I had been invited by my boss to dinner at his home. Marek Jablonsky was a paunchy, well-set man in his late forties, sort of overweight, a non-nonsense character who had a constant disapproving frown on his face. He was your typical ill-bred working class lout who enjoyed making others squirm with his offending comments. He hated everyone and thought everyone was a complete asshole. And to make matters worse he was a drunk. He had a bottle of Vodka in his office and made sure that he never ran out of it. It was my job to see that he didn't. He was usually fairly stewed yet surprisingly able to run his business. Yet at certain times, when he drank himself into oblivion, he couldn't function at all and let me run things. Then, when he woke up, he was completely oblivious to what had happened the day before. The only thing he doted on was his wife. She was a good cook and kept the house tidy. The only complaint her had about her that she yet to give him a son. And he really sobbed about that! He made me sick the way he babbled on about her, especially when he was well tanked.
Donna Jablonsky, a petite and slender creature as demure and timid as a church mouse, quietly served the evening meal. She flitted nervously about the table as she placed the plates, one eye always on her husband who had already consumed half a dozen beers. She knew what he was like when he was drunk and she seemed a little edgy. Like her husband she was Polish. Yet he was a second generation Pole and she, although her English was good, was not and still had her accent. He had met her while visiting his hometown of Gdansk, married her and brought her back with him. This was about three years ago. I don't know what in the world made her marry this drunken slob.
She was many years Jablonskynksy's junior and couldn't have been more than thirty. I was suddenly astonished that my boss's wife was actually quite good-looking. I had met her on several previous occasions and never gave her a second look. It had been winter during these encounters and she had been completely obscured by a thick, dark fur coat and scarf. She seemed the mousy type, very short and nondescript and I hardly paid her any attention. This was the first time I had seen her without a coat and suddenly couldn't keep my eyes off her.
Although she was prancing about on two-inch heels it was evident that without them she was rather short, about 5'1" and very, very slim. Borderline skinny was perhaps a better description. She had small, delicate hands with breakable wrists and slender arms. She had small, frail shoulders, had narrow hips, a small waist and straight and slender legs. Yet her fragile and slim body was nonetheless surprisingly rather well proportioned. Oh, the curves were there. And what curves! She had the smallest waist I had ever seen----I could have easily clasped both hands around it so that my fingers touched! The narrow waist naturally amplified her firm buttocks and well-toned hips and was what gave her that waspish, hourglass figure. I suppose that this exceptional narrow waist was what leant her that slim and fragile look whereas without it she'd have been as plain and straight as a garden rake. But the real eye-popping features on her slim body though, besides that tiny waist, were her breasts. She had an amazing set of firm hooters jutting out from her, full and perky ones that drilled through her dark sweater like tent poles, so firm and pointy that you could poke your eyes out. Their firmness and forward-thrusting nature made me wonder if they were real. Either that or she had to be wearing one hell of a padded support bra! It was unbelievable. No doubt about it. Donna Jablonsky had to have had the slimmest, most forward-heaving torpedo-shaped teats I've ever seen inside the cups of a mere 32 bra! A 32 (or less) was obvious, as she was very slim. The cup size, however, was hard to estimate. A D-cup? Maybe even bigger. Man, they were sticking out as if she'd shoved light bulbs under her top! It was quite a view!
She had jet-black hair, silky smooth and straight, the overall length falling just a little past her shoulders. The bangs were even and the ends curled inwards a bit. She had a pale skin tone, large green Bambi eyes and a small and pouting mouth with real thick lips. What a doll! She was definitely the feminine type. Tonight she was wearing a silky-thin wrap-around skirt that fell just past the knees, a smoky charcoal with a faint hue of red and gold floral patterns. I could make out her slim thighs through the diaphanous material. Over that she was wearing a finely knit black cardigan with a gold trim down the buttoned front. A silky scarf that sort of matched the thin skirt was draped over her left shoulder, the tied ends dangling loosely between her breasts. And those firm torpedo-shaped boobs of hers really pushed against that black cardigan, lifting it away from her body. It was a short cardigan and at certain times, like when she bent over the table, it slipped up her back and showed a lot of skin and the elastic waistline of the dark skirt. I was suddenly quite sexually stirred. She was elegant and quite charming. And she took care to look presentable. The fingernails were long and finely manicured, painted mauve, and from her right wrist dangled a narrow, gold chain bracelet festooned with numerous tear drop ornaments that chimed and clanged whenever she moved. It was no wonder that Jablonsky thought the world of her! She was quite the cute, little package!
This fragile and delicate physique of hers had an amazing virginal appeal----the slim and short stature of a child with the fully developed contours of a mature woman. She had the kind of ultra feminine innocence that made a man---any man---feel that only he was man enough to make her shriek and squawk like a virgin! And I admit that I suddenly entertained thoughts that would have made a whore blush!
After the dinner table was cleared, the wife dutifully produced a bottle of Vodka and a deck of playing cards. Poker was the game of choice. I knew that Jablonsky was a high roller and that a lot of cash could either be won or lost. It could go either way. I wondered what kind of a player he was, considering the fact that he was intent to drink himself silly again.
And so we started to play. Donna slipped into an easy chair and started to work on something that looked like a blanket. Her knitting needles echoed through the room like castanets. I stole a peek at her while Jablonsky studied his cards. She was sitting there, legs crossed, the thin skirt draped high over her raised knee, showing me a fair amount of slender ankle. The foot bobbed lazily up and down, the dark slipper-like pump dangling to and fro. I could notice her black sweater lifting and falling as she moved her knitting needles back and forth, her firm breasts pushing so forcibly against it so that I was able to make out the pointed tips. Yum, yum.
Two hours went by. The stakes were surprisingly high and already Jablonsky had lost close to two thousand dollars. He was foolish to bet large amounts on every hand, loosing it at every round. I was damn lucky. Within two hours I had doubled my winnings and was now bleeding him dry. Jablonsky stared at his hand. I had just raised him one thousand dollars. I had four Jacks and I knew that he couldn't possibly have a better hand. Sweat was pouring down his forehead. He was already extremely drunk, lisped and dribbled saliva when he spoke. "Shit! My f-first good hand and I g-got nothing to meet your bet," he lamented with a stutter. His eyes were glazed. "I'm gonna nail you, b-boy! This is a damn good hand! But I ain't got no money. D'you accept the television set? It's a big screen---worth h-hundreds."
I shook my head. "No. I got one." Jablonsky brushed back his hair and sighed. "Okay. H-how about my BMW? It's a f-few years old but it's still g-good."
"No. I don't want that old rust bucket." He made a face at me and stared at his hand again while I turned slowly to have a look at his wife. Donna's head had fallen against the side of the armchair and she was fast asleep. Looking at her shapely legs, the small hips and those pointed breasts gently rising and falling suddenly gave me a wicked idea. I turned, placed my hand face down on the table and stared at him. "I'll accept your wife," I said matter of factly. "Give me your wife for one night. She looks like she'd be loads of fun in the sack."
Jablonsky gazed at me drunkenly. "W-what? Are you nuts?"
I shrugged. "So? She's about the only thing of value you got right now. You either put her up or you fold. It's your choice. I just raised you a grand----and you haven't got any money. I'll accept her. Nothing else. Or I can simply take these nine grand here and walk away. Do you want to throw all that money away because of some stupid principal?"
"No!" He rifled through his hand with a crazed leer. "Shit! Y-your bluffing. N-nobody can have a hand like mine! I got you by the balls!" He stared at me with a stupid expression. He was completely blitzed! I shook my head. "Nope. I got you by the balls, Marek. I raised you a grand. You either meet that or the pot is mine. Throw in your wife or I walk. It's your call."
"I can't g-give you my w-wife! You're crazy," he stammered and looked at me with a horrified expression. "She's no slut! I won't allow it! Take the f-fucking TV!"
I shook my head. "No! I want your wife's tight cunt! I got a great, whopping sausage that's just going to make her squeal!" He stared at me, shocked at my filthy outburst. I knew that by tomorrow he would have forgotten the whole thing. His wife wouldn't----I still had to work out how I would guarantee her silence. "Come on! Nine grand! Do you want to admit that I've a better hand? What will it be?"
Jablonsky stared drunkenly at his hand again. He mopped his forehead and took another swig at his Vodka. "Shit! Y-you're a real fucking asshole, d'you know that?" He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and burped. He gazed over at his wife's inert form slouched in the armchair and scratched the back of his head. "Fuck it! You're g-gonna loose anyway. You can't p-possibly have a b-better hand. Okay, asshole. Y-you're on. My w-wife against your t-thousand dollars. Show me your d-damn cards!"
He threw his cards down, exposing three Aces and a pair of fives. I smiled slowly and plopped down my hand with the four Jacks. Man, you should have seen his face!
He shot to his feet with a loud cry and almost knocked over the table with his fat gut. "No!" Surprisingly his loud outburst had not woken his sleeping wife. He raised his fist and glared at me. "Get the fuck out of m-my house, asshole! Take the d-damn cash, but y-you're not laying a finger on my w-wife. Out!"
"Okay, okay." I made a gesture of defeat and scooped up the money. He leaned drunkenly against the wall and watched me through filmy eyes. I spun around quickly and drove my fist into his flabby stomach. He grunted and fell to his knees. "Nobody whelches on Marcus Hardy and gets away with it," I hissed in his ear. I grabbed his shirt collar and lifted him to his feet. "We had a deal. I intend to collect my debt." He was almost unconscious, babbling incoherently and I sort of guided him, half dragged him around the table. I faced a chair into the livingroom and plopped him into it. He struggled but I gave him a solid clout across the back of the head. Now he was seeing stars twice fold! I removed his tie and cut it in half, then tied his wrists to the armrests. He gazed at me with a dazed expression. "What the f-fuck?"
I nodded. "You're going to watch me maul your wife, you drunken piece of shit." It was the weekend and I had lots of time. All I had to do was to periodically pour some booze down his throat to keep him in a constant state of drunkenness so that he wouldn't remember a thing the following Monday morning. I was fortunate that they lived in a posh neighborhood where the nearest house was hundreds of yards away. Nobody was going to hear her screams! "I'm going to make your little timid mouse shriek and squeal all night. You're going to watch the fuck feast of the century!" I grabbed his handkerchief and stuffed it in his mouth. All he could do was utter muffled groans.
Donna Jablonsky stirred. I turned and noticed how she was rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "What's going on?" she mumbled and straightened herself in her armchair. The knitting needles and the piece she'd been working on cluttered to the floor. She gazed at me with a puzzled expression, then frowned as she caught sight of her husband bound and gagged. "Has he been ranting again?" she asked as she rose to her feet. She turned, gathered the knitting off the floor, displaying her small and firm rump to me with the thin and flowered skirt riding up the crack of her ass. She plucked it out absentmindedly and came slowly toward us. Her full and pointy tits shook and wobbled as she bent her body forward slightly to smooth the thin skirt down her hips, the semi high-heeled black pump-like slippers making her skid and slide on the wooden floor. "He can be such a nuisance when he drinks." She stopped in front of us and shook her head. Her expression was full of pity. "I'm glad you're here to control him. Sometimes I don't know what to do. He's no wife beater, but he can get violent. He scares me sometimes when he's like this. He must have really overdone it this night. I've never seen his face that red! Did he attack you?"
I smiled at her, marveling at the splendid view of her full and forward-swinging boobs drilling through the front of the black cardigan like missiles. She was so short that the top of her head barely reached the level of my chest. And she stood in front of me in two-inch heels! Without them she was definitely less than five feet! "No, not really. He was just upset that he lost the game. He refused to hand over what he owed me. He went a little nuts when I insisted."
She stared at me. "Gosh! How much does he owe you?"
I smiled at her again. "A thousand bucks worth of your pussy, honey bunch. And I'm going to make damn sure that I collect every penny of it! Oh, you're going to be very busy tonight. Right now you're worth nothing to me. But once you're naked and riding up and down on my stiff cock, well, then we'll know what you're worth. It all depends on your performance. I do hope that I haven't been cheated."
Her eyes went wide. "W-what did you say?" she stammered. She took a small step back and clasped her little hands to her mouth. She seemed totally shocked. She just couldn't fathom what she had just heard. I unbuckled my belt and pulled it out of the belt loops and dangled it lazily in my hands. "Ah. I didn't think so. Are we going to have to do it the hard way?"
She gazed at me with disbelief. "Have you gone mad? Y-you bought me?"
"Oh, don't be like that. It's just a loan----sort of. You're mine tonight. Don't be foolish. I'm bigger and stronger than you are. Don't make me hurt you. Let's get to it. We're going to put on a nice show for your hubby."
"Not in a million years!" The tiny thing gasped and shook her head. "This is crazy!" She blazed a hateful stare at her drunken husband who mouthed unintelligible grunts through his gag. She took a step towards a little stand in the corner where there was a red telephone. Her heels clicked on the parquet floor as she strode towards it, tits bouncing. She reached for the telephone. "This is absurd! I'm calling the police!"
"Don't touch that phone!" I gave my right wrist a little fling and the end of the leather belt connected with her backside. The thin skirt billowed up her thighs. "Aieeee!" She jumped as if stung by a bee and stumbled like a newborn foal as her high-heeled feet landed awkwardly on the shiny parquet floor. She crashed into the wooden stand and the telephone fell to the floor with a loud bang, bells chiming. She grabbed hold of the table for support and righted herself, her eyes wide with shock and fear. The silk shawl had slid away from her left shoulder to cascade loosely over her breasts. Yet I could still make out the conical tips of each stiff breast drilling right through it and the knit sweater! Talk about a stiff set----she had to be wearing one of those side-padded bras that gave extra lift and firm support!
"Stand up straight!" I extended my arm and gave her another whip-like slap on that cute little rump: she jerked again, her feet gave way and she fell to one knee. Her full breasts wobbled and heaved underneath that silky shawl as she raised her arms protectively over her head. I wondered why they shook so much. She had to be wearing a real skimpy bra! I leaned over her crouching body and let the belt dance three or four times right across the crack of her ass. I could make out the shimmering outlines of a short black slip through the thin and diaphanous skirt as I leaned over her. She howled as the belt bit into her buttocks. "Stop! Stop!" The thin, silky skirt hardly offered her any protection and made the belt lashes sound as if I was connecting with bare flesh. "Don't make me use this again, Donna," I said quietly. "I don't want to have to beat you to a pulp. You're my property for tonight and I don't want you damaged. Now be a good girl and stand up. Don't move a muscle! And don't make me repeat myself."
She stood there lost and forlorn, totally helpless. She massaged her sore bum with her hands and started to cry. Her full and pointy tits shook. "Oh God! Please!" I slung the belt over my shoulder and pulled another chair forward and placed it in front of Marek at a ninety-degree angle. His eyes were wide with disbelief. I slapped the chair with the belt and beckoned her closer. She came hesitatingly forward, whimpering like a baby. "Stand in front of the chair."
I tossed the belt aside and stepped in front of her and slowly hitched the skirt and the slip up her thighs until they lay raveled around her waist, revealing a very thin and diaphanous black bikini brief. Her cunt and a neatly trimmed dark thatch were clearly visible. "Sit. Spread your legs and tuck them under the chair." She gave a sob and did as ordered, tucking her heeled feet under the front legs of the chair. I reached out and undid the silky scarf, pulled it away from her and stepped behind her. I slung it around her neck, looping it twice and she gasped and clawed at her throat. I grabbed her wrists and tied them to the back of her head with the dangling ends of the scarf. Now her hands were out of the way, the elbows sticking out so that she could use them to prop herself up in case I wanted her on all fours. And if she tried to struggle she would only strangle herself. It was an effective way to control a woman, one of my favorite methods.
Then I knelt down between her thighs, reached up and slowly began to unbutton the black cardigan. "Let's have a look at what's lurking underneath." It was true---kneeling there I did almost poke my eyes out! Her two tits were sticking out like rockets! She whimpered as I undid the third button and her knees dug into my ribs. "No!" she begged me with wide eyes. "Please."
"Sssh. Stop squirming." I patted her cheek and slipped my hands into the collar of her cardigan again. When I reached the level of her breasts I hardly had to do any fumbling for her hefty and pointy tits practically pushed the buttons through the buttonholes for me. I didn't see much, though, just a smoky and filmy silhouette for she was wearing a black silk camisole underneath. I undid the button underneath her breasts and her pointy tits actually pushed the cardigan open. I undid the last button and she sobbed and averted her gaze as I peeled the cardigan open, revealing the black, smoky and thin material of the camisole. "Oh, shit!" My eyes almost popped out of their sockets! She wasn't even wearing a bra----only that thin camisole! Those fucking tits of hers were firm and upright enough to have drilled through her sweater without any support? I shook my head----these tits were utterly unbelievable!