by Dale Doty ©
I did not sexually harass that woman. I never even hinted that her advancement in the company depended on anything other than her job performance. I never touched her. Well, that's not quite true. Once my arm accidentally brushed her small left breast. I immediately apologized and I will never forget her response. "You don't hear me complaining, do you?" To me, that was a blatant invitation to a physical relationship--an invitation I did not accept.
I will not deny that I loved her. I loved my wife dearly and did not know until I met Jan that I could love two women so very much at the same time. I think I fell in love with Jan the day she interviewed for the job. She was tall, slender, flat chested and the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Her complexion was ruddy and her high cheekbones accentuated her oriental-like turquoise eyes. I can't explain it. She was so nervous I wanted to hold her in my arms, stroke her shoulder length honey-blond hair and whisper assurances that everything would be okay. Her bedroom eyes watered as she explained that she had worked for her present employer for four years without a promotion or salary increase.
She received promotions and salary increases after she came to work for me--lots of them. She climbed the corporate ladder in a hurry, with me behind, pushing hard. Within two years, and with my boss's concurrence, she was being groomed to take my position when I retired.
I knew the best I could hope for was a platonic relationship and I was delighted to settle for that. I was happily married and Jan was married too, but not happily. If that was not enough, Jan was half my age. You see, I'm an old codger--fifty-nine when Jan came to work for me and she was only thirty-seven. In our first intimate conversation, Jan told me how cruelly her husband kidded her about her small breasts. He even pulled down her tank top one night in front of friends while bemoaning the fact that he had no titties to play with. I assured her that not all men are mesmerized by knee-knockers. I even went so far as to say I thought her breasts were beautiful. Yes, I had seen the creamy white flesh of her baseball sized mammary glands and the nearly red tipped buds they sprouted. Jan frequently wore low-cut blouses with no bra and she made sure I saw those treasures once or twice a day by leaning over in front of me, pretending to pick something up from the floor or to write a note on a table or desk. Yes, I looked. That's a man's job, isn't it? Jan had long legs and, although some might describe her as skinny, I found her legs shapely and sexy--especially when she wore black stockings. She almost always wore short skirts and that provided her with another opportunity to display her charms to me. She had been an employee for about a year when she first sat across from my desk and spread her knees as wide as the short skirt would allow, revealing cotton cloth wrapped tightly around bulging labia. "I've never seen panties quite so white," I said at the time. "Really?" she replied with a grin while continuing to allow me this most intimate view of her curvaceous crotch. She owned a fine bottom, too. It took her two years to show me that part of her anatomy. She came through my office and asked to get off work early. I looked her up and down. On this occasion, she was wearing an ankle length flowery dress. Red is my favorite color and it was a common joke that if an employee wanted a favor from me, he or she would have to wear something red. "I'm sorry, Jan," I joked. "You're not wearing red today."
"Yessss I aaaaam," she sang with a wink. She turned her left hip to me and gathered the dress above her waist, showing me her lacy red panties. Then she turned her back to me and I gasped. The panties were of the thong variety with the strap disappearing between her round buttock cheeks. Needless to say, she got the afternoon off.
She came to me one day in tears. She loved her job so much that her husband became jealous. He demanded that she quit and, when she refused, threatened to impregnate her. Jan wanted a career, not children.
"What kind of birth control do you use?" I asked.
"We're Catholic," she replied.
"But surely ... "
She shook her head. "No pills and no condoms."
"Oh," I said. "You use the rhythm method."
Again, she shook her head.
I was baffled. "What, then?"
She grinned mischievously. "Think about it."
"Ugh," I moaned, pressing my thighs together when reality dawned. "What a cruel thing to do to your husband."
She smiled. "He doesn't complain when I finish him off with these," she explained, tapping her long, graceful index finger against her pouty lips. I'll admit that for just an instant, I visualized my throbbing cock, coated with her most intimate juices, pumping between those full lips. For just an instant I wondered if she swallowed my, uh, his semen.
I'll never forget the day I told Jan I loved her. She was not surprised.
"How long do you think it will last?" she asked.
"I can't think of anything that will ever cause me to stop loving you," I replied. "You're the most beautiful woman in the world, both inside and out." How wrong I was!
For Christmas that year, I gave her an emerald-studded bracelet. The damn thing cost a small fortune, but the glow on her face was worth every penny. She gave me an expensively framed picture of linked hearts and a card signed, "Love, Jan." She also gave me another gift. She wrapped her arms around my neck, pressed her tiny tits against my chest and moved them in tight circles while dry-humping my throbbing erection. It lasted only a few seconds, but, so help me, I creamed in my pants. It's important to note that during this embrace, my arms stupidly hung limply at me sides. Other than the erection that I could not help, I did not respond in any way that she could recognize.
Jan had been with us for three years when she came into my office one morning, locked the door, sat across from me, showed me the pale pink panties she wore that day by sitting with her legs splayed, and burst into tears. She had left her husband. She rehearsed all the horrible things he had done over the years. Now he was staying out all hours of the night. She was certain he was seeing another woman. I felt so bad for her. In spite of everything, I knew how much she loved him and, being Catholic, divorce was out of the question.
"It'll work out," I said lamely.
She shook her head. "Not this time. I won't take the bum back."
"Jan, do you have a joint checking account?"
She nodded.
"I think you'd better make a large withdrawal. If your husband is anything like you have described, he may leave you penniless."
The tears flowed again. "I just paid monthly bills. There's not much left in the account. Just bear with me until I regain control of my emotions," she pleaded and, without another word, she left my office.
I couldn't get her off my mind. I wanted to go to her, hold her, caress her, kiss away the tears. Of course, I couldn't do that. Instead, I wrote her a love letter. I told her how much I worshipped her and that I'd always be there for her. I wrote about a little furnished house I could rent for her until she got things under control.
I put the letter in a number ten envelope along with a thousand dollars in cash and walked to her office. She was gone for the day, so I put the sealed envelope on top of her desk.
The next morning about ten, she again locked my office door behind her, sat in the side chair and showed me her creamy white, red-tipped peaches as she leaned towards me, handing me the envelope. "I can't take this," she said through tear-stained eyes.
"Please, Jan. I want you to have it."
"I'll be okay," she promised. She paused and looked into my eyes. "Duke, I can't be what you want me to be."
"And what is that?" I asked.
"You know." She always used that expression when she did not want to be explicit.
"You want to end our personal relationship?" I asked.
"I want to go back to an employee/employer relationship," she agreed.
I was devastated and reacted badly. "Your wish is my command, Pretty Lady. Welcome to the real world."
Her eyes flashed. "I take that as a threat," she said angrily.
"It's not a threat, Jan. It's a simple statement of fact."
She stormed out of my office and avoided me for a full week. Finally, I went to her office. She refused to look at me.
"Is everything okay?"
She nodded. "We're back together now. It was my fault as much as his." She looked at me then and the expression on her face was something I had never before seen. "I can be a very evil woman sometimes."
"I don't think you're evil," I replied. "I think you're perfect."
The next morning, Friday the 13th, I kept an appointment with my boss to discuss budget proposals. I was surprised to find the director of the Human Relations Department and an attorney from the Legal Department in my boss' office. "Duke," he said, leveling his eyes at me, "one of your employees has formally accused you of sexual harassment."
My mouth dried up, by body froze and my mind fogged over.
"Who?" I managed to ask.
"Jan. She's hired an attorney and they're out for blood."
"Not Jan!" I pleaded, but then, lowering my voice to nothing more than a whisper, I said, "Give her whatever she wants."
"You have two choices," my boss continued. "Prove your innocence and, failing to do so be fired, or tender your resignation."
My life came to an end at that moment, but my damn heart kept beating. I listened to the lady from Human Resources tick off the charges--fondled her buttocks, groped her breasts, held her head while kissing her full on the lips, demanded oral sex, threatened to fire her if she refused to have an affair.
"Are these charges true?" the female attorney asked.
"I can't believe Jan made these accusations."
"What's it going to be, Duke?" my boss asked.
I excused myself long enough to get a drink of water from the fountain in the hallway. When I returned I did not even bother to sit down. "I really have only one choice. How can I prove that what never happened, never happened?"
"I want you out of your office by the end of the day," my boss said. There was sadness in his voice. Somehow, that helped.
If Jan thought her betrayal would promote her to my job, she was in for a surprise. They brought in an outsider to replace me and, over a period of six months, moved all of Jan's responsibilities to other employees. They continued to pay her, but treated her as if she didn't exist. She tendered her resignation and took a job in a drug store.
My wife kicked me out of course. She didn't believe my story. I didn't expect her to. She let me keep my clothes, computer, one of the cars and my .38. I rented a small house on the edge of town, the one I told Jan I would rent for her, and survived by daydreaming of Jan's brutal death.
They say that the emotions of love and hate are closely related. I believe it. Literally one minute I loved Jan and the next I hated her with a passion. I dreamed of choking her to death, of holding her beautiful little head under water until she drowned, of tying her up and watching her mutilated body bleed to death, of splattering her brains on the wall with my .38.
I had to bide my time, of course. If I had made a move during those first few months, I would have been the prime suspect. Instead, I called her on the telephone several times. She wouldn't talk with me. I wrote letters, apologizing for whatever I had done that hurt her so. She never answered. I stalked her at least once a week for the first few months. She never saw me.
I have a little sideline mail-order business that kept me afloat financially. I buy silly merchandise from third world countries and resell it over the Internet. It never did much more than break even, but then, I didn't promote it much. After I lost my job, it was all I had left and, with constant attention, the business began to flourish.
A year after the betrayal I decided it was time for revenge. My fantasy had settled into a single scenario. I would break into her house, kill her husband if necessary, tie her up, strip her, do all the things she accused me of doing, and then slice off her most intimate body parts and watch her bleed to death. When her heart quit beating, I would blow away her lovely face. This bitch didn't deserve an open casket funeral.
I couldn't sleep that night so, about three in the morning, I drove to Jan's house. Since I planned to kill myself after Jan was gone, I didn't care who saw me. I slipped onto the carport and carefully pressed strips of duct tape on a glass pane of the kitchen/carport door. I left the last strip loose on one end to serve as a handle. Holding onto this handle, I tapped the butt of my pistol against the glass. It splintered but did not shatter because of the tape.
Quietly I removed the glass shards, reached inside, tripped the lock and walked into Jan's kitchen. I had never been inside her house, but I knew the bedrooms were on the second floor. I eased up the steps, slipped down the hall and peeked into what I assumed was the master bedroom. My eyes were accustomed to the darkness and did not play tricks on me. The couple in the bed was not Jan and her husband!
After checking the other empty bedrooms, I left the same way I came in. The bitch had moved and I had no idea where she now lived.
Over the next few weeks, I talked with all of Jan's friends. Not one of them would tell me anything about my former employee. I began to have daydreams of accidentally running into Jan in a department store or something, but it didn't happen.
I wasn't about to end my life until Jan was dead so my only choice was to go on living. I tried to lose myself in the business. I was now at the point that I could afford to run ads in national newspaper supplements. The orders poured in. By the end of the third year after Jan's betrayal I had more business than I could manage alone, so I ran a classified ad in the local paper for an assistant.
I received several replies. One lady with whom I spoke on the telephone seemed especially promising and I made an appointment for her to come to my house for an interview. In response to the bell, I opened my front door and stared in disbelief.
Jan was sobbing hysterically but was just as beautiful as ever. She knew it was my ad she answered and used a false name on the telephone. She sobbed all the way through her story and, as she sat on my sofa, used her old tricks. Her breasts were just as exciting as before and this time she was wearing no underwear at all. I've always been partial to shaved pussies.
In spite of their alleged religious convictions, her husband divorced her and remarried. She got the house in the settlement, but couldn't keep up the payments. The bank foreclosed. She bounced from job to job. Bouts with post traumatic stress syndrome kept her out of work for long stretches at a time, resulting in inevitable dismissals. She was now jobless, broke and living out of her ancient white Ford.
"You've got to help me, Duke," she pleaded. "You once said if I ever need you, you'll be there for me."
"That was a long time ago, Jan. Excuse me a minute." I hurried to the bedroom, pulled the .38 from my dresser drawer and made sure it was loaded. Then it dawned on me. In all my wildest fantasies, Jan never suffered as much as she was actually suffering in reality. The old saying must be true. What goes around, comes around.
I stomped back to the living room and shouted, "Get out, bitch."
She looked stunned as she stood up. "Duke, please, I'll do anything."
"What, exactly, does that mean?"
"You know."
"No, damn it. I don't know."
"I ... I'll suck you, fuck you. Hell, Duke, I've never allowed any man to ejaculate inside me. I've saved that for you. I've never taken a man into my throat or anus. It's yours, Duke ... all yours."
She attempted a smile, pulled the blouse from her skimpy skirt, unbuttoned it and let it slide to the floor. Her tiny breasts were even more tempting than ever before. I wanted to squeeze them savagely, pinch her nipples, suck on those tits and listen to her screams of agony as my teeth clamped down on her long, hard, swollen nips. Before she could push down her skirt I snatched up the blouse, grabbed her skinny arm, and pushed her out the door. "Go to hell, Jan," I shouted as I slammed the door.
I still see Jan occasionally when I go to town. She's usually standing on the corner of Fourth and Main. She looks terrible--much older than I do. Becoming a streetwalker will do that to you.