Tom awoke to the smell of percolating coffee, the odor spiraling up the stairs, down the bedroom hall to his nose, there to tickle and tease him awake.
He resented the awakening. He had been in a fine dream – Vegas, the big table, riding a streak. The other gambling had stopped and all the customers had come over to watch him. The dealers and croupiers stood at the other tables, lonely sentinels, without even the cigarette girls for company. They, too, had come to his table, for that was where their customers were.
After the fourth straight point – nine – he'd begun letting it all ride. He could feel the power in his fingers, knew that he couldn't miss.
Again and again, he rode, his pile growing geometrically. At some point, he had decided – not hoped, but decided – to break the house, to empty the casino's coffers in memory of all the two-bit games from which he'd walked empty handed. He was going to strike back for all the little guys who'd come to Vegas with dreams and left after forty continuous hours without a cent.
He could feel the eyes of the people on him, and he knew that they were making him stronger. From time to time, they would look at the croupier, that legendary glacial figure who never became ruffled. He could see great bullets of sweat popping out on his forehead and knew that the croupier was frightened. And with good reason.
One more hit and Tom would wipe out the casino.
He followed the croupier's eyes to the back of the crowd, and saw there three men with an aura, if not a look, of importance about them. The owners. They knew, as well. Yet they also knew that to back down, to refuse the bet, would destroy them. Even more important, there was their personal, sporting code and they abided by it.
He picked up the dice, weighing them in his hand. He knew he would take it, knew that the first throw would be a natural seven.
He turned and saw the eyes of one of the cigarette girls on him, the one who always smiled when she saw him. She was tall, willowy, icy blonde and pale – and haughty, with a turned-up nose like Allison's.
He'd returned the smile, coolly, then turned back to the table. The green felt seemed to stretch out forever, and there at the sides were the boys he played with each Thursday.
As he shifted the cubes in his fingers, the odor of coffee rose to his nose, breaking his concentration, sapping his power. What was coffee doing in the casino?
He tried to shrug it off, cocking his arm for the throw, sweeping it forward through what had become almost a brown haze of coffee, his fingers opening…
His eyes opened to the morning. "Oh, shit," he moaned, knowing that he had to get up, and that, in any event, the dream could not be reclaimed.
Grunting, he sat up in bed and took a deep breath and grimaced. His mouth tasted as if a vacuum cleaner bag had been emptied into it.
It was not going to be one of his better days.
He forced himself up and stumbled into the shower and twenty minutes later, looking almost alive, he sat at the kitchen table.
Janet came over to him, most of her clearly visible as she stepped through a sunbeam. She leaned down to kiss him, the front of her peignoir opening to give him a great view of her tits, clear down to the nipples, and he smelled the faint scent of lilacs.
"Good morning, master," she said. "How'd it go last night?"
He forced himself to nod.
"Did you win?"
"A little," he lied, hating himself for it. "Six bucks." As far as Janet knew, the most he'd ever lost was twenty dollars. She'd said nothing that time, just looked at him with those big, hurt, reproachful eyes.
"Where's Penny?" he asked. His daughter's appearance an a warm, early summer morning, all fresh scrubbed rosy cheeks and long, flashing legs and pony tails bobbing with little mosquito bites of breasts pushing cutely at her shirt was enough to brighten his morning.
He corrected himself. The mosquito bites had gown. Considerably.
"She doesn't have to be in till ten today, so I lot her sleep. This is the last day of the year, you know, and all she has to do is go in for her report."
"Oh," He sipped at the coffee, found it tepid, and swigged it down. "Another cup, please?"
"Sure, whatever you want, master," she said. It sounded somehow reproachful and he felt guilty.
He had another cup of coffee on the train to the city. And when he reached his office, he was finally awake – fully.
Which meant that he could only contemplate his losses more clearly.
He went to his office, composing his face so as to appear deep in thought, the better to avoid acknowledging the calls of "Good morning, Mr. Jamison!" as he went through the different cubicles.
Tom Jamison was a sales manager for that same tire company, long, hard-working years after the day when he'd met Janet while filling tire orders in Washington. He had a private office, a walnut paneled room with a large window and plush carpeting underfoot.
He'd no sooner settled behind the wide chrome and rosewood desk and reached for the intercom button when the door opened and his secretary walked in.
Flowed in.
Allison Warner was one of the girls who would always get the finer things in life, the breaks, the cream – and she would get them one way or another. She was young – barely twenty-three – very pale blonde, with creamy, ivory skin, bright blue eyes and a pair of lips that men wanted only to cover with their own. She always wore a pale shade of lipstick, to make her lips look cool and untouchable, knowing full well that they were too lush, too pouting for the effect to work, that the pastel shades would only make her the more desirable.
She was tall and willowy, very long-legged, with flat, boyish buttocks and lanky thighs that rippled beneath her dresses. Her throat was graceful and smooth, and she had a way of holding her head just so that made it seem that she was challenging men to persuade her to… to anything.
She had high, firm breasts that fit the palms of Tom Jamison's hands perfectly, with large, strong nipples that swelled out into his fingers like walnuts when she was aroused.
She flowed into the room. In her hands were a tray and on the tray was coffee and orange juice. It wasn't brought out of tenderness or thoughtfulness; he knew that. He knew she perpetrated such considerations for the same reason she did everything: because it might get her something.
"Good morning, Mr. Jamison," she said brightly, in subtle contrast to the bird cries of the others.
He nodded. His eyes were fixed on her slim, taut body beneath the simple summer dress she wore. It was deep blue, with white hem and accent stripe, and the combination only served to heighten her aura.
But as she walked, her legs glided beneath the dress and her breasts thrust against the fabric. It was almost sufficiently lightweight to make out the coloration of her nipples beneath, but not quite. It was almost flimsy enough to make her pubic patch visible as a silvery fire glinting beneath – but not quite.
Enough to tease, he thought angrily, knowing all the same that he wanted her.
She carried the tray around to his side of the desk, rustling to stop beside him and placing it on the desk. Her arm brushed his and for a moment, he thought the twist of her body would press one of those perfectly formed tits against the side of his head.
But knowing Allison, he should never have wondered. It didn't.
Instead, she stood beside him, looking down and said, softly. "Anything else… Mr. Jamison."
"Yes." He put one hand about her waist, savoring the incredible slimness. He knew that her waist was the same as his wife's, but somehow, that did nothing to temper his admiration. His other hand began to slide up her thigh, pulling the hemline up with it.
"Please, Mr. Jamison," she whispered, in just the light tone of huskiness to make him certain he had to have her. She pulled away and began striding towards the door, her hips moving liquidly beneath the dress, pressing those sponge rubber firm ass cheeks back against the dress, making the fabric twitch.
He was out of his chair and across the room within seconds, standing between her and the door. This was the way it had been the first time. This was the way it had been every time, even after he figured out the way she was using it.
"Mr. Jamison, what are you doing?" she asked disdainfully.
That cinched it. He took a step towards her. She backed, up a step. He took another step. She turned, ready to run.
Then he grabbed her arms, high up above the elbows. And this too was like the other times, except for one thing. This time he grabbed her arms in such a way that she was faced any from him.
And instead of pawing and grappling her until she met his tongue kiss momentarily before letting herself slip slowly to the thick carpet at his feet, this time he pushed her ahead of him towards the desk – quickly.
She automatically put her hands up in front of her to brace her impact against the desk, but that wasn't what he had in mind. He suddenly stopped, put one arm about her slim waist, the other hand high up on her back at the base of her neck, and pushed her so that she leaned forward.
She tried to struggle, this time in earnest, but Tom knew what he wanted, and he was going after it.
He grabbed a handful of the dress at the small of her back, a large enough handful so that the garment was tight about her, then kicked her legs father apart until she looked like a disproportionate tripod – two legs spread at a forty-five degree angle, arms stuck close together on the desk.
He gathered and bunched the material till it was high up on her thighs, then revealing the smooth, flawless, curve of her buttocks encased in the shimmering silk of her panties and garter.
Then with a single movement, he brought his other hand up under her dress to the waistband of the panties and ripped them off her – not pulled them down or tore them off, but ripped them with a powerful stroke.
She sucked in her breath and he saw her ass cheeks tighten involuntarily.
Without further preliminaries, he unzipped his pants and fished out his dick.
Tom was not especially large as these things go, but his hard-on was throbbing and pulsating, all eight inches of it.
And as he looked at her cunt. As he eyed her compact little pubic, bush, so pale and silvery blonde and tightly curled, he knew exactly where he wanted to put his pecker.
He stepped forward and the knob of his cock bumped into her bare, quivering ass cheeks.
She started to twist her upper body around towards him, her face just beginning to betray an uncertainty. "Now Tom, don't be too – OW!"
She bit the sound back quickly. She jerked her head and neck back straight ahead, then dropped her head so that she stared right down at the desk top between her anus.
Tom had suddenly taken her hips in both hands, tilted them at the juncture of the small of her back and her little ass so that the gathered material of her dress stayed up there, bent his knees for the proper alignment and then jabbed forward so that the broad glans of his dick mashed her pussy lips flat against the pubic bone for an excruciating second before finally giving way before the force of his superior object and caving in ahead of the onrushing prick tip.
The head of his dick was lodged inside her, and he couldn't help noticing, with some satisfaction, that she was already well-lubricated. Did she enjoy these little office romps and use them as a stepping stone later only for self-justification? Or was it that this was the way she wanted it to be – her haughty bluff called, her clothes torn any, and some man shoving eight inches of hard shaft right up her cunt whether she liked it or not?
Either way, it a what he wanted, and on that particular morning. Tom Jamison was going to do what he wanted.
"Easy-ea-sy-easy," she sobbed. But he could feel her vaginal muscles contracting on him, see the glistening droplets of her own aroused secretion rolling down the insides of her sleek, limber thighs.
He dug his fingers into her hips and pushed forward, leaning back so he could watch as inch by inch, the entire length of his angry cock was absorbed into the tight channel of her twat.
He loved to watch the sight of her little pussy lips stretched about his cock, loved it almost as he loved the feel of it. And he enjoyed it the more for the way she squirmed and wriggled her hips as if trying to escape for a moment, only to jerk her as back at him to hasten the insertion of another inch.
With a sudden lurch, he buried the last two inches inside of her, and noted with satisfaction the way her knees momentarily buckled as she felt his prick ram hard up against the cervical opening at the end of her cunt tunnel.
Already she was beginning to rotate her hips. The small spasms were getting to her and he could actually see her tight little cunt lips tightening about him in time with her inner contractions.
He pulled his cock back halfway and then drove it into her quim with all his strength, as if he were trying to batter and bruise her. Tom wanted to fuck her harder and more thoroughly than she'd ever had it before in her life, to fuck her right out of her haughtiness and aloofness and disdainfulness, to fuck her right off her high horse and make her beg for more.
He slammed his hips hard against her, reveling in the feel of her cool ass against his abdomen. Already, he could feel his balls tightening as the juice swirled inside him, the long tube on the underside of his prick tightening in dry-run preparation for the ejaculations to come.
She was responding to him, responding in a way she had never let herself go before. She was arching her ass high up towards him, sobbing almost gratefully with each brutal thrust of his dick into her. Ref hips were moving up and down, side to side, pushing back to meet his attack, then sliding forward with the impact of his ramming.
And with every penetration of his prick into her tunnel, with every surge of his loins up to her receptive tint, another minor explosion of breath, so basic, so emotion-filled that he couldn't be sure if it expressed pain, pleasure or both, escaped her pale, cool lips.
He stopped, suddenly, and kicked her legs still wider apart. Now his prick was jammed into her at an awkward angle. Now, when he pressed into her, the top of his dick rubbed up against the upper limits of her pussy, where it folded into the short, sensitive stretch of skin between her cunt and ass.
His eyes fixed on her ass, on the tiny, button-sized opening. He pictured what it would look like to have his cock crammed into that unstretched little aperture. And from the way she was moving her ass up at him, wiggling her fanny, he had the distinct feeling that she would love it – that she would get off on that sexual submission even more than she was getting off on having his rock hard dick plowed into her without regard to her feelings.
He put his hand high up on her back and pushed her upper torso down. Her arms folded up and she had her face pressed down close to his desk top – then her forehead actually rested on it. He could see her breasts, nipples swollen, stretching downward, in the reflection off the glossy rosewood surface. He could see the muscles of her stomach, tensed and easily visible, rippling and contracting across her belly with each thrust of his penis.
Her cunt contracted on him, powerfully, the muscles at the entrance of her honey hole clamping down on his cock like a virgin pussy. He knew she was coming, knew it even before he saw her jerking without beat over the desk, and that was the last impetus his already straining balls needed.
Tom grunted like a rutting animal. He crashed his loins forward at her. At the same time, he dragged her hips back at him.
The two met in an explosion, and he felt the head of his cock press into the aperture of her cervix.
"Aaahh-iee!" she grimaced, telling what she felt deep inside her. Her cervix had been forced open just enough to admit the top part of Tom's gums and then snapped shut again.
But as each spasm shook Tom, as the tube running along the underside of his cock swelled and jerked with the frothy spunk burning through it, as the torrents of fuck erupted from the tiny pee-slit in the head of his cock and shot into her womb, landing with heavy, telling splashes, she spasmed all along the length of her vagina and her cervix dilated and contracted as well, massaging the head of his cock like knowing lips.
She was coming as well, coming at the same time he was. He could see her ass clenching and unclenching, feel her hips jerking, out of time with his own, follow the way her long, sleek thighs trembled and her knees weakened. In the glassy reflection on the rosebud surface of the desk, he could see her stomach squeezing and tightening as she felt the jets of his heavy cream landing inside of her.
It seemed like he came for a long time, but finally, his spasms slowed, became halting, irregular. And then, when at last they stopped and his cock began to shrink inside of her and she was simply shuddering in the last throes of her own coming, he suddenly and without warning, pulled his prick out of her.
Even the stimulus of that wilted penis being yanked out of her tight pussy elicited powerful sensations within the young woman. She began to take, her entire body quivering, as if she were starting into a seizure, a fit of some kind. She let her upper body go flat onto the desk, top and reached around with her own hand to take her clitoris between thumb and two fingers and twiddle it till she gave a tiny screech, a last, great, slow motion shiver – and then limpened.
Tom pulled his pants back up and did his belt, then tucked his shirt in. He stood there, forcing himself to calmness, fighting the weakness from his draining orgasm.
He looked down at her exposed cunt and pubic hair, matted with her own secretions and the drooling overflow of the cum he'd shot into her just moments before. He looked down at her smooth, pale ass, and the tiny hole peering out from between. He looked down at her wide-spread legs and the way the muscles at the backs of her thighs still contracted.
He looked down at this, noting the heaving of her back as she sucked in great draughts of air. Then he put his hands on his hips and said, quietly, "Well," drawing out the word, "if you're quite finished shall we proceed with the day's business, Allison?"
She groaned and pushed herself up from the desk top. There were two damp, circular spots left on the glossy surface where her breasts had pressed, and a single, wider, less defined area where her stomach's convulsive contractions had dampened the high polish.
She stood up straight, one dainty, manicured hand still flat on the desk as much for support as balance, and slipped her feet back into her high heels. They'd fallen off sometime in the course of the encounter, though Tom wasn't sure just when and strongly doubted that she knew any better than he.
When she turned to face him, her face was as composed as it ever was – except for the two spots of bright color, high up on her cheeks, in lingering testimony to her ecstatic responsiveness to his crude fucking.
"Uh, I must obtain some panties somewhere, Mr. Jamison," she said, still trying to catch her breath. "You have quite destroyed mine and I can't go around without panties."
He stared at her long and hard before answering. When he did, he made his voice a dismissal of such concerns as pure pettiness. "Have one of the girls from the secretarial pool run out and get you some pantyhose," he said. "You've never hesitated to use them for personal business before."
At that, the two spots of color spread. She'd thought none of the executives knew of her tactic of brow-beating the lowly girls in the pool. "Take two or three bucks out of the coffee kitty."
"Do you expect me to go outside, into the outer office, without any panties to get the money?" she asked, some of that haughty tone returning.
"I expect you to have the entire affair taken care of within five minutes," he said coldly. "However you do it."
She stood uncertainly in the middle of the carpet, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as her boss calmly walked around behind his desk and sat down.
When she realized that he wasn't going to take her hint and fetch the money himself, she whirled and stalked to the door, each stride bringing the hem of her dress up almost to her flat ass cheeks. Then she halted, smoothed the dress down, and stepped into the outer office corridor.
A few moments later, she returned, face livid, lips drawn tightly back in anger. "The mail boy brought these," she said tensely, and tossed a few envelopes onto the desk.
"You will pick them up, Allison," he said.
She gave him a look of defiance, a look that melted as he gazed unwaveringly into her eyes. Then she bent both knees and picked it up.
Of course, in so doing, the hem of the dress crept up and he could, quite clearly, see the still gleaming lips of her pert young cunt peeping out from between the soaked, matted mess of her pubic hair.
Then he realized why she'd been so angered by the mail boy. The coffee kitty was kept in the only drawer of her desk which locked – the bottom drawer on the aisle side. The mail boy must have gotten a show to fuel his fires for a year to come, Tom thought and it made him smile to himself.
She saw that smile and it angered her so that she couldn't restrain the words. "I think you had better wipe that smirk off your face, Mr. Jamison. You know how word gets around here. Especially between us girls."
He continued smiling. "Listen, cunt," he said in a quiet voice filled with venom, "if this gets out, I'll do it to you again – just as hard, the way you love it."
Her face went scarlet again. Did she think I didn't know how much she was turned on? he wondered. Then he continued. "The only difference is, this time I'll stick it up that tight, hairless little ass of yours. And then you'll know what it feels like to really be taken by a man."
Her jaw sagged. "You wou…" She cut herself short. The expression on her face told him that she would.
For the rest of the morning, her primary difficulty was concealing the way her cunt was secreting its sloppy juices from him. Because every time she thought of Tom fucking her with that enormous weapon of his, her pussy starts drooling again. But then, it wasn't her pussy that would suffer if he did.
Tom's humor was improved by the time he got home. He prided himself on his self-discipline, on being able to keep problems unrelated to home out of his home.
His daughter's enthusiastic greeting helped, too. Penny was barely thirteen, and her happy hug, pressing firm, budding young breasts against him through her T-shirt and his jacket, only served to remind him that his little girl wasn't so little any more. He heard the years creeping up.
Her enthusiasm wasn't however, strictly due to his return home. She'd gotten her report card. And her average was well over a B.
He didn't need her gentle reminder. He'd promised her a phone of her own is she achieved the grade average.
So despite his gladness at her good marks, despite his mellow happiness at realizing that his little girl was developing into a lovely young woman, he still could not escape his money troubles.