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Making Amends
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
This story is fiction created for your entertainment and enlightenment. No
resemblance to any persons living or dead is intended.
Brief, thoughtful reader comments will be appreciated.
MAKING AMENDS
The others have all gone home this Friday evening, but I am waiting here,
in this tiny room of cold porcelain and beige drapes and carpet. How strange
it is to be naked only a couple of walls and a few feet from the desk where I
work all day. I am on the toilet and fondling myself, bringing on the
wetness, as instructed. My labia are swelling and my clit cooperates,
tingling and evoking that yearning to be rubbed and pressed. That is good
because it makes this all easier. I'm wetting like crazy, which is good.
On the other hand, I become aware of the telltale odor of female sexual
excitement. It is a gamey, funky smell. I am a clean person, and in a normal
setting, a bedroom, it's not so noticeable. But here, in the boss' private
lavatory, it's strong and unmistakable. To me, it's too much, but he tells me
he loves it.
I'm feeling hot all over now. A fine mist covers my exposed skin. I've
seen myself like this: flushed-pink, heavy-lidded at the eyes, areolas dark,
breathing funny. I used to be self-conscious in these moments, but not any
more. Oh God, I wish he'd hurry up and get back from that late-afternoon
meeting.
The tube of jelly is in the basin, half submerged in warm water. He
suggested preparing it that way. He thinks of everything, which is probably
why he owns his own business and makes such good money from it.
Now I must prepare in back -- in back where he wants it. I touch myself
there, in that most private, nasty place I never before touched with my bare
fingers. Although I've been doing this twice a week for months, the little
sphincter still tightens at my own touch, as if shy and ashamed. As if
fearing what is to come.
But then, like me, the little sphincter complies . . .
Being a 23-year-old, divorced woman with a 6-year-old to support, you do
what you have to do to get by. That's why when my car insurance, rent and
day care costs all went way up within a two-month period, I panicked and did
something stupid. I knew someone at the small company where I work would
discover a couple of cash payments were never recorded and that a couple of
checks never made it into the company deposit. I knew it would just be a
matter of time until they learned who was responsible. But that would be
later. At the time, I was faced with immediate loss of insurance, maybe even
the roof over our heads. I didn't know what else to do.
I had never stolen anything before. For days afterward I went around
feeling guilty as sin. I was nervous and jumpy all the time. I especially
dreaded having Mr. Lifford, the owner, walk by my desk. A fairly
good-looking man in his mid-40s, he always seemed cool, aloof and all
business. He had never actually said anything derogatory to me or about me
that I knew of. Yet when I was in his presence, I always felt he was just
tolerating me.
Janie, my supervisor and kind of a friend, noticed my nervousness and asked
what was wrong. I mumbled something about bad news from home and changed the
subject.
Then came that Monday morning. Mr. Lifford sent word through Janie that I
was to be in his office at 1 o'clock sharp.
"He didn't say what it's about," she said, coolly, "but I wouldn't be a
minute late. He seemed uptight about something."
So it was about to be over, I thought, trying not to reveal the cold fear
and shame that overwhelmed me. My stomach was churning. Despite my efforts to
keep it from happening, my eyes filled with tears. I went to the restroom,
cried for a few minutes, then somehow pulled myself together. When lunchtime
came, I didn't eat. Instead, I went to my car and tried desperately to figure
out what I was going to say.
"Have a seat," Lifford said, glancing up from a sheet of paper and looking
over his half-rims. He motioned for me to sit in a chair placed in front of
his desk.
His stony stare seemed to beat its way straight through me. I sat, looked
down at my lap and fought to keep my composure.
"Pete Barney and another customer, Jim Jenks, tell me they paid their bills
in cash weeks ago but they're getting statements saying they owe the money.
Janie checked the computer, and guess what? No record of payment there for
either of them on these bills. I don't know this Jenks at all, but I've been
taking care of Barney for years. I know if he says he paid, he paid.
"Funny thing, but when I asked who they paid, both of them said that
good-looking young brunette. And that's not all. Just yesterday, I was told
there was some irregularity in the bank deposit, and we're short. Can you
tell me anything about these problems?"
Trembling, then sobbing, I confessed what I had done and why. Mr. Lifford
listened intently and almost without expression. Here I was, humiliated,
frightened, in complete emotional meltdown, and there he was, looking so
composed, so incredibly cool and neat in his crisp, blue shirt and
silver-gray tie. I would've preferred it if he had yelled at me and beat his
fists on the desk or something. Instead, there was a long, painful pause.
When he spoke, he explained that by rights I should be arrested, that I
could get four or five years in prison for what I had done. Then there was
another long silence, during which I sobbed and mopped at the tears streaming
down my cheeks with a tissue he had handed me. Finally, he spoke again.
"Stand up and turn around," he said. It was a calmly delivered but very
firm command. I did as I was told.
"Now, I want you to pull your skirt up all the way. Slip too."
Again, I did as I was told. I had no idea where this might lead, but to the
extent I could think just then, I thought anything would be better than
prison, than losing my child and my whole life.
"Not bad," he said, "not bad at all." After having me lower my skirt, he
said he wanted to think the situation over, sleep on it and talk to me again
the next morning. For me, it was a night of terror alternating with despair.
I barely slept a half hour. I didn't know what to make of the skirt-raising
business, it was so odd and out of character for him. What I really feared
was disgrace - and prison.
First thing the next morning, Mr. Lifford called me into his office. He
looked at me in an appraising way.
"How much do you need to make here to meet your expenses?" he asked.
The question surprised me completely, but I did some quick addition and
told him.
"I see," he said, swiveling his chair and gazing out the window. A few
moments of silence passed before he swiveled back and resumed speaking.
"I'm a man of varied tastes and needs. I have a very lovely, very proper
lady of a wife who doesn't quite satisfy all those tastes or meet all of
those needs. Do you understand?"
I nodded that I did, which wasn't completely true.
"Very well, then. I'll tell you what I'm prepared to do. If you will agree
to fill in the gap, so to speak, doing exactly what I want, when and how I
want it, I will personally cover what you've stolen. And I will give you a
raise 10 percent above what you say you need to get by. If you don't like
this offer, I will give you one week. . ."
"I will do it," I interrupted, almost giddy with relief. "Whatever you
want, just tell me; I don't care."
It's so close and humid in here. My crotch is a swamp. I've already come
once - I couldn't help it - and soon began re-arousing myself. I know what we
do can hurt if I'm not prepared. It's not like him to be late.
Good, he's back. I hear him in his office, removing his clothes. The door
opens. I'm suddenly bathed in cool air that raises goosebumps all over me. He
steps in and closes the door behind him, a modest smile on his face. I look
down, over his hairy chest, his lean middle, down to where his part dangles
heavy between his legs. I watch as it thickens and lengthens. Not as long as
my ex-husband's, it is amazingly hard and very thick when he's hot and ready.
I know what I am to do. I lean forward and kiss the tip of it, grasping
and gently squeezing and rubbing the broad, hot shaft. I take the tip in my
mouth, roll my tongue around its finely textured mass. I taste the first
drops of his salty, sour fluid. He groans with pleasure. Good.
He pulls back, draws me to stand and turn around. He steps closer, so that
I feel his warmth, his heartbeat, at my back. His part presses into the crack
of my behind. His hands wind around me, rubbing their way in circular
motions to my breasts. He cups them just so, massages, and there is no pain.
There is only tantalizing, tingling pleasure. My nipples go hard; he presses
his palms over them. I could come in an instant. But I mustn't. Not yet.
I reach back and take hold of his part. It is fully tense, throbbing. I
run my fingers lightly along its length. He loves to have that done while
he's doing something equally stimulating to me. One of his hands is now at
work in my sex, reveling in my syrupy wetness, in how totally open I am down
there.
He withdraws his hand. He kneels behind me. I bend over, closing the
toilet lid, resting my hands on it. I feel the heat of his face on my
buttock. His cheek, slightly rough, glides across it and then across its
twin.
"So smooth," he whispers. "Smooth and firm, like a baby."
He begins kissing, licking, love-biting a trail all over my behind. I feel
a warm, flowing pleasure wave building deep within me. Then he presses into
the crack, burrowing, kissing, licking. The wave crashes within me,
throughout me. He enters me with his tongue. So unspeakably nasty, yet so
deliciously right. I push back and down, to get him in deeper. The tingling
pleasure of what he's doing builds on itself, creating a need in me to have
him do it harder, deeper, nastier. I cry out. Another wave crashes. My legs
go weak. He steadies me with strong hands.
Then he stands behind me. He presses, probes with his rigid part. He finds
my yearning vagina and pushes into it. I press back. "Yes! Yes, come inside
me," I urge, my voice dry and creaky. My wetness floods onto him; my heat
ignites him. He begins working in and out. I reach back and pull him to me,
trying to get him in deeper. A moment more and I will finish again. But no.
He stops, withdraws, rubs my wetness and his own sperm-drool all over my
behind for a moment. When his cock stops moving, I reach back and spread my
cheeks.
He applies the jelly, working it up inside me with a deftness few doctors
possess. And then it's time. His part is at my tingling, shy little anus and
he's pressing forward. I reach back, take hold of it and steady it along its
way. He pushes. I press back. I feel strong stretching, yielding, straining .
. . and then, with incredible ease, he's gliding in deep and going deeper,
filling me so that I can't take a good breath.
"Good," he murmurs. "So hot and smooth and good. Now, sway your hips a
little, side to side."
I do my part willingly, knowing this movement will complement the
in-and-out pistoning he is just beginning to do. At first he pumps my behind
lightly, tentatively. But in a moment he is pounding in, full depth, as hard
as he can, then pulling out completely, leaving my rectum open so that
suddenly-cool air rushes up into me.
I grunt in a voice I hardly recognize as I feel him churning into me in a
place and way that no one, that nothing, ever has. A nasty, thoroughly
erotic, almost intoxicating odor fills the room. Our pace is furious. Our
pleasure is indescribable.
A long, hard, rolling clap of thunder detonates within me and I cry out,
but almost no sound actually makes it out of me. When we do this and I come,
I come long and very hard.
"Here, me too," he gasps. "Here it is. . . oh! Here . . . here . . . here
. . ."
They say you can't feel it when a guy is shooting his sperm inside you.
But I swear I often do feel just what his thick, hard part is doing when it's
jerking and spurting a load up into my bowels. Even though I know it's
terribly dirty, it makes me come really good and hard almost every time he
does it.
When we're through, he puts his arms around me and holds me tight. I reach
down behind and hold his part up in me for as long as I can. We pant and sigh
and say how fantastic it was, how good we are together this way. When he
finally goes soft and slides out of me, no matter how dirty he may have
gotten, I tenderly, lovingly clean him at the sink. Then I dry and powder him
and send him on his way. Not because I love him. I do it because I owe him.
And because it is so good.
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