than honest.
"I probably could. How many?"
I made a guess. "Twenty?"
His eyes gleamed. "Hang on."
He vanished down the same aisle and came back almost immediately. "I moved a few crates and guess what I found? I got a pallet of these babies in prime condition. And I'll let you have them all for two hundred a piece."
Two hundred times twenty would be a windfall sale for a place like the Sarge's. "Tell you what." I pulled two crisp one hundred dollar bills from my wallet's secret pocket and put them on the table. Then I placed Sgt. Papa's hand on the bills. That left the RAID box unencumbered for me to heft from the counter. "I'll try this one out and if it works like you say, I'll be back for the other nineteen."
Sgt. Papa sputtered as I walked away. He shouted something as I pushed the door open with my foot, but Reveille announcing my departure drown him out.
* * *
After putting the RAID hardware downstairs on a folding table, my new makeshift computer desk, I swept the house for remnants of my porn collection I'd taken out and forgotten to put away. Harriett was ignorant of my adult reading and photographic materials, and her first day back was not the time for her to learn, especially with a houseguest in tow. I crawled into the attic and repositioned my collection of paperback books and magazines deep behind a stack of abandoned plywood and framing.
I was as nervous as a schoolboy preparing for a first date even though Winifred and I would never have that kind of relationship. If my rule prohibiting sexual relations with co-workers had failed in the past - and it had - then it couldn't fail with my wife's assistant. I'd been on the wrong side of blackmail and I didn't relish the possibility of another instance. This was just too close to home.
I recalled Harriett's comments about Winifred Cummings, the college grad with no place to live. 'It'll be like having another daughter without all of that messy stuff.' Yeah, like sex and pregnancy.
I dressed down, cotton drawstring shorts and a t-shirt. I didn't want to give Harriett the impression I'd gone out of my way to look special, and I didn't care what kind of impression I made on Winifred as long it wasn't the attraction kind.
Harriett's leased Lexus pulled into the driveway. My coupe and her sedan occupied the garage. My heart was beating like a drum solo. How would living with a stranger affect my life? Not in a good way, I was certain. Harriett came through the front door all smiles and giggles. Of course she was happy. I'd be grinning too if Tashun allocated me a company car allowance. Although it wouldn't be a Lexus sedan. The cheap bastard might not have even paid for a Chevy subcompact.
"I'm back!" Harriett shrieked. I was standing right in front of her, no need to announce. She waved both arms as if in a parade, then stepped aside. One look at Winifred and I sighed with relief. One time I'd seen a commercial for the TV show 'Super Nanny' where a British woman invades a family, makes the parents feel inadequate and terrorizes the children. Anyway, Winifred looked like a younger version of the title character. Except with darker and bushier eyebrows, frizzier hair escaping from a bun, puffier cheeks, and a cleft in her round chin. Otherwise identical. And she was yawning like a hippo.
She wasn't my type! I didn't know there were any females who occupied that category until Winnie came across the threshold. Winifred was even chunkier than Anita the pretend Little John from my birthday celebration who was a bit heavier than my usual. Not even a flinch from my dick. I was safe.
"Harvey, this is Winifred my new assistant."
There hadn't been an old assistant. "Hi," I said.
Winifred yipped as she closed her mouth. "How do you do?"
Harriett joined Winifred in yawning. "That trans-Atlantic return flight was so noisy. I couldn't catch a wink of sleep."
Huh? I thought Harriett had been at a convention on the East coast. "You were overseas?"
"Yes, at headquarters. They flew me out suddenly in the middle of the conference, introduced me to the worldwide marketing manager, and assigned Winifred to me. I told you England is where Winifred is from originally."
Winnie spoke up. "Yes, quite, but I attended business school in Boston."
I was angry and jealous and confused all at the same time. Harriett's employer flew her out to headquarters in the UK so she could meet the brass? And they assigned her an assistant? I'd never been outside the continental United States except for a few hours on the Canadian side of the Ambassador Bridge when I was in Detroit, and that was no big deal. Just a movie and dinner with a blind date.