HE HAD HIS finger in her ass.
This was nothing unusual for him. Rick’s finger often found its
way there during their lovemaking. And she knew exactly what it
meant. She knew what he wanted, and she also knew that he didn’t
have the courage to actually ask for it.
She knew that he wanted her to tell him that it was okay.
But it wasn’t okay. She didn’t want him there. The whole
idea revolted her.
And so, she said nothing.
He eventually moved his finger away as he continued pounding himself
into her body, his rhythm increasing just slightly.
She knew what this meant, too.
He made love to her much the way a fireworks display unfolds. He
started off slowly and meekly and then would progressively get faster
and faster—with more bells and whistles—until the moment
of final explosion.
This was exciting to her at first, just as watching a fireworks
display is exciting to a child. But, just as fireworks become
repetitive and boring after you’ve seen it time after time, so
did his lovemaking become repetitive and boring.
It had become a chore to her.
This particular morning, as he approached his final explosion, he
started groaning and grunting, and he gripped her tightly as he fired
his flesh into hers.
“I’m coming!” he yelped, and then he rammed himself
deep inside her one last time before spasming.
She gripped his back as his love spewed into her. This was the one
moment of their lovemaking that still excited her—feeling that
warmth shoot into her womb. She dug her nails into his skin and
whined, wishing she could somehow keep it flowing into her.
But it soon stopped. Just like it always did. And she felt wasted,
and cheated. Once again she hadn’t come. Or had even come
close. And on this day in particular it upset her.
“Happy birthday, Barb,” he whispered into her ear.
Ughh, she thought.
Forty.
She was forty that day.
When she was young the concept of becoming forty was alien to her.
Other people got old. Not she. She’d be young forever.
But now it hit her. It hit her at that very moment.
She was old.
Soon, her husband lifted his moist face off the pillow and kissed her
sweetly on the lips.
She could smell herself on him, as, minutes earlier, he had spent a
moment or two below giving her his “special present.”
He shouldn’t have even bothered, she thought.
But she smiled at him anyway. She loved him, after all. He was a good
man, even if he weren’t the best of lovers. He was kind and
supportive. And she needed his support, now more than ever before.
Seconds later, when he got out of bed, she also realized he was
something else.
Handsome.
Even well past 40.
In fact, he was even better looking than he was when she married him
14 years earlier.
Much better looking.
As he walked off to the bathroom, she glanced at his thick powerful
shoulders and an ass that was as hard as a rock.
She should’ve been happy, she knew. But she wasn’t. And
she knew why the moment he started the shower.
For there was a reason he was in the shower and she wasn’t.
He had a job to go to.
Six months.
Six months she’d been unemployed.
She was once a mortgage banker. A successful one. Some years she even
made more than her husband—something that overwhelmed her with
pride. But now, now the job was gone, along with her pride. Now, she
spent her days at home, doing nothing. She didn’t even have
children to take care of.
And she felt worthless, even if she knew she should’ve felt
lucky. At least her husband still had his job—a good job.
Unlike others devastated by the recession she didn’t have to
worry about food or shelter or retirement.
But it was little consolation.
As the shower continued, she got out of bed, and, without looking at
herself in the mirror, put a light robe on over her nakedness, and
went downstairs to make her husband breakfast.
In the old days, this never happened. In the old days they each
bought something on their respective ways to work. Back then she
almost never cooked. In truth, he cooked more often than she did.
But now, now it was one of the few things she was able to do.
She quickly prepared his food and he came downstairs in a gray Brioni
suit. And again she saw just how beautiful he was. He was nearly
perfect. Tall, handsome, and rich.
What was there not to like?
But still . . .
He sat down and she served him breakfast—an omelet and some
bacon, with orange juice and coffee, which was the one thing she also
had.
“Thanks,” he said, a bit uneasily, as he sipped the juice
she handed him. “I really should be serving you today.”
“It’s okay,” she uttered.
“Tonight—tonight I’m taking you to Pierre’s.
And then, then maybe we’ll get a room at the Hilton.”
“Sure thing,” she coolly replied, turning away from him.
There once was a television sitting just where her eyes gazed out at
that moment. But she had unplugged it—along with the one in the
living room—and tossed them both into the closet, which was the
only way she could avoid spending her days watching nothingness.
But now, now she wished the TV was there. So she could at least look
at something.
“Well,” he said, as he stood up, not having taken more
than a bite or two from the omelet, and none of the bacon, “I’ve
got to be going. That new issue is happening today.”
She nodded without looking at him, and he came over and kissed her on
the cheek before leaving.
Then, for almost a minute afterward, she just stood there
motionlessly, not sure what to do or what to think. She wasn’t
even sure if she should breathe.
Finally she turned around and noticed the barely touched meal, and,
thinking herself a failure in yet something else, grabbed the plate
and tossed it into the sink, with almost enough force to break it.
Almost.
She sighed at this, and took a sip of coffee, and noticed her laptop
lying on the living room table. Her dreaded laptop. The one that told
her every day that no one was interested in hiring her. The one that
told her every day that she was a loser.
The computer was calling her again that morning, like it did every
morning. And every afternoon. And every night.
She thought, if only I had the courage to toss it into the closet
with the TVs.
But she just didn’t.
So, she took her coffee to the table and turned on the computer. And
opened her email.
She had seven messages waiting in her inbox. Which didn’t
excite her much, knowing that this was far less than usual.
Four of them were junk that had evaded her spam filter, and two were
from job services trying to sell her some worthless garbage. The
seventh and final message, though, was something different.
Something very different.
It was addressed from “Friend” and the subject was
“Thought You’d Like to See This, Barbie”; and it
came with an attachment.
Barbie? she said to herself.
No one had called her that since she was a teenager, and even then it
was only said jokingly or derisively.
She at first tried to convince herself that it was just spam. And she
almost deleted it. But she knew spammers weren’t that personal.
She knew it.
So, she opened it, and could feel her heart beat as the message
loaded.
Ever wonder what your husband does at work? 05:21:00.
That’s all it said. No name, no signature. Just one line and a
QuickTime file named Rick.mov.
Again she thought about deleting the message and even shifted the
mouse pointer over the garbage can icon.
But she just couldn’t do it.
Instead she jumped out of her seat and tried to walk away from it.
But she didn’t get very far. Something stopped her. Something
stopped her and forced her back to the laptop.
When she returned, she sat down and stared at the message for what
seemed like minutes.
And then checked the attachment for viruses.
As she waited and waited, she clutched her hands together, hoping the
message wasn’t real—hoping that it was just some sick
scam.
But there were no viruses. The file was clean. And her email program
asked her if she wanted to open it.
She quickly clicked Yes before she could change her mind.
It took a while to load but the QuickTime player eventually opened on
her screen.
And a video of her husband’s office displayed.
She quickly concluded that it was taken from one of those little
computer cameras—likely from on top of his bookshelf. The
quality wasn’t great but it was clear. Clear enough.
Looking at the length of the video, she saw that it was almost six
hours, which explained why it took so long to load.
She sat back and watched. But nothing much happened at first. In
fact, Rick didn’t even enter the video until after the
ten-minute mark.
Then, she remembered the email.
05:21:00.
Holding her breath, she slowly pushed the QuickTime slider forward.
But, as the video was so long, she didn’t have fine control
over the timing, and decided to just let it continue playing at the
05:15:00 mark.
At this particular point of the video it was late. She couldn’t
tell exactly how late, but it was dark outside Rick’s office
window.
And Rick was sitting in his chair reading some document. She looked
at him carefully and noticed that he was wearing the Armani suit he
had on a few days earlier. She knew this because it was a new suit.
She also remembered how he got home late that night, because of this
new issue they were underwriting.
Barbara continued watching, her eyes moving back and forth between
Rick and the timer.
It was now almost 05:20:00.
The wait was excruciating. She felt compelled to move the slider
forward, but knew she’d likely overshoot. So, she just waited.
And waited.
And continued waiting.
Finally, the time came; and, shortly thereafter, there was a knock on
his door.
“Come in,” Rick answered.
The door slowly opened just a bit and an innocent-looking redheaded
girl, who had freckles and pigtails and no makeup, sheepishly peaked
her head inside. She was young, Barbara could tell—a teenager
perhaps.
“Mr. O.?” she asked timidly.
“Yes?” he replied.
“I’m Diane Faber,” she answered.
“Oh, come on in.”
She hesitantly stepped inside wearing a school uniform—a blue
jacket and skirt, with a starched white shirt underneath the jacket.
Barbara saw that she was short, not even five feet tall. And petite.
And these qualities made her look even younger.
“Why don’t you have a seat,” Rick said with a
smile, motioning the girl toward a chair.
She sat down across from him and smiled nervously.
“According to your email,” he continued, “you’re
interested in investment banking. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir. I’m majoring in Finance.”
“You know, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but
I didn’t realize there were still colleges that made students
wear uniforms.”
“Oh,” she replied, with a giggle, “I go to Calvin
College. It’s a Christian school. They’re pretty strict.”
“I see. So, what exactly can I do for you?”
“Well, my dream is to work for one of those Wall Street hedge
funds when I get out of school. But I need practical experience. And
I’ll do anything to get some. Bring coffee, run
errands—whatever it takes.”
“Oh, I see. Unfortunately, we’ve already hired our
interns for the year. And besides, we only take them from the best
schools in the area. I’m terribly sorry.”
Rick stood up and put his jacket on, and said, “Now, if you’ll
excuse me, it’s been a long day. I—”
“—But, but you’re the only investment bank around
here,” she pleaded.
“I’m sorry,” he told her, and headed toward the
door.
Once there, he heard a strange sound and turned back to her. And saw
that she was crying, with her head in her hands.
He walked up to her and gently put his hand on her back. And
murmured, “Miss . . .”
“Faber!” she bawled. “Diane Faber.”
“I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to leave.”
She spun toward him, her face bathed in tears. “I’ll do
anything!” she cried. “Anything!”
He looked down at her. At first he did so innocently, with
compassion. But as his eyes soaked in her body, he began licking his
lips. And then he gulped, loosening his tie. “Anything?”
he whispered.
“Anything. Without experience, I’ll have no chance of
getting a good job when I graduate. And my family’s already in
debt because of my education.”
“Anything?”
“Yes!”
“Stand up.”
“What?”
“I said, stand up.”
She hesitantly followed his orders and awkwardly rose. And then he
inched toward her and gently put his hand on her jacket, just
underneath her breast.
She jumped away in fright. “What are you doing, Mr. O.?”
she gasped.
“I thought you said you were willing to do anything?”
“Yes, but—”
“—You understand how the world works, don’t you?”
“Yes, but . . . but we’re not even supposed to
kiss boys.”
“I tell you what, you don’t have to kiss me.”
He again moved closer to her. She shook her head, over and over, but
didn’t move away.
“You want a job here, don’t you?” he asked,
caressing her lapels.
She nodded, nervously.
“Well, you give me something I want, and I’ll give you
something you want. That’s how the world works.”
She didn’t reply. And he smiled at this, and started opening
her jacket.
“I’ve never . . .” she murmured.
“Sshhh,” he whispered back.
He then undid the buttons of her shirt, slowly, one at a time,
leaving her jacket on.
She shook slightly with fear but didn’t stop him.
Then, after he got all her buttons open, he pulled her starched white
shirt apart, exposing her pale white skin and the white brassiere
covering her small breasts.
And, after a long deep breath, he ripped her bra down below her
chest, exposing her tiny and hard nipples.
She gasped. And again shook her head, and uttered, “No, Mr. O.
Please don’t.”
He smiled in reply and sat her on his desk. And leaned down and put
his mouth over her right nipple, slowly licking it.
She gasped again. This time louder. And moaned as she clutched his
head, murmuring, “Oh, my God!”
He continued to lick and suck her small breast while fondling the
other. And then did the same with the left one.
She closed her eyes and moaned again. “Oh, Mr. O.,” she
cooed, “please don’t . . .”
He stopped and moved his head down a little lower, while clutching
her wet nipples. And he kissed her, all over her stomach, finally
sticking his tongue in her little belly button, which caused her to
yelp.
Then, he kneeled down and undid her skirt.
“What are you gonna do?” she pleaded.
He tore down her skirt and then her white underpants, revealing a
bare and swollen pair of reddish lips.
A tiny pair.
And, after gazing at it for a few moments, he buried his head in her
lap and stuck his tongue in her.
“But Mr. O.,” she howled, “this is sodomy!”
But he continued. And soon she howled again. Only this time in
ecstasy, with her eyes fluttering. “Mr. O.,” she
muttered, with her body shaking as she gripped his head, “this
is so wrong.”
Watching all this from her living room, Barbara was in shock. She was
horrified. And disgusted. But couldn’t take her eyes away from
her husband as he slobbered at the young girl’s tiny opening,
in a way he never did to her.
Up and down and around his tongue moved over her, incessantly and
passionately. And then he put his fingers just a bit inside her as
well, causing her to shriek.
The minutes went by, and still he lapped and lapped, and probed her,
with the girl making sounds that didn’t even seem human.
Barbara became dizzy. She put her elbows down on the table and rested
her head in her hands, listening to the girl squeal.
Then, all of a sudden, the sounds stopped. And Barbara looked back at
the screen, and saw her husband taking off his Brioni gray suit.
The girl sat back on the table and watched, looking as dizzy as
Barbara felt. She watched as Rick tore off his shirt, exposing his
hairy and muscular chest. And then she watched him rip off his pants
and then his boxers, exposing his thick and long erection. An
erection already wet with anticipation.
An erection pointing right at the girl.
Her eyes bulged out at the sight of this beast, and then those same
eyes slowly looked down at her tiny lips. And she shook her head once
again.
Seconds later, he slowly came over to her and gently took her hands,
and led her off the table.
“What?” she asked. “Where are we going?”
“On your knees,” he told her, matter-of-factly.
“Why?”
“On your knees. Please.”
She did what he asked and then looked up at him questioningly. “What
do you want me to do?” she whispered.
“Take me into your mouth.”
“But that’s filthy, Mr. O! Our church—”
“—Please.”
“I—I don’t know what to do.”
“Just open your mouth.”
She reluctantly complied. And he took hold of her chin and slipped
himself through her sweet lips, resting his member on her moist wet
tongue. And he started shivering with pleasure.
Then, she started gagging. And he instantly withdrew.
“Through your nose,” he uttered. “Breathe through
your nose.”
He entered her mouth again, and again he shivered. “Oh, my
fucking God!” he screamed, holding onto her face for dear life
with his shaky hand.
And then he started pounding himself into her mouth uncontrollably,
with her saliva dripping down, first onto her chin and his hand, and
then onto the carpeted floor.
Suddenly he pulled out once more, gasping for breath. And a drop of
white fell from his erection onto the floor below.
“Are you all right?” she asked fearfully.
“Oh, God,” he replied. “Yes, I’m all right.
I’m more than all right. Way more.”
“Really? I did it okay?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Well, is . . . is that it?”
“No,” he told her, shaking his head. “That was just
the beginning.”
“What next?” she whispered.
“Lie down. On your side.”
“Should I get undressed first?”
“No. You’re perfect. Just perfect.”
So, with her jacket and shirt and bra still clinging to her body, she
followed his instructions and got on the floor, and said to him,
“Like this?”
“Yes.”
He stepped over her and sat down behind her, and then stretched out
along her length; and, after grabbing his glistening erection with
his right hand, he lifted her leg and pointed his member at her
swollen lips, letting it rest there gently.
“But it’s so big, Mr. O.,” she cried, shaking her
head.
“Sshhh,” he replied.
“Is, is it gonna hurt?” she murmured, closing her eyes.
“A bit,” he whispered back, into her ear. “Maybe
more than a bit. I’ll try and do it as gently as possible. I
promise. Just lay still for me.”
She nodded and he reached under her to take hold of her right breast
with his left hand. And then he struggled to push his massive
erection just a bit inside those tiny lips, squealing as he did.
Slowly he penetrated her, his thickness squeezing into her tightness.
“It hurts!” she screamed.
He put his fingers to her mouth and said, “bite on them. Bite
on them!”
She did and he penetrated her just a little farther, slowly,
agonizingly slow—with her eyes clenched closed and her face
contorted and shaking.
Suddenly he stopped and whispered, “Here goes, sweetheart.”
Moments later, he partially withdrew, and then slammed himself
forward.
She howled in pain, tears in her eyes and her mouth agape, unable to
even form words.
He didn’t move while she did this, but instead held his arms
around her tightly and waited for her to calm down.
When she finally did, he asked, “Are you okay?”
She nodded.
“You sure?”
“Yes. Go on. Do it. Just do it.”
Again he withdrew a bit. And then reentered her. Over and over.
Slowly at first, but he soon picked up his speed, though her
tightness kept resisting him the entire time. Every thrust was a
battle—a battle that made him shake with pleasure.
He started grunting like an animal, his hands squeezing the life from
her breasts.
At first all she did was grimace and groan in reply to his thrusts,
but soon she started shaking a little, too. And soon after this her
eyes began to flutter, just as they had done minutes earlier.
And soon after that she started meeting his thrusts.
“Oh, fuck me, Mr. O.!” she yelled. “Fuck me!”
He reacted to this by picking up his speed, which was already
impossibly fast. In and out he pounded that tiny hole, driven by a
carnal madness he couldn’t control—or even want to
control.
Suddenly, though, he froze, uttering, “Shit!”
“What?” she cried, short of breath.
He pulled out of her and a trickle of white dripped onto her
lips—lips that no longer seemed so tiny.
“I’m sorry,” he told her a few moments later,
shaking his head, “but I just have to do this.”
“Have to do what?”
He replied by penetrating her ass.
She cried out, “No, Mr. O.! Not there!”
“Yes!” he cried back. “Yes!”
Again he started pounding himself into her, and again squeezed her
small breasts—driven by that same carnal madness. Only now it
was somehow even madder.
She begged him to stop, but he just couldn’t.
“Please!” she hollered.
“Just a little more, sweetheart! Just a little more!”
He picked up his speed even further, and screamed and shook, with
tears rolling down his face.
Then, he withdrew from her. And rose to his feet.
“Get up,” he said. “On your knees.”
She sat up and looked up at his sweaty face, wiping the moisture away
from her own.
“Stroke it,” he commanded.
“Stroke it?” she questioned, not understanding.
“Please!”
She reluctantly put her hand around his sticky erection and gently
moved it downward. “Like that?” she asked.
“Harder!” he cried. “And faster! Do it now—or
I’ll have to come in your ass!”
She did what he said.
“Harder!” he demanded. “Harder!”
She whipped her hand over his reddening member as fast and as hard as
she could.
“Ahhhhhhhhh!” he howled one last time before his muck
shot out over her. Some landed on her chin, some on her breasts—with
both eventually dripping down to the carpet below.
She kept stroking him afterward, though much softer and slower. And
she saw that his face was as red as his erection, and that his body
was drenched in sweat, and that he was still shaking.
“That’s it?” she asked.
“That’s it,” he replied, nodding his head with a
smile.
“So, I get the job, right?”
“When can you start?”
Barbara slammed the laptop closed, unable to watch anymore.
Truthfully, she couldn’t understand what made her watch for as
long as she did.
Like Rick in the video, she was shaking.
But she shook for a far different reason.
Her whole life was falling apart. Everything was destroyed,
especially her marriage.
14 years worth, gone in a matter of minutes.
She jumped up, tossing the table onto the floor as she did. And she
screamed and howled.
“I can’t take it anymore! I just can’t fucking take
it!”
Stepping backward, her head shaking uncontrollably, she reached the
kitchen. And saw the breakfast plate in the sink.
His plate.
She picked it up and tossed it into the wall—with more than
enough pressure to break it. And she howled again.
And then she opened the cabinets and started throwing plates and cups
and silverware—throwing them everywhere.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” she screamed.
“You all right in there?” came a muffled male voice from
outside.
She spun her head around and saw the shocked expression of a black
man with a shaved head.
A garbage man.
“You all right?” he repeated, with genuine concern.
When she didn’t reply, or even move, he ran off somewhere.
Moments later, the doorbell rang. The one to the kitchen door.
Like a zombie, Barbara took a step toward it. And then another. And
when she found herself in front of the door, she opened it. And
looked up at the gorgeous man she had seen out her window.
He was big and tall, with a face of an African god.
“You all right?” he once again asked.
Suddenly, his eyes moved downward, onto her body.
Following his, she looked at herself, and saw that her robe was open.
She was naked to him.
And he saw that she was beautiful, with a firm body and flawless
skin.
She opened her mouth to say something. But nothing came out. So, she
just shook her head and slowly backed up into the kitchen.
And he stepped inside after her.
###
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