tagExhibitionist & VoyeurA Colleague's Wife

A Colleague's Wife

byJBEdwards©

This is my entry to the Winter Holidays Contest. High marks (if you like the story, of course), and especially 5's, will be much appreciated. Comments are welcome, too.

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I was a junior executive in a large company. I got a nice salary, but I could be fired at a moment's notice. These days, however, I would never be fired. I would not even be laid off. I would not be 'let go.' No, I would be downsized, due to budgetary considerations. It would be due to cash flow problems; you understand, don't you, Jason? Yes, of course. "Please leave the building within the hour. Sam here will oversee your departure. Goodbye, and good luck." That's how I imagined it. It hadn't happened yet. I was only 26 years old, after all.

What I really spent the year living for is my Christmas bonus. If it was large, then I've have had a good year. If it was low, then the good year was due to credit card debt that I had to pay off over time. The Christmas bonus was everything.

I was casual friends with Murray, who was in my peer group. He was English, I guess. Is there anyone who is not English and is named Murray? The name is so out of fashion in America that it's ridiculous. Besides, he had an accent. I suppose Australian was a possibility. And I'm told that there's people in New Zealand, too, but don't they typically wear all black? Maybe. Murray wears beige.

Murray's wife Ann, however was American. She was very much American, and she had a strict religious upbringing. I tolerated Murray, who was a self-important, pompous fool, basically because I enjoyed being around Ann. I could tell she enjoyed being around me, too. Consequently, the three of us were fairly tight.

Ann was an aspiring stage actress. I had no idea just how ambitious she was as an actress, until the events of this story transpired. She's had one gig on off-Broadway, and several on off-off-Broadway, down in Greenwich Village. There were two in Brooklyn, too, and one even in New Haven, which is kind of a big deal. Murray and I have gone to see every play she's been in. She's a good actress, no question, but sadly for her, good actresses in New York are a dime a dozen.

Two years ago she appeared in a Christmas sex comedy. It was the biggest role she had had to date, even if it was only a supporting role, and not the lead. To do this she had to throw her strict religious upbringing under the bus. When it came to a good acting part versus religious morals, it was easy for Ann. She's ambitious, and religious restrictions did indeed go under the bus. I was impressed.

In the sex comedy, she played a Santa's helper who had a problem keeping men out of her bright red Christmas panties. She was a helper who could not say no. There were a few somewhat hysterical simulated sex scenes, and at times it looked fairly convincing. It was always entertaining.

My own favorite scene involving Ann, was when she was on her hands and knees, or as one says in sex parlance, on all fours. Her behind was facing away from the audience, so it was unclear if her panties were on (I knew that of course they were), since the scene had a man humping her in simulated sex.

After the sex, the actor would flamboyantly zip up, and Ann, gasping, would collapse prone on the floor, her short skirt falling perfectly to cover her behind and privates. All during the simulated sex, Ann would be talking, relating Santa's dilemma about the shortages of vibrators for women's stockings, and wondering if he could substitute didoes.

Ann's phrases would be interrupted by little sexual moans. The moans seemed convincing to me. She really was a good actress.

Ann had a simulated orgasm when her character said to the man pretending to fuck her, "Dildos are nice, because it feels so good to be filled, don't you think? Should I tell Santa?" The man gave a particularly pronounced thrust when this happened, and Ann let out the most erotic grunt I had ever heard a woman utter. She then yelled out, "Oh, oh oh!" and quivered just like some women do when they climax. It looked convincing to me. I was impressed.

Ann told me that she would never tell this to her husband Murray, but she really enjoyed kissing the male actors which she had to do in various scenes, and she got turned on every time they felt her up, especially when they mauled her boobs, right there on stage. The actors were apologetic; they did it because the script called for it, they explained to her, and every one of them apologized to her for having to do it.

Finally, Ann called all the men who played molesters together. She declared, "Please stop apologizing for your roles feeling me up. It's embarrassing for me to admit this, and I don't know why, but I like it. I like it especially when I'm on stage in front of a live audience. Let's stop worrying, and just enjoy performing the play. It's a good play. The playwright J. Blaine seems to have talent."

Ann told me the male actors were surprised, but after she made her declaration, they all applauded. After her little speech, the actors got more and more into the breast mauling, and they also seemed more relaxed about having to do it. A few of them even began to tweak her nipples through her clothes, even on stage. She responded with giggles, and the director loved it.

Wardrobe created a special bra for Ann's largish boobs, so that it exposed the maximal amount when she was on all fours, getting hammered from behind. During the simulated fucking scene, Ann's low cut wide neck blouse would fall open, and you could see almost all of her boobs, barely held in place by the wispy bra. The bra had some elastic in it, and it let her boobs bounce around. To the audience, it looked as if she were without a bra, even if nobody could quite see her nipples, which was the main point of the bra.

The bra had the added benefit of letting the men maul her breasts much more extensively. The men happily partook of the opportunity, and Ann gave out little, soft moans, to encourage them to do so. She told me later the moans came naturally, but when she saw their effects, she was glad that she moaned. She raised the volume of the moans. They were still real, apparently, but now the audience could hear them, too.

Ann's little speech allowed everyone to perform better. The director spoke with the playwright, and a new scene was written into the play. In the new scene, the actors' hands were instructed not only to massage Ann's character's breasts, but they also went down to her pussy, and continued their massages down there.

The actors' fingers even at times would push her panties inside her pussy, and Ann confessed to me that she got horribly turned on when that happened, and all the more so when there was an audience. She was perplexed by her reactions, but glad they allowed her to perform even better in the play. I told her to google exhibitionism.

The play was seasonal, and it was performed off-off-Broadway, but it was a huge success, and Ann became noticed as an actress with promise. The director told her there was a new J. Blaine play in the works, and she was his candidate to play the star. Ann was happy, thinking that the promise of the director was the best Christmas present she had ever received.

Ann's thinking, however, was before she received my Christmas present. That Christmas, due to her conversation with the male actor while they were engaging in a simulated fuck in the play, I gave her a vibrator and a dildo. Using a bright red permanent marking pen, I wrote 'Santa loves you' on the side of the dildo. When Ann opened my present, I saw Ann blush the deepest shade of red I have ever seen a woman blush.

Murray smiled and slapped me on the back. "I guess Ann and I will have a fun Christmas," he said. Ann flamboyantly compared one of Murray's outstretched fingers to the dildo, which of course was so much bigger it was not funny. "Oh yes, it will be lots of fun!" Ann exclaimed, and we all laughed. Ann blushed again. She came over to kiss me, and whispered in my ear, "You are the only friend who understands me."

I intended the vibrator and dildo to be comical presents, due to her now famous lines in the sex comedy. Ann's reaction really surprised me. She was actually touched by them, and while she was kissing me, when we were a bit hidden from Murray, she took my hand, guided it to her pussy, and pushed my finger into her through her panties. She softly gasped as my finger entered her.

It was the same pussy penetration that had happened to her every night on stage, during the run of the play. This got me thinking, overtime, about Ann's fidelity to Murray. I had a strict rule myself, though: wives were off limits. Wives of colleagues and friends were ever so strictly off limits.

Besides her talent, what Ann had going for her were her looks. In a word, she was gorgeous. She was not gorgeous in the sense of one of those models on the cover of a glossy magazine. Those women are eye candy, sure, but ultimately boring.

It's what behind the eyes that make a woman truly beautiful. Ann's face, while being hands down beautiful, is also interesting. She's smart, and her eyes sparkle with intelligence, and they twinkle with hints of mischief. Ann's pretty face, her luscious hair cascading down her neck just the right amount, her body to die for, all supplement her eyes, and that's what renders her beautiful.

Sometimes I felt as if deep down Ann was a wild woman, being held in check only by the religious reserve she learned in her childhood.

Ann and I had been friends for quite a few years. I used to act, and we met at the Yale Drama School. I had some talent, I think, but not enough. Ann however, is a natural. Indeed, it took me a while to discern who she really was, to find the genuine woman behind all the disguises she would assume and hide behind, with the alacrity of a chameleon.

Once I found the real Ann, I was hooked. Sadly, though, by then Ann was hooked too. She married one of my close friends, Murray Smithson, the same Murray who is my colleague. I had even introduced them, idiot that I am.

I had never even taken Ann to bed. I always wondered what it would be like to have done so. At least the three of us, Ann, Murray, and me, stayed good friends. We all three treasured our friendship.

I found comfort in another sweet woman with a hot body, Martha Sundersen. Martha too was a sweetheart. She did not have the salt of the earth soul of pure sweetness that Ann possessed. Instead she had an edge to her, coming from some deeply buried trauma, that manifested itself perhaps as alienation. This appealed to me in a major way.

I never did learn what buried trauma lurked in Martha's past, but who cares? If she wants me to know sometime, she'll tell me, I'm sure. Martha loved me, and she was a tigress in bed, the way only a woman who's alienated can be. She was, that is, until another of my friends, Steve, stole her heart in a way that I could not. When Martha left me I spiraled down into a deep depression. Had it not been for Murray and Ann, I might still be in it.

Martha liked to fuck on top, with her boobs hanging down and grazing my chest. She liked to be in control. Her pussy got soaking wet, and when she took me inside her, her pussy grabbed me and clutched my member inside her. No other woman's pussy had ever done that. She was a moaner too, and I simply love a woman who moans. It makes me feel like a stud.

After we would fuck, Martha would climb off me and go down on me, tasting my cum, mixed with her own juices, all on my cock. She gave the best blowjobs on earth, but she only did it until I was good and hard, because then she wanted to fuck again. The next time she would bend over a chair, and I would take her from behind. We would do it in the window, indulging her exhibitionist fetish. She would open the window, even in the winter, so that anonymous voyeurs could hear her moans. God, I loved that woman.

After all the sex, Martha would lounge around, wearing only panties. We would talk. We would talk about everything and anything. Politics, the new exhibits at the museums, which new movies we wanted to see, and what we had planned for dinner. I loved those times.

Martha told me I would have been her true love if I could have given myself completely to her. She and I both knew that was not going to happen until the torch I held for Ann, now buried, was buried six feet deep. As it was, the torch was barely covered with dirt and twigs. It was at risk of bursting into flames at a moment's notice. Martha simply could not commit to a man who still carried a torch for another woman. She had a point.

Now I was alone, having somehow blown it with the two most wonderful women I had ever known, and probably ever would know. Luckily, I was never one for self-pity. The world is a big place, and it is chock full of women. That's what I told myself every night as I went to sleep all alone. Maybe I should get a dog? No way I could ever deal with a cat.

Ann has a great body. She's thin, but not too thin. Her legs are not toothpicks, but rather they are shapely, and long. She has a tiny waist, and a great rack. (Excuse me for being crude. I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, you see.) One play she was in had her cast in a short skirt, and I enjoyed that play a lot!

Murray and I sat in the front row, slightly below the stage, and several times I could almost, but not quite, see her panties. I did not care about her panties, to be honest, but I did enjoy seeing practically all of her legs. I kept my drool within my mouth and I take some pride in such small accomplishments. I saw her once in a bathing suit, and I still cannot get over the memory of her legs, as she walked around the pool. Wow.

When Ann is in between acting gigs, she waitresses at one of the many high end bars in Manhattan. I've been there, and she's waited on me. I could overhear her speaking with some other customers seated nearby, and in time honored New York tradition, she calls all men 'sweetheart.' It's nice to be called sweetheart by a pretty woman, even if it is meaningless since it is applied across the board. Nevertheless, I live for it.

When she's waitressing, like any good actress, Ann dresses the part. She wears miniskirts, and a blouse and bra showing off maximal cleavage. Given her generous endowment, this gives the male customers quite a nice view. She always bends over to hear their orders, and then again when she brings the drinks, or whatever. Men always, without exception, take the look.

I too have taken the look, I confess. Hell, I'm a man; it cannot be helped. Ann's boobs, or the parts of them her bra reveals -- which is quite a bit -- are the loveliest shade of flesh color, since they almost glow with pink undertones. Maybe it's the bar's lighting, actually, but I don't care. The sight is like a Rubens painting.

I've even seen men run their hands up and down her legs while she is taking orders from a group. She does not move, nor does she try to stop their hands, even the rare times when the hands run up under her skirt, possibly going to parts a bit too intimate for her to tolerate. She does seem to tolerate it, however. Even worse, I've seen her subtly change her stance, moving her legs a little wider apart, to make access easier for the hands of the offending men. I have never seen Ann give a protest of any kind. She does not walk away. Other than slightly enabling the men by changing her stance, she does not even react.

I wanted to ask her why she does that? Why does she let men take such outrageous liberties with her body? I felt I already knew the answer, "It's for the tips, you moron. The more they can get away with, the bigger the tips." So why ask, if you know the answer? I had to admit, however, that it turned me on to see strange men do that to my lovely friend.

Ann was not alone. Some of the other waitresses behaved the same way. The bar was way downtown, and it catered to the 'masters of the universe' who worked on Wall Street. These were horny, lonely men, who used their position as customers bestowing nice tips, to exploit these poor women, my Ann included. What puzzled me is that none of the women involved seemed to mind. Not even a little!

Ann was always quick to point out that it is harmless fun to give the men something to look at, and it gooses the tips. She never mentioned the groping under her miniskirt, however. Being a gentleman, neither did I.

After all, being a thespian, Ann has to be accustomed to being checked out, and possibly also to being groped. I've heard stories about what actresses sometimes feel they have to do to get the great parts. It's not pretty. It's all part of the job. Of course, I seriously doubted Ann would ever do, or ever have to do, those type of things, involving sexual favors, just for an acting gig.

There were pitfalls, however, to Ann's acting career. One night I was hanging out with Murray. It was getting close to Christmas, and J. Blaine had his new play done. I heard they were casting for it.

Murray and I were watching the NY Giants lose yet another football game, drowning our sorrows in perhaps a few too many beers, when suddenly Ann walked in, crying. I had never before seen Ann crying, and she was truly sobbing. She was also home early, so something had clearly happened.

Murray said, sweet sympathy in his voice, "You didn't get the part?" I inferred she had been at an audition. "No," she said, in between sobs. "I got the part all right. It's the part itself that's the problem!"

"Too small? No speaking role?" Murray helpfully asked.

"I got the lead. I'm the star of the play," Ann said, punctuated with sniffles.

"I don't understand. What's the problem?" Murray asked. Ann burst into wailing sobs and ran to her bedroom, slamming the door.

"I'd better go," I said, feeling that this was a problem best handled by a husband, and him alone, but Murray asked me to stay.

"She'll cry less and pull herself together faster if you are here," he said. This is one of several reasons that I think that Murray is a bastard. He wanted me there in the hope that my presence could enable him to minimize his efforts to calm Ann down and to learn what the problem was. He hoped my presence would force Ann to pull herself together. He even told me that, himself. Probably, he was right.

Ann was wasted on Murray, who in New York parlance was a nebbish, at least in my opinion. She clearly saw things in him that I did not. They were obviously in love, and I was just a friend, after all. My best working theory is that Murray has a 12-inch cock. Otherwise, I just could not see the attraction. Maybe I would see it if I had been a woman?

Eventually, Murray came out of the bedroom. I could still hear Ann sniffling, even through the closed door. "You were right. You should go," Murray said. Seeing the look on his face, I did not ask questions, I simply left.

The next couple of days Murray called in sick at work. People get sick; it happens. I could not help but wonder, however, if this could be related to Ann's hysterical sobbing the other day? Murray of course returned to work after a few days, but he looked like a wreck. I inquired, but he brushed me off, not wanting even to talk. I had to watch the next Giants game alone. (Yes, they lost yet again.) Well, it wasn't the end of the world. I had other friends besides Murray.

A few weeks later, I got a call from Ann. She told me she missed me, and why don't I drop by the bar tonight? There had been a small sartorial change in her cocktail waitress outfit, and she wondered if I would even notice, and if so, would I approve? I told her I'd be there, no problem.

I went over to the bar where Ann works. She works there when she is in between acting gigs. She apparently had in fact landed a starring role (her first) in some play, but maybe it had not yet started rehearsals? That could explain why she was working at the bar. It was late, close to 10:30pm, and her shift typically ends around 11pm.

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