tagNonConsent/ReluctanceBean Counter Ch. 11

Bean Counter Ch. 11


Monday after Thanksgiving was busy at the office, of course, as everyone tried to make up for time lost to the holiday. The end of the quarter was approaching, after all, and, more importantly, the end of the calendar year. All of our clients were buzzing to get their paperwork complete in time to file taxes, and between that and my new hires, well, I had quite a time trying to get it all done.

By Thursday I had found six decent CPAs, and was down to the support staff. I like hiring, actually, a process most managers hate. I like giving someone deserving a good job, which is why I tend to hire fresh faces instead of picking proven – and more expensive – talent. Most of my new CPAs were fresh from their exams, and none had worked more than a few years. That made them eager and willing to put up with the punishing hours that we older and wiser heads try to avoid. Experience is all very well and good for an established client, but I was anticipating a lot of issues popping up with the new one, issues that would require long hours. Experience is fine, but for something like this I wanted my talent young and hungry.

That didn't leave me a lot of time for play, of course, and so I was only able to schedule time with Mary at lunch (twice I met her in the parking garage downstairs, as my office was too busy) and at night, after I got home and she got off work. None of these episodes was particularly remarkable, just fairly straight-forward blowjobs. With the Christmas season upon us, we didn't have time or energy for much interplay. Heck, they were almost friendly, in a way.

Neither of us was up for discussing her masturbatory performance the other evening, but I think she had crossed some sort of line there. She didn't hesitate now to rub her own crotch while she was sucking me off. I noticed something else, too: not only did Mary seem genuinely happy to see me, but I was a lot calmer and more focused at work.

Why? If you'll pardon the digression, I think it has something to do with the powerful role that sex plays in a man's life. We spend so much of our time worrying about where our next orgasm is coming from, we get distracted from everything else. Even as a married man, there is always the question of whether you can talk your wife into it. We live in constant fear of the typical excuses, from the celebrated "I have a headache" to the dreaded "I just don't feel fresh". We can be as romantic and sweet and loving as any woman could ask, set the mood perfectly, and still lose out to the gossamer whims of femininity. It is, I believe, the basis of a lot of male frustration and anger.

My arrangement with Mary (and the bonus excursions I had enjoyed with Anna and Susan) had given me a certain sexual security that allowed me to focus. I didn't have to worry about where my next BJ was coming from: it was on my schedule. It was a strange, novel feeling for me, and I had come to enjoy it.

In between long hours at the office I had to do Christmas, too. It was a busy time for the usual seasonal reasons, with plenty of shopping for family, friends, and clients to knock out, holiday cards to write and send, invitations to parties and performances to decline or accept, and sundry other festive crap I had to deal with.

One thing I didn't cut back on was my nightly voyeuristic peek into Mary's domestic life. Every night that week I made sure to tune in to watch them get home, argue about money (which happened both more frequently and with more ferocity, as Tim's wages were, indeed, garnished for his defaulted student loan), listen to Mary complain about work, and then watch them have uninspired sex, almost always anal, now.

Tim had kept his word and would not lick or fuck Mary's pussy, although he was quite insistent on getting head almost as often as I did. At this point it had become so routine that she'd usually get into bed on all fours, dutifully lick and suck his cock until it was hard while he stood by the bed, then turn around and present her pre-lubed asshole to him. What followed was usually about six minutes of grunting and puffing followed by an anal cream pie and lights out. It was about as sexually exciting as a Bingo game. Still, I taped as many as I could and sent them on to the amateur website. By the end of the week I had over $1500 in my fictitious PayPal account. All part of my evil plan.

About Wednesday, though, after a fight the previous day in which both insisted the other get a part time job to help with the bills, Mary came home from work all smiles (my sperm still in her teeth, no doubt) and informed Tim that she had gotten a part-time cash-under-the-table gig from a friend of hers who needed catering help for the busy season. Tim was thrilled, of course, having done virtually nothing on his own to increase their income. I was thrilled, too, when she spilled the details.

Mary was going to be a waitress. At the Ironwood Country Club Winter Festival.

Yes, Virginia, there IS a Santa Claus.


Wednesday night's discovery made the rest of the week fly by. I made sure to get a spiffy haircut, splurged on a manicure, and even got a new tux tailored for the occasion, spending about twice as much as I normally do. Anna got in touch with me and agreed to let me drive. It was going to be a happening party.

I picked Anna up at 7:30 – her housekeeper let me in and made me a drink. Anna made her appearance ten minutes later, coming down her ostentatious staircase (like something out of Gone With The Wind, only without the tasteful restraint) dressed to kill in a red sequined gown and a hundred-dollar hairdo. It was strapless and backless and her tits seemed to float in the air of their own accord.

"Wow," was all I could say. "You look yummy!"

"Thank you, sir," she drawled with a smile. "You ready?"

"What do you have in mind?"

"Um . . . the party?"

"What party? Oh! Yeah, that. Sure, let's go."

She smiled appreciatively at my apparent fogginess and let me put her fur coat on her before we got into the Jag. Ironwood was out in the sticks, north of town where most of the new high-end suburbs grew. It was a cold and clear night, big fat moon on the horizon. Part of me wished it was Mary who was all gussied up next to me, but I knew I'd see her soon enough.

Anna was chatty. Especially about my prospects for scoring some strange that evening. She rattled off the stats like a sports announcer.

"Okay, Angelica Tremont is between husbands right now, and not interested in another relationship, but she's horny as hell once you get a few drinks in her – she's your best bet if you want to pull off a quickie in the cloak room. Then there's Mya Bradley-Myers, her husband died two years ago and she's just starting to come out of her shell – absolutely gorgeous, but not a brain in her pretty blonde head.

"Amy Hardee is a ski widow, her hubby's in Aspen right now, and she hates him but not enough to leave the comfort of her mansion just yet – I think she's waiting for a tree to take him out like Sonny Bono. She's hot as hell, and promiscuous as hell, but subtle. Loves to give head, by the way. She's got a code-word, of all the disgustingly quaint things. Simply go up to her and ask if she'd like to see your etchings – yes, she actually says that – and she'll know you've been clued in. It's something she developed in college, don't ask me.

"Rochelle McCloud is the saucy redhead who loves to flirt, but she won't give it up to anyone, so steer clear – no matter how pretty the package, you won't get very far. Vonda Small is married but plays, as long as it's discreet. That bitch Helen Eaton is married but her cunt has drive-through service – don't go there unless you want to catch everything her groundskeeper has. Sandy Lucas is a pretty young thing, just moved to the area, but rumor has it she's been known to step out. That will get you started – I'll have more once we get there." She eyed me slyly. "You think you can handle all of that pussy?"

"Me and my little blue friend," I acknowledged. Viagra rocks.

"Good," she said, wiggling in her seat. "Have fun. Just make sure you save a shot for me. I'm feeling pretty randy tonight myself."

We arrived at the tastefully gaudy entrance of the club (big fat red and gold bows on everything in sight are in for this season, I saw) and I tossed the young valet my keys after he'd helped Anna out of her seat. We made a grand entrance, and turned a few heads as we were announced. I smiled charmingly and escorted her as she made the first rounds. She introduced me as her accountant (I wasn't) and dear, dear friend who came through "at her hour of need" so handsomely. I made sure to flex and tried to look pretty – which is easy in a tux. In fact, any idiot looks good in a tux. See the most recent Bond flick for proof. Whenever we'd stop and chat with a likely prospect, she'd put a hand on my shoulder and introduce me as "her dear, dear friend, who, alas, is suffering through a divorce right now." Not the intro I would have chosen, but Anna is a master of working a room.

After that first circuit, she cut me loose while she gossiped, and I started choosing dance partners.

Let me get this out in the open right up front: I love to dance. Not the "white boy rocks back and forth snapping his fingers and pretending to have rythym" style popular in frat houses everywhere, but real, boy-girl ballroom dancing like they did in the old days. Perhaps that's not very manly in your book, but since I first took "Ballroom Dance" as a PE credit in college, I've loved to get on the floor and push some lovely female around the room. I discovered early on that you can often tell the way a woman fucks by how she dances.

I love them all – a good Vienna waltz (so different from the Lawrence Welk variety that they shouldn't be referred to as the same dance) cha-cha, rhumba, even a polka is fun. And if you do the tango properly, you should have to get married afterwards. I'm good at it, too – but Mary was always reluctant, due to her own insecurities and self-esteem issues. Since she didn't like it so much, and there aren't many opportunities in this day and age, so I hadn't danced since my sister's wedding.

I made up for lost time that night, and it couldn't have been more perfect. I had a virtually endless supply of drop-dead gorgeous women who were eager to dance, and an absolutely kicking orchestra to push the tunes. I did three energetic sets in rapid succession with Rochelle McCloud (shameless flirt – excellent dancer), Angie Tremont (only one drink in her so far, but she was already sold, I could tell) and little Sandy Lucas, who looked very pretty but danced like a sack of potatoes. Still, if a woman is willing to be led, and will smile and look pretty, you can push her around the floor and make it look like she knows what she's doing.

I took a break after that and grabbed a glass of champagne from the bar. I drained it quickly and migrated over to the side where the "real men" had congregated. I knew about a half-dozen of them and one was already a client of mine, Todd Stone, proprietor of Stone's Heavy Equipment Sales And Rentals. He's a big guy with an 8th grade education, and he should have ended up a tobacco farmer like the last three generations of his family. But he saved up for a dealership just in time for the wild development my city enjoyed back in the 1990s, and he still sells a lot of bulldozers. He married a girl who went to Yale and has a house thrice the size of mine. He looked horribly uncomfortable in his tux (he was a visable exception to the James Bond rule) and was slouched over a cheap light beer, but he smiled at me when he saw me and waved me over.

"Bill! Saw you dancin', bud! Didn't think you had it in ya!" he said, his rural roots poking out through his accent.

"It's a great way to meet women," I admitted. "In school, I was one of only three guys in my dance class."

"Well, I won't hold it agin ya," he said, patting me on the shoulder. Then he leaned in closer. "Uh, heard 'bout you an' the missus. Damn shame. You let me know, an' I can get a couple o' my boys go straighten that sonuvabitch right out . . ."

"Thanks," I said, genuinely impressed. Todd and I weren't very close, but you know you have good neighbors when even your casual acquaintances are willing to commit a felony on your behalf. "It sucks, but it is what it is. I got it under control," I assured him. He looked skeptical, but grinned.

"Here, gotta fella I want you to meet . . ."

I spent the next two songs handing out business cards and shaking hands with several new potential clients. My dancing had been noticed by them all, especially my rounds with the redhead, Angelica, and despite their teasing me about how gay I looked, they were all obviously jealous. I laughed at their bad jokes for a while and then got dragged away by Anna, who just had to introduce me to some of her best girlfriends. She did the shoulder thing again while introducing me to Greta, the Austrian wife of a local cat-fish farm entrepreneur.

And then it happened.

"Oh, my, I need some more champagne, where is that waitress—Oh my fucking God! Bill, it's your wife!" Anna nearly shrieked. I turned.

There she was, her face twisted into a horrified expression, her hair in a tight bun, and the tuxedo shirt she wore doing nothing to improve her looks. Mary was barely wearing makeup.

"Bill!" she gasped, in horror, "what are you doing here?"

"Yuletide cheer. I'm Anna's date," I explained simply.

"I . . . I . . ."

"Close your mouth, dear, people are starting to stare," Anna said, quietly. "Mary, Mary . . . I had no idea that things had gotten so bad," she clucked, taking a fresh champagne flute.

"It's just . . . a little something on the . . . side," she said, weakly.

"How embarrassing for you," Anna said, unsympathetically. "To meet your soon-to-be ex-husband at a ball is hard enough . . . to do it when you're the help . . ." she shook her head sadly. "You poor, poor thing. I mean, you aren't an undergraduate any more. Surely you could find—"

"Leave her alone, Anna," I said, quietly looking around to see if we were being overheard. "She's going to have another mouth to feed in a few months. I'm sure the extra money will come in handy . . ."

"I know, I heard, of course – you know how small a town this is – but I never suspected that you had fallen this low."

"It's really not that bad, Anna," Mary murmured. "Just a job, is all."

"Just a job? Darling, you're a servant!" she said, as if she was diagnosing leprosy.

"Just take the goddamn champagne and let me do my job," Mary said through gritted teeth.

"Ease up, Anna," I added, the barest wink from the eye that Mary couldn't see. Anna took the hint – she's a sharp one – and didn't relent.

"Oh, please! To have one of my closest and dearest friends cleaning up other people's food . . . their spit . . . their germs . . . that's just . . . just . . . disgusting!"

"At least no one else recognizes her," I said, intently. Mary looked very uneasy at the mention of spit and germs, and I hoped – for her sake – that she wouldn't experience morning sickness and vomit in the middle of the hall. I wanted her humiliated, true, but not like that. That would have ended my fun way too quickly.

"Oh, you're right about that," Anna nodded. "She just blends in with the help. She doesn't even look like she's been to college, does she? Don't worry dear, your secret's safe with me!" she assured Mary, whose face was bright red with embarrassment. Like hell she wouldn't – before another hour passed, anyone at the party who knew Mary was privy to her fallen estate. And that's just what happened.

Some, like a society bitch who had never liked Mary, Victoria Holley, made a point to aggravate her by asking for unreasonable things from the kitchen. Most, however, simply ignored her altogether while she was around, treating her like a drink-dispensing appliance, and then erupted into fits of catty laughter when she was out of earshot. The game soon got old as the drinks flowed, and they turned their attention to other gossip, but the damage was done. Mary was thoroughly mortified.

I started a six-song dance set, then, asking five different women to dance and then putting them through their paces. Surprisingly, a matronly woman named Beverly Calderone proved to be the best, gliding through an energetic Strauss waltz like she had invented it, then followed with a boisterous polka that made me dizzy. After every song I was besieged by women who wanted to dance. I looked over at Mary during one episode where two lovely ladies were literally arguing over who got me next, and was gratified to see her face contorted in jealousy.

At the end of my set I knew it was time to take things up a notch. I sidled up to Angelica Tremont, who was well into her third or fourth glass of champagne, and invited her outside for a breath of fresh air. She nodded knowingly and grabbed her pocketbook. She was a fine figure of a woman, shapely without being plump, and was stuffed into a gorgeous purple gown – pardon me, it was "violet and lavender". We went out to the scenic gardens overlooking the golf course and she lit up a cigarette.

"Want one?" she asked, offering me her pack.

"I rarely smoke," I answered. "Only after sex, really."

She studied me, a dreamy but calculating expression on her face. "Want one?" she repeated, slyly.

"In a minute," I answered my intentions clear.

"Darling, it had better take slightly longer than a minute," she breathed. "Where?"

"It's your club," I shrugged. "You tell me."

"Follow me," she said, leading me down the ornate concrete steps to a path that disappeared around the building.

Ironwood, like most country clubs, is a favorite venue for weddings. In addition to the large banquet halls and kitchen facilities, it also has a very scenic, picturesque outdoor garden space perfect for wedding ceremonies. There was a goldfish pond, some ornamental shrubberies, even a few abstract topiaries. Angelica led me down the slate walkway to the far end of the garden and into a tiny sheltered area. I looked around, but all was darkness. We couldn't be seen.

"Aren't you afraid of getting busted by the staff?" I inquired.

"I'm on the fucking board," she replied, evenly. "Anyone who busted me would lose their job. Are you going to fuck me, or what?" she asked, a bit of the slut coming out.

"Yep," I assured her, taking her cigarette away from her and flicking it into the fish pond. "I'm going to fuck you." I took her into my arms and we made out passionately for several blissful minutes while I thoroughly felt her up.

It was strange – this was really the first sexual experience that I'd had that wasn't connected with Mary in some way, and for a moment I was transported back to my hungry wolf bachelor days. As I traced her nipples through her dress, and nuzzled her neck, her hand sought out my fly and felt my rapidly-growing bulge.

"Oh, my," she said, approvingly.

"I feel like a kid making out at prom," I confided to her with a manly giggle.

"You don't feel like a kid to me," she whispered, unzipping my fly. At the same time, I brought my hand up under her skirt and cupped her crotch, which I found warm and wet. She wasn't wearing panties, and a good deal of her shapely leg was exposed to the mild winter night. You've got to love winter in the South – it was a balmy sixty degrees in December. Her pussy was considerably hotter, as I found when I slid my finger inside.

We didn't waste any time – I turned her around, hiked up her skirt, and positioned my cock at the entrance of her furry nest. It took a few wiggles to get it lined up properly, and then I slid every inch deep inside of her in one concerted thrust.

"Oh, yes," she hissed as she felt me bottom out. "That's the stuff!" I leaned over and nuzzled her ear and cupped her tits with my hands as my groin began long, slow, deep thrusts. She started moaning, deep in her throat, as my rigid prick ravaged her delicate and thoroughly drenched folds. Her nipples were so hard I thought they would pop through her dress.

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