Alison's Fall

My entry for the 2021 Valentine's Day contest.

This is a new type of story for me, at least in terms of the subject matter. A second chapter is certainly possible -- you'll see I leave things very open -- but it depends on whether people think it works for them. Sometimes experiments in new areas pay off. Sometimes... not so much. Votes and comments will decide. Thanks.

When she looked back, she thought it was probably the flowers that made up her mind.

Maybe it would have happened anyway. That's certainly what Steven said. He said it with a total, complete confidence that was one of the things she loved about him.

**

It had started -- properly started -- three months ago.

It had been Valentine's Day. For once all the kids were home. Rachel, just turned eighteen. Amy, her older sister, nearly twenty now. And her darling boy Blake, so good looking at twenty-two. He must be driving the college girls crazy, she'd thought, watching him in his tight t-shirt as he got himself a drink from the fridge.

Was it her imagination, or had he been checking out his sisters discreetly that night? They'd certainly been wearing eye-catching outfits, Rachel in a tight green dress that was low cut and pushed her breasts upwards and outwards; Amy, always a little more diffident, was wearing jeans and a loose top that kept falling open around the neck and arms. Maybe he was. Or maybe it was just the way she seemed to think about everything now. Every room she was in, every person she saw, it was if she had to consider every sexual possibility and combination.

The girls were beautiful, no question. She'd certainly been complimented on them all more than once. Friends of her husband had been checking out Rachel and Amy for years, and she'd never minded that. For that matter, she'd had more than a few discreet overtures from those same men as well. One of them had tiresomely insisted on turning up at inconvenient times for a few weeks to "borrow some tools", knowing full well that Lewis wouldn't be home. But she'd simply smiled and said to help himself from the shed and then shut the door firmly on his hopeful face.

Lewis always made a special effort on Valentine's Day, and she'd always kissed him and hugged him and her eyes would well up at the elaborate, thoughtful message he'd write in the card for her. He always made a special effort, and she always hated it. He was so goddamned... reverent about her. Praising her, telling her how lucky he was to have her, that she made him the happiest man in the world. It made her want to scream sometimes.

That night, after the kids had gone their separate ways to various friends' houses and parties and mysterious assignations known only as "going out", she and Lewis had made love. In the early years of their marriage, like most young couples, they'd screwed pretty much all the time. She'd gotten pregnant early with Blake when she was aged just twenty, and she was glad now they'd had their kids young. For forty-two she thought she still looked pretty damned good. After twenty plus years of marriage, she still made Lewis hard, that was for sure. But they only fucked occasionally now. Perhaps a few times a month, if that.

She'd lain there underneath him, staring at the ceiling and occasionally remembering to stir and make a noise and act enthused. She wasn't completely indifferent, having a cock in you was always a good thing, right? But she was restless. It was like she was watching herself, lying there, the years passing, the same old routine, forever and ever... it made her want to cry out with fury.

Lewis was getting close now, she could feel it, and she sighed and murmured encouragingly. From her vantage point under her straining husband she could just see the flowers he'd bought sitting on the bedroom table. As she watched a petal fell from one of them and settled onto the floor. Dying already, she thought. They're damn well dying already.

Just a few more moments and Lewis would be done. She wasn't close herself, but perhaps there was still time. Unlikely though. The only way she could get herself off now was if she reached right back into the darkest corners of her mind, that place she only dared to go sometimes. Memories of when she was the same age that Rachel was now. Coming home and curling up on the couch... but not alone. His hands snaking around her. The pressure of him against her ass. Her nipples hardening... and then everything that followed...

God, it was such a good, dirty memory, one she'd never told anybody... she was always appalled but it always worked for her. She could feel herself starting to tingle and tighten. Hell yes. Maybe not such a bad Valentine's Day fuck after all.

Then Lewis came heavily inside her, crying out, the same noises he always made, and she could have shouted in frustration. Already she could feel the prospects of her own orgasm scuttling away, taunting her as they retreated. All that was left was that wet, slippery, aching emptiness as Lewis pulled himself out of her, kissing her softly and thanking her.

Don't fucking thank me, she wanted to snap at him. Don't you fucking dare thank me.

Then he was padding off to the bathroom to clean himself up. He would return with some wet sponges and would clean her gently. He always did, it was part of their ritual. He thought she liked it. He had no idea she wanted to tell him to just leave his cum there, leave it dribbling out of her and drying on the inside of her thighs. Treat me like a fucking slut, she wanted to tell him. Just once. I want to be a dirty whore who sleeps with dried cum on her legs. But she knew she'd never say that.

As she listened to Lewis in the bathroom she glanced over again at the flowers. Half a dozen more petals were on the floor.

**

On the train to work the following morning she thought about the day ahead. Particularly the project meeting at 11, when Steven would be there. She'd made a special effort that day, an extra low-cut top that was right on the borderline for what was considered acceptable at work but she didn't care. Let them look at my tits, she thought. Even now, I have the best tits in my family. Rachel's might be the firm, perky C cups that the luckiest teens were blessed with, and poor Amy didn't yet know that the smaller, boyish A/B cups that she hated so much were actually just what lots of men preferred -- but Alison's own, classic, full, heavy D sized beauties-- she wouldn't swap those with anybody.

I want Steven to look at my tits today, she thought. As much as he wants. I hope he goes home and jerks off about them.

The idea pleased her. She and Steven had been flirting for a while now, very discreet, always careful that nobody else could overhear. He was a gentleman, very smart, so smart she could sense he held the rest of them in a quietly amused contempt. But she liked that. Occasionally she would catch him looking at her appraisingly. He would never take his eyes away hurriedly and nervously, as so many other men did. He would hold her gaze for a few moments, smile that enigmatic smile of his, then turn his attention elsewhere. And she'd find she'd been holding her breath that whole time.

He was older than her, by about ten years. He wasn't classically handsome, but he was in good shape for a man of that age and he carried himself with a confidence that made everybody on the team defer to him. She'd lost count of the number of times that they'd had long, drawn-out rambling discussions as to whether the best way to resolve a problem was to do A, B or C, and then Steven would quietly interrupt, clearly state which option was the best and why, and it would all somehow magically be agreed. Even the younger, brasher men on the team, normally those who might be difficult, would fall in line once Steven had passed judgement.

The project team met once a week, usually finishing just before lunch. Several months previously Steven had somehow appeared beside her as she'd gathered up her things and asked her if she was free for lunch. She hadn't been, as it happened, and said so, and he smiled and said of course.

"Perhaps another time?" she'd stammered. God, it was just lunch. Why did she feel herself blushing?

"Perhaps," he'd agreed. "I do think lunch with you would be... very enjoyable."

God, how did anybody manage to get so much subtext into the word "lunch"?

But perhaps that was just her fevered imagination. It probably was just lunch. People who worked together had lunch all the time. No big deal.

But....

"I do think lunch with you would be very enjoyable."

That was what his mouth was saying.

"I do think fucking you would be very enjoyable."

That's what his eyes were saying. She was sure of it.

No harm in a bit of office flirting, she told herself as the train approached the station. It makes us all feel alive. It's not like I'm actually going to do anything about it.

The next week she'd waited for him to ask her again, and had been strangely crushed when he'd just sauntered out without a backward glance at her. Well, he was probably busy.

The week after that he'd ignored her as well, which annoyed her.

The week after that she'd manoeuvred herself beside him on the way out.

"We never did have that lunch, did we?" she'd said brightly.

He'd paused, looked at her. "No. We never did." He waited for a few moments for a few straggling colleagues to pass them, leaving them alone.

"Lunch is a big commitment, Alison. You have to be sure about it."

Then he'd smiled, and walked off.

God, he was so ARROGANT, she'd thought angrily. There was no question what he was talking about now. Fuck him and his fucking "lunch".

But that night, finding herself with half an hour alone, she'd taken a long shower and brought herself to orgasm. Thinking about the way he looked at her when he'd said that. Thinking about being on her knees, looking up at him, as he ordered her to take his cock in her mouth.

**

The meeting was cancelled. Some of the project team had gone away on a client visit and some bad weather had delayed their return journey. So, no project meeting. No opportunities to resume their flirting. Or whatever it was. She stared at her computer screen, going through the motions of work but feeling desolate.

"Ready Alison?"

She looked up, startled. Steven was standing by her desk.

"No meeting today," she said. "It was cancelled."

"I know. But we should meet," he said. "Just us. I'm sure it would be beneficial."

"Oh... yes, OK."

"I've booked a room."

For a moment she thought he meant a hotel room, and her heart jolted. Yes, she thought. Take me to a hotel and fuck me.

"Let's go."

She realised he meant a meeting room, and was surprised by how disappointed she felt. She trailed after him, feeling rather pathetic in her short skirt and her ridiculous top.

The meeting room was of one the smaller ones, a simple round table with four seats at the corner of the building. There was a noisy meeting going on next door, separated from them by glass which was frosted in the centre but clear at the top and bottom, something Alison had never understood. Who wanted to see people's feet and the tops of their heads from the next room?

Steven went in ahead of her -- some men would have held the door for her and let her go in first, but it felt entirely right that she should follow behind him. She trailed in, and shut the door.

Steven took a seat on the far side of the room and she pulled out the chair opposite him.

"No," he said. "Stay standing please."

His voice was firm and authoritative. She hesitated, looking at him. He looked back at her coolly, the faint trace of a smile on his lips.

"You want me to stand?"

"Yes."

"Er.... Why?"

"So I can look at you, Alison. You're looking particularly pretty today, thank you, and since you made an effort for me it's only right I should get some time to appreciate you, don't you think?"

She thought about protesting, of course she hadn't made an effort for him. But she knew she had, and somehow he knew that, and he knew she knew that he knew... it made her head spin. God, was she really that transparent?

"Stand up straighter, please."

Damn it, surely that was going a bit too far, giving her orders like that? But she found herself straightening herself up.

"Yes, that pushes out your lovely breasts. You do have nice, big firm breasts, Alison."

Jesus H Christ! She could get him fired for that. Nobody should say things like that, not at work. This wasn't the 1960s. That was outrageous. It might be his word against hers but she could turn around right now, walk out the door, go up to HR, issue a complaint. He'd be gone by the end of the day.

"I can see your nipples are getting harder. Shall I turn the air con off, Alison?" He pretended to be puzzled. "Oh... the air con is off already. And it feels quite warm in here, doesn't it?"

She nodded, still unable to speak.

"I haven't been able to make up my mind about you, Alison." His face was thoughtful.

"You're absolutely lovely, no question. And... so much about you seems exactly what I'm looking for."

His praise pleased her. Part of her was still screaming to get the hell out, this was so wrong, this blatant appraising of her, like she was a piece of meat in a butcher's shop. But what did he mean, he couldn't make his mind up? What was wrong with her?

"But if we do this... I shall expect total obedience."

That made her gasp out loud, so loud she was sure the people in the next room must hear her. She expected to see quizzical faces peering over the frosted panels. Surely they'd see something was wrong, one of them would come in, ask if everything was ok, and then this would all be over...

But nobody seemed to have heard. The meeting next door carried on. She could hear somebody faintly talking about projected sales growth for the next quarter.

"Are you capable of total obedience, Alison?"

She looked at him, stricken. Of course, she couldn't give him total obedience, what modern woman would agree to that? It wasn't the Middle Ages...

"Good."

What? Had she... somehow... just nodded at him?

"I will just need you to prove that for me now, please. Show me your breasts. Just for a second, but show them to me now. If we're quick, nobody will see."

She couldn't do that. Not here. Not at work. Not in a meeting room with a dozen people next door, the other side of some glass...

She reached up and pulled her top down. Her breasts, still encased in a lacy black bra, popped out. Surely that was enough?

"No. Your breasts. Not your bra." He sounded irritable, and that tone of voice made her quail. She hurriedly scooped out the fleshy globes so they hung down, exposed to the air. Her nipples felt painfully hard.

"Lovely." He rose and came around the table towards her. He took a breast in each hand and slowly squeezed each nipple between his fingers. The pain was subtle and excruciating and wonderful. She almost sobbed when he stopped.

"I will text you the hotel and room number in the next half hour. I will expect to see you there within fifteen minutes of my message. If you're late, this is all over. Do you understand?"

Again, she nodded dumbly. No sign of her vocal cords ever working again, it seemed.

And then he was gone, striding off down the corridor leaving the door open behind him. For a few moments she just stood there, dazed. Then she looked down at herself. Her breasts hung free, their tops covered in the freckles that Lewis always said he loved so much. She mechanically reinserted them into her bra and adjusted her top. Then she made her way back to her desk, sure that everyone must be looking at her and knowing exactly what had just happened. But no... nobody seemed to know about her humiliation. How appallingly she'd just been treated. She wanted to cry.

Back at her desk she slumped and stared at her locked computer screen. Something was wrong with her chair. Had somebody spilt something on it?

No. She realised she was just soaking wet. It must be soaking through her skirt. Thank god it was black, it might not to be too noticeable.

What had just happened? She couldn't quite believe it -- it felt like a dream. Or a nightmare. She wasn't sure. No way she going to the hotel though. This had gone quite far enough already.

She stared at her phone. Was he really going to text her the room number and expect her to just trot over there and let him fuck her?

She remembered his last words.

If you're late, this is all over. Do you understand?

She knew he meant this completely. Well, tough luck buster, she thought. It IS all over. And count yourself lucky I don't report you and get your ass thrown out of the building and possibly into jail.

Her phone lay silent on her desk.

Of course, he wasn't going to text her. This was just some weird power game he liked to play. OK, part of her had obviously liked it -- her sodden underwear was a testament to that -- but it ended right now. If she wanted to go home later and maybe fantasise a little about what might have been, well that was just fine. Lots of women had fantasy lives. Maybe she could persuade Lewis to be a bit more dominant, treat her more like a slut, just sometimes. Sometimes women just want to be told what to do, she thought. Lewis could do that, if she asked him. Just fuck me and use me, Lewis.

But she could picture his puzzlement and embarrassment. Such behaviour was completely alien to him. It would never work. He was a flowers and chocolates guy to the core.

Her phone still lay there, taunting her. Perhaps even now he was tipping the bellboy, reaching into his pocket, taking out his phone, scrolling through his contacts, finding her name, tapping out the hotel name, the room number...

Her phone buzzed.

517. The Western.

**

The hotel was one that was close to the office, too close really, there was a risk that some work colleague would see her racing in there and would wonder just what was so urgent.

Close to work, but still she found herself hurrying. Fifteen minutes wasn't long at all, the wait for the lift down had been excruciating and then in the lobby somebody she knew had tried to engage her in conversation and she'd had to cut them short, pleading a family emergency. Family emergency, she thought. I need to go and get fucked by my co-worker, that's the emergency.

Almost running her way towards the hotel, zig zagging through the infuriating pedestrians and tourists. Into the hotel and towards the lifts. She checked her phone. The message had arrived at 12.27. It was 12.39 now.

Surely there'd be an elevator ready to go? Dammit! What kind of fucking useless hotel was this? Would the stairs be quicker? No, their room - "their" room... Jesus... already she was thinking of it as "their room" - was on the fifth floor. She was in good shape but she wasn't an athlete.

Finally an elevator pinged its doors open. She dived in, hammered the button for the fifth floor. The doors started to close, then opened again as an elderly couple ambled apologetically into the lift, towing some suitcases on wheels behind them.

"What floor?" asked Alison tightly.

"What floor is it, dear?"

The man fumbled in his pocket. "Let me just check..."

They only told you your room A MINUTE AGO YOU USELESS OLD FUCK. HOW CAN YOU NOT FUCKING REMEMBER?

"Eight," said the man finally, holding the card out at arm's length.

Alison stared at him in fury. "There's only seven floors here!"

They both looked taken aback at her naked hostility. The man peered again. "Sorry... that's a three, I think."

Fine. They were going to three. She pressed the button as hard as she could and the doors began to close again.

I swear if anybody else tries to get in here now I'm going to fucking...