Tiffany the Trophy Wife

I decided on a beige sweater that I left unbuttoned, I put my hair in a French twist. I made sure to pull my stockings up to just below my ass cheeks; I didn't want to show my stocking tops accidentally. I was trying to look professional.

I arrived early, getting plenty of looks from the men in the hallways. The office was beautiful, taking up two floors in the largest building downtown.

I sat in the hallway outside H.R. to fill out my application. I pretended to be engrossed in the paperwork; if I saw a man approaching me, I hitched my hem up a little, exposing my thigh and the beginning of my stocking tops. It was amazing. I noticed the same men walking past me numerous times; this would be easy.

His secretary called me in; she was gorgeous and looked me over, sizing up the competition.

Mr. Vander looked me over like a piece of meat. He motioned for me to sit down, showing great interest in my legs as my dress rode up. As he turned away, I pulled up my dress, exposing my stocking tops and blue garter straps. I was learning that a short skirt gets much attention, especially if you keep tugging at the hem. He stared at my stockings, not trying to hide it.

"I think I can do better than a receptionist, Miss Wantz; I can put you with one of the senior partners, Roger Wills. His secretary is on medical leave."

"I'll do my best, Mr. Vander."

"I'm sure you will do whatever you're told, Tiffany."

While patting me on the shoulder, his hand brushed against my boobs. I was in.

I had lied about what courses I had taken in school. I hoped they wouldn't check. His secretary took me to Roger's office. While walking, she turned to me.

"With your legs and boobs, you will work out fine," she laughed.

"Roger Wills is a leg man. Keep your dresses short, and you'll get whatever you want."

Roger turned out to be soft-spoken and helpful. I did catch him checking my legs out. I took her advice and kept my hem well above my knees.

When I took dictation, he would walk around the room, coming up behind me and looking down at my boobs. He wasn't obvious, but I noticed that on days I wore a tight skirt, he asked me to get files on low shelves.

I made sure to reveal my stockings and garter clasps without acting like a slut. Once, when I was reading back a letter, I crossed my legs, inching my skirt up, exposing my fully expanded stocking tops, then uncrossing them, leaving my nylons exposed. I took his heavy breathing as proof that he liked what he saw.

He was going through his third divorce. This kept him from making any advances on me. I know I'm conceited, but any man would have tried something by now. I had worked with him for nearly six months and nothing.

It was the beginning of December, and the Christmas party was coming. His divorce was final, and I was waiting for him to make a move.

My starting time was nine o'clock, with Roger arriving around ten. I pulled out all of my weapons.

My favorite is a tight black skirt, a starched white blouse, shiny black heels, and a black satin choker. My skirt was so tight that the outline of my garter straps was visible, as well as the garter clasp. I had his coffee ready. Well, it worked; he took one look at me and asked me if I was free for dinner. Of course, I said yes.

That began a non-stop romance. He liked my legs, and I always wore stockings, various waist cinchers, and lacy corsets.

Roger gave me presents every week. I had never had so much jewelry in my life.

We talked, and he wanted me to move in with him and get married as soon as possible.

I decided it was best for me to quit since I was moving into his house. He agreed and started me on a generous allowance.

None of his friends approved of me. They thought I was a gold digger; they were smarter than I thought. The only thing on my mind was to get a ring on my finger. He was easy to control. I gave him as many blowjobs as he desired. And I was waiting for him every night in my stockings, and that's when I had my first run-in with his son.

Junior was his only son, a product of his first marriage. His mother died of cancer. He resented all of his stepmothers, but especially me. The wedding was two weeks away, and I wanted to make peace with him. But never had the opportunity.

I didn't think Junior was home, and I put on a dark blue corset and sheer blue stockings to surprise Roger. I heard his car door slam and headed down the stairs in my underwear to greet him. When out of the kitchen walked his son with a friend. They stopped dead in their tracks; I froze, then turned and tried to run up the stairs in my heels, only a thong covering my ass with my stockings pulled tight. My face burned as I heard him say,

"That whore won't last a year."

Maybe he was right, but I would make it worth my while.

Roger came upstairs, and when he opened the bedroom door, I was waiting on my knees with my hands behind my back. My tits thrust out, and my stocking tops fully expanded.

While I worked trying to get him hard. I decided not to tell him what his son had said. Finally, after fifteen minutes, his semi-hard wrinkled cock dribbled a few drops of cum in my mouth.

I dreamed of a man capable of drenching my face in cum and then making me scoop it off my face and swallow it, at the same time slapping my tits.

The wedding was decidedly small, just Roger, me, and two witnesses.

We were married by a judge with whom he went to law school. Then, we drove to New York for a two-week honeymoon.

I thought our wedding night was going to be an exercise in futility. But I was still going to do my part to have sex. I wore a white satin waist cincher with a matching bra and panties. The bra barely covered my pink nipples, with my boobs overflowing the top and sides. White stockings and heels completed my outfit. I slipped into a white floor-length silk robe and adjusted a white bow in my hair. He was sitting in a chair waiting for me. I walked up to him, saying.

"It's time to unwrap your present."

With cold, trembling hands, he untied my robe and eased it from my shoulders, stopping at my waist. Burying his head in my cleavage. He slobbered on my exposed nipples, biting them a little too hard. He smiled when I cried out. Then he dropped my robe to the floor. He sat back, looking at me in my underwear.

"You're gorgeous; girls like you get anything they want. And you think you deserve it. You probably think that at nineteen, you are set for life. But soon, you'll find out what it will cost you."

He grabbed me, slapping me on my ass. It was the first time he ever did that. And what an odd thing to say on your wedding night, I thought. But he had been drinking, and I hoped it wouldn't get worse.

"You never asked me why I got a divorce from two beautiful young women. They were happy to leave our marriage and didn't ask for alimony."

I'm glad I had a few drinks. I felt scared.

He stood up quickly and produced a pair of handcuffs, which he used, cuffing my hands behind my back. Fear washed over me.

"What the hell are you doing? Take them off I don't like this."

I was afraid of him. I had never seen him drink so much. He had a look on his face that I hadn't seen before. He seemed evil. Then, calmly, he reached into his suitcase and pulled out a riding crop. Pushing me to the floor, bending me over the bed with my ass in the air. My stockings and garter straps framed my ass cheeks. I was panicking and started to bargain with him.

"Let me go. What's the matter with you? You can dissolve the marriage; I don't care; just let me go."

"Unless you're going to walk home, you're mine to do what I want. It's a family tradition on the wedding night to show the bride who's boss."

With that, he took a full swing, the crop hitting both my ass cheeks. I lifted one leg, balancing on one of my heels. If he had stopped now, it would have been fine; the pain was delicious. But he didn't. I lost count after five. I was babbling, begging him to stop. Tears were running down my face. My ass was on fire.

"Had enough, Tiffany?"

"Oh yes, please, no more, please. I'll do anything else!"

"Careful what you wish for, CUNT!"

He laughed as he probed my virgin ass hole with the handle of the crop. He smiled,

"Do you think I believe you fell in love with me and not my money?"

"I do love you. Just let me go, and I'll prove it."

"The only thing you're going to prove is how much pain you can take."

With that, he squirted some lube on my tender asshole and eased the handle in slightly. The only sound was my moaning for him to stop. He slid it in further, starting a sawing motion, chuckling,

"You've got a tight ass Tiffany, but we'll fix that.

" He jabbed me a little, making me cry out.

"Before long, you'll learn how to obey."

I screamed as he slid it in further; the pain was intense, and I was close to blacking out. My only thoughts going through my head were, how did I get in this mess?

He kept it up until he got bored of my crying and pleading to stop.

"Don't worry, Tiffany, we have two weeks to discipline you." Then he pushed me onto the floor, leaving me handcuffed. He stood over me. His dick was the hardest he had ever been. It didn't take long I felt his cum dripping on my face. When he finished, he got into bed—and turned the TV on. I was afraid to say anything, not knowing what might set him off.

Finally exhausted from fear and pain, I drifted off to sleep, his cum drying on my face.