EXECUTIVE S SLUT CHAPTER 1
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Kristen was the only woman in the office with the audacity to wear leopard-print shoes to work, Martin knew that much for sure. Technically, they were boots, he supposed, not shoes, but they stood out from the corporate uniform like a sore thumb. With five-inch heels and a platform to boot, they raised the statuesque, frosted blonde to new heights; she paired them with some black skinny pants that appeared vacuum-sealed to those long, muscular legs and sweetly-curved behind, and a white blouse that she'd left open just enough to show off a healthy volume of cleavage and occasionally the upper edge of one of her bra-cups. If anyone dared to mention the tightness of her pants or the glimpse of her lacy bra, they'd get a withering look and a sharp tongue for their trouble, not to mention their calls would mysteriously fail to reach them.
Martin, to his credit, noticed neither the prodigious swell of her tits or the sweet peachiness of her behind; a married man of a whole two weeks, he only had eyes for his high school sweetheart and brand-new wife. So, while he'd heard murmurs among the cleaning staff and other guys in the offices next door about Kristen, he didn't see the big deal. He did notice her boots, though; they were too outstanding to ignore. He saw the bold pattern and the high heel and the gold charms swinging from the brass zipper -- tiny hearts, each imprinted with "mine."
As far as he was concerned, she was just the oldest woman in the office -- Martin had heard that she was pushing fifty, which seemed ancient to his 25 -- and at the same time, the newest secretary. His boss, a notorious tyrant in J. Jonah Jameson style, had been through three in the last year. Kristen had only started three or four weeks ago, but already Mr. Petersen seemed happier, so everybody was a little happier. Even his wife, Melody, seemed happier after he'd told her about Kristen. After a train of cute young girls had traipsed through the office, his loving, generous, kind -- if a little plain -- wife had relaxed visibly once she learned that the new secretary was almost as old as both of them put together!
"I'm telling you man, fucking prime MILF!"
"I don't believe you, Rodriguez. That shit doesn't happen outside of porn."
Martin didn't look up from the briefs on his desk. Sounded like a couple of the cleaners, coming in at the end of the day to empty the garbage.
"You go down there and look for yourself, man. Five bucks says you come back with a hard on!"
Martin coughed loudly. He really didn't want to hear this shit. Mostly what he wanted was to get home to his wife before it got late. He was already in the doghouse for postponing their honeymoon to finish up the Pauling project, but the trip they could take with the bonus he was looking at would more than make up for it. He checked his watch, then looked at the clock on the phone; he picked up the receiver, just to make sure it had a dial tone. Where the hell was Pauling, anyway? The weekly teleconf was scheduled for 4:30; it was almost 5!
One of the cleaners wandered past, pushing a mop bucket. He nodded to Martin. Martin looked back at his work. Down the hall, he could hear Kristen and the cleaner talking about something, then laughing. A few moments later, the cleaner passed his office door again. He nodded. Martin ignored him.
"And?"
"Holy shit I owe you five bucks!"
"I know, right?"
"Fuck I've never seen tits like that!"
"Perfect fucking MILF tits, my friend."
"What do you mean? Tits are tits, yo."
"Fuck you. Don't you watch any MILF porn? Big ol' cougar tits are the way to go!"
"You'll have to hook me up after work."
"Damn straight, son. Nothing beats fat, creamy, beautiful MILF tits; except maybe a perfect, round MILF ass."
Martin tried to ignore them. Same damn thing every damn day. What was the big deal with MILFs, anyway? It seemed like every time he turned around, guys were all "MILF this" and "MILF that." He much preferred his young little wife: sure, sometimes she was a little reluctant about sex, and maybe she didn't always want to-- "Don't you two have anything better to do than stand around all day?" Kristen called out from the other end of the hall; embarrassed silence followed, then hushed whispers as they wheeled their buckets back out. Heels clacked sharply down the hall soon after. Her face appeared around the corner, a frosted blonde mane of loose silky curls bouncing around her features.
"They bugging you, Marty?" Some people in the office said she'd had work done, but there was sign of the tight, frozen features worn by folks who'd gone the way of Botox; a few stray lines around her eyes and mouth betrayed her age to some extent, but otherwise her skin was clear, almost translucent. Mischievous hazel eyes twinkled at him as plush, pink-glossed lips spread in a smile. Other guys in the office would stare, sometimes, not really sure what or how to address a beautiful older woman; Martin, thinking only of getting home to Melody, was too distracted to notice.
"No more than usual." He said. Nobody had called him "Marty" since he was fifteen; normally he'd object, but running against Kristen's iron will struck him as a bad idea. Who cared what she called him, so long as he could get out on time?
"Let me know if they do. I'll take care of ya." She winked at him. Martin blushed. Kristen was nice, so long as you stayed on her good side. This was true of all secretaries, but she'd been slightly nicer to him than the rest of the office. Every morning this week, he'd come in to find a steaming cup of coffee on his desk, made to order, without any input from him. Every now and again he'd find a candy or something sitting on his chair. Nothing weird, of course; she was probably just settling into the office and trying to make friends. They were both outsiders, after all; she had just come in from an outside department, and he had only started a few months beforehand. She was the oldest person in the office by (reportedly) a decade or so; he was the youngest by at least five years.
"Thanks, Kristen. I'm fine, no worries." He gave her a slightly disingenuous smile, feeling the minutes slip past, and knowing he'd have to rush to beat the traffic. Martin checked the message light on the phone again, just in case he'd missed a ring or something.
"You look pretty worried to me," she said, stepping into the doorway. "Anything I can do?"
"Are you gonna be here for a while?" He checked his watch again.
"Here til six, probably."
"Can you keep an eye out and text me if Emil Pauling calls? I've gotta get out of here."
"Heading home to the little woman?"
"Yeah. Do you mind?"
"Not a problem, Marty." Kristen winked at him.
"Thanks!" Martin practically leapt out of his chair, and hastily scribbled his number on a post-it. "Here's my cell. Don't tell Petersen you have it or he won't give me a minute's peace."
"He won't hear it from me. It'll be our little secret, I promise."
"Thanks, Kristen. I really appreciate this. I owe you one" Martin swept some papers hastily into his briefcase. "Nice kicks, by the way."
"Why thank you, Marty," she gushed. "Sucking up to me will get you everywhere."
Martin laughed. "Don't let Melody hear you say that. She gets kinda jealous."
"Sounds like somebody not as secure as she'd like to be." Kristen winked again. "It's our little secret. Have a good night, Marty."
"You too." He grabbed his case and his jacket, letting the jab at Melody slide. "See you tomorrow."
His phone didn't buzz on the way out of the building. It stayed silent on the drive home. There was nothing during dinner, or while he did the dishes, either. It wasn't until after he and Melody had curled up together on the couch Scrambling, he yanked his phone out of his pocket.
hey marty its kris
just fyi no call from pauling
Martin cursed under his breath. Pauling lived about four and a half hours to the east -- it was way late over there. There was no call coming tonight, which would mean a long day tomorrow trying to sort shit.
"You okay babe?" Melody asked; she was snuggled up comfortably in thick fleece PJs. Enormous stylized pigs leered out at him from the fabric.
"Yeah." He ran his hand through his hair. "This Pauling thing is gonna take longer than I expected, I think."
He thumbed a response to Kristen. Dammit. :-( Thanks. I appreciate the heads up Melody pouted and got off the couch. "We're never going to have a damn honeymoon at this rate." She walked away, towards the bedroom; Martin was about to follow when his phone buzzed again.
no prob bob
He stood up, turned to flick his phone on the couch and it went off again.
what u doing?
Nothing, just hanging out.
with the little lady?
not anymore
oh. can I ask a quick q?
Sure. I owe you one anyway.
I need ur opinion on something.
Ask away.
got a date tmrw with a dude about your age. think he'd like?
What followed was a slightly grainy mobile phone picture. Ostensibly, it was a photo of a shoe: it was peach, with a towering heel, a subtle platform and a lacy mesh covering from peep-toe to ankle. Most of the picture was dominated by a long sweep of creamy white skin from upper thigh to pink-painted toes. For a moment, all he could do was stare at that long, gorgeous leg; all unblemished skin and smooth muscle with nary a hint of cellulite. Even Melody was starting to show signs of the stuff, and she still hadn't hit the second half of her 20s!
He stared, then closed the text conversation, heart pounding. What if Melody had seen that? What was he doing? He hadn't even looked at any pornography in three months out of respect for his new spouse -- not that he'd ever been a great consumer of smut -- he definitely shouldn't be looking at a co-worker's gams!
The phone vibrated again.
well? Appeared on the lock screen.
Well, your legs are magnificent, ran briefly through his mind. With a disgusted noise, Martin threw the phone down on the couch, and went after Melody.
"Hey Marty, you never answered my question," Kirsten complained over the phone the next day, just as Martin was thinking about lunch.
"Yeah, well I'm not sure it was an appropriate question to ask somebody you work with." he replied testily, not looking up from the Pauling stuff.
"Sorry Marty, I didn't realize. You didn't get in trouble with the little missus, did you?"
"That's not the point! You shouldn't be texting me stuff like ... like that!"
"Jesus, it was just a leg, Marty, not a picture of my pussy." Kristen said. "Look: I'm dating a guy around your age - he's actually a little younger than you - and it seemed natural to ask you if he'd like it. I figured it'd be safe to ask a married guy; one who wouldn't mistake it for a come-on or something."
Martin's face flushed when she said 'pussy.' He'd never heard a woman use language like that before in his young life, and certainly didn't expect it from one old enough to be his mother.
"Sorry, Kristen. I didn't realize."
"No prob, bob. What did you think of them, anyway?"
"They were," he paused, remembering. "Great. He'll really like them. You really date guys my age?"
"No," she demurred. "I usually date guys a little younger than you. You'd be amazed, really. The older I get, the more I attract younger dudes. It's the same for all my friends. They all say that the younger guys all want a 'milf' or a 'cougar, ' whatever that means."
Martin opened his mouth to explain, but nothing came out. His brain was too busy trying to parse what Kristen had said. He'd heard the terms before, of course; he even knew of the websites offering quantities of older-woman porn, but he'd always figured that it was just a passing fad, a flash-in-the-pan fetish of the moment.
"Um." He said, grasping for words. "Well. Anyway. Do you have those files I was asking about?"
"Yup!" Kristen enthused. "They're here at my desk if you wanna mosey on down and pick 'em up."
"Uh, sure?" Martin was taken aback momentarily; he was gathering up the words to tell her to shuttle them on down to his office like any other damn secretary in the building, but then the other end of the line clicked. He looked at the dead handset in his fist. "Oookay."
He debated silently with himself on the question of whether or not it was worth the time, effort or possible ramifications to call her back to tell Kristen to just deliver the files. Shaking his head, Martin pushed away from his desk and stood. Less fighting would be more better.
Strolling down the hall, he noticed that just about everybody had already cleared out for lunch; most of the office doors were closed. Had they all gone out together and not told him? Again? Even Kristen wasn't at her desk.
"Great." Taking care not to touch anything, Martin craned over her workspace, trying not to read any filenames or documents but scanning for the Pauling files he needed.
"Marty, is that you?" Kristen's voice came from behind Petersen's closed door.
"Yes?" He said, wondering what was going on in there. He could hear the rustling of clothes and tried not to think about what that probably meant.
"I'm just changing real quick before I head to lunch, but I tucked your files in my desk drawer for safe keeping. I didn't want to get 'em mixed up with anybody else's. You can grab 'em if you want. Bottom drawer, left-hand side." Easing around the side of the desk and feeling like he was invading her privacy, Martin saw that Kristen clearly made use of the space underneath it as an extra shoe closet. Half a dozen pairs of heels lay in a jumble down there, including the peach platforms she'd texted him the night before. Whatever she'd been doing last night, the odds were good the secretary had come straight from there to work.
Reaching down, he slid open the bottom-left drawer. Inside, it was mostly empty, except for a pair of turquoise Nikes tossed on top of a scrap of black fabric. He heard Petersen's door open.
"Oh, shit. Sorry, Marty!" Kristen was standing in their boss' doorway, wearing a skintight pair of bright-pink running tights that read "JUST DO IT" up her left thigh. She looked like she'd been poured into the tights, which flowed into every curve and hollow from ankle to hip, and the muscles in her calves and thigh bulged as she posed with one bare foot hooked behind her knee. Her turquoise tank skimmed over her plush chest, showing not the barest hint of cleavage but doing nothing to hide the luscious swells of her breasts; she raised her arms to lean against the doorway, and a hint of smooth skin poured out of the side. "Bottom-right, I meant."
Pointedly looking away from the mature blonde vision, Martin hauled the other drawer open to find papers stacked up to the brim. At the top was a baby-pink folder with the label "Pauling."
"Sorry, hon." She said with a laugh. "I always get those two mixed up."
"No problem." Martin tried not to sound irritated, tossing the file on her desk.
"Could you do me a solid and grab my sneakers while you're over there? I'm going to the gym for lunch." Kristen unhooked her foot from behind her knee, and wiggled her pink-painted toenails at him. He suppressed an eyeroll, and reached into the left drawer.
Pulling out the sneakers, he could see that underneath them was a little pile of black fabric. Curious, Martin poked it with the toe of one sneaker, and it unrolled to reveal a tiny disheveled eyepatch of a thong, the first he'd ever seen in person. Melody didn't own any, only a cheeky pair of tiger-print briefs she'd bought as a joke for their wedding night. The fabric was a smooth, shimmery black except for the crotch, which had been stained white with-
He slammed the drawer as fast as he could, and stood up.
"Marty? Hon? Are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost." Kristen was looking at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes, but if she knew what he'd seen, nothing of it was revealed elsewhere in her face, which was a mask of concern.
"Yeah, I'm alright." He gave her a weak smile. "Here's your shoes," he waved them at the secretary.
"Can you bring 'em over? I don't want to get my feet dirty on this awful old carpet."
"Sure." Glad to get away from her desk, Martin walked out from behind it and proffered the shoes to her in an outstretched arm.
"You're not going to put them on for me?" Kristen asked, glossy pink mouth screwed up in an exaggerated pout. She unhooked her foot and wiggled it in front of him; looking down, he could see that her toenails had been detailed with tiny hearts against the shocking pink.
"Uh-" he started to say, but the word 'no' caught in his throat.
"Marty!" The blonde laughed with a throaty chuckle. "I'm joking! God, you always take me so seriously. I'm a grown woman. I can put my own shoes on." Kristen took the sneakers from his hand and gave him a wink. "I already know you're a Prince Charming; I hope that little wifey of yours appreciates it." She bent to put them on, smooth bare arms pressing into her outsize chest.
"Anyway, I'm off." Kristen whipped her hair back into a ponytail, all lazy blonde loops shot through with silver, and produced a white ballcap from somewhere. "I look okay for the employee gym, right?" She did a slow spin for him, revealing twin half-moons of bare, sculpted back where the racerback of her tanktop cut in; the tights poured into the thick musculature of her behind, thick rounded globes that swallowed up the pink spandex between them. "Normally I wouldn't wear so much, but I don't want to give the execs a heart attack."
"No, you uh- you look fine." Martin dry-swallowed, suddenly lost for words.
"You can't see through them, can you?" She grabbed a handful of ripe, mature ass, long fingernails digging into firm flesh, then released it. Her ass jiggled a moment, then settled back to perfection. "This old girl's gotten a bit thicker since the last time I wore these."
He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Nope, nope. Not at all."
"Thanks, Marty! You're a peach." Kristen gave him a slightly-sticky peck on the cheek and walked away. Martin, to his credit, didn't watch her striding down the corridor, legs flashing and ass sashaying back and forth. Well, not for very long, anyway.
Martin spent the rest of the afternoon poring over the Pauling file with his office door shut and his phone muted. He didn't even poke his head out until well after Kristen rapped sharply on his door, bid him a good weekend, and clacked her way out of the office. Only then, when he was sure he was relatively safe, did he slink away with his papers, secure at least in the knowledge that he had an exciting weekend of working from home ahead. He even managed to put the memory of Kristen's semen-stained panties out of his head for a while - all the long way home, all through dinner with Melody, all through dishes afterward and Netflix on the couch.
As they sat through yet another episode of Lost, Martin's phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. He and Melody looked at each other.
"Who's that?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Work, probably." He said with a sigh.
"Martin," Melody said petulantly. "You told me you'd never give work your personal number!"
"Then I guess it's not work." The phone buzzed again. "I don't know who it is, but everybody important tonight is right here. Just a wrong number or spam or some damn thing."
"Good," said his wife, who snuggled in closer. Fifteen minutes later, the episode rolled to a close, and the credits started. Melody stretched and arched her back, pressing her tiny breasts against the kitten-embossed t-shirt she was wearing.
"I think I'll turn in," she said. "It's past my bedtime." Marty checked his watch. It was 10 o'clock. "Are you coming?"
"Yup, just give me a few to get the lights off and stuff."
"Okay," Melody leaned close and kissed him on the nose. "See you there." She walked off to the bedroom with a little wave.
Martin turned off the TV and the box, and walked into the kitchen. Picking up his phone, he thumbed open the lock and opened up his text messages.
hey marty, i was wondering if i could get ur opinion again
The next message was a selfie from Kristen, taken with a full-length mirror in a bedroom somewhere. She wore a knee-length black cocktail dress, but the length of the hem was the only concession to modesty made. Made of some skintight black fabric, it skimmed the dramatic curves of her hips and waist, showing off even the indent her navel made in an otherwise flat stomach. A sheer black panel dropped in a dramatic "vee" from her neckline to somewhere below her sternum, and her compressed cleavage swelled impressively out beneath it, exposing nearly half of her fat, mature breasts. She stood upon one flawless leg, muscles outstanding as she perched atop a pair of black peep toe booties with a four-inch wedge heel. The other leg was crooked in a jaunty angle as she gave the camera a duckface pout with her luscious strawberry-pink lips.
"Jesus," he muttered under his breath, feeling a stir in his pants. All he could do was stare, really, although his thumb was poised to swipe and delete it.
Martin put the phone down and took a deep breath. There was no doubt he should delete the picture. None. But-
His phone buzzed, and his heart leapt into his throat. Then it went off again. And again.
He picked it up, fingers shaking. The last message was displayed on his lock screen.
omg Marty im so sorry delete that last one! dont look!
"Martin, are you coming?" Melody called out from the bedroom.
"Yep, just a sec, sorry!" He dismissed the last notification, and thumbed past the lock.
maybe if ur a good boy tonite u can have this
In the next pic, obviously taken moments from the first one, Kristen had turned around to present her ass to the camera, bending over at the waist and rucking the skirt up to the bottom curve of her ass. Even though she stood with her legs pressed together, a tiny keyhole of light appeared between them at the apex of her legs, where the tiny pouch of a robin's egg blue thong cradled the pouty peach of her pubic mound. An insignificant blue filament traced up inside the crack of her magnificent mature ass, apparently billiard-ball smooth and perfectly round. The fingers of one hand that were dug deep in the flesh of her behind, prying it just far enough apart that Marty almost thought he could see the tiny pink star of her asshole.
Had he ever even seen Melody's asshole before? His own wifey- wife's most intimate hole.
Martin's erection surged in his pants. Momentarily weak, he saved both pictures and deleted them from his text history.
marty? answer me hon. i didn't mean 2 send that 2 u! that was 4 my date tonite!
its done. you look spectacular, btw. have fun!
Deleting the rest of the conversation, he locked his phone, powered it down and left it in the kitchen.
When he entered the bedroom, the lights were already off and Melody buried under the blankets. Cock throbbing insistently in his pants, Martin peeled them off, along with everything else he was wearing.
"Martin?" Melody said as he crawled into bed. "Are you naked?"
"I thought I'd try it out for once."
"Kinky," she said. "Oh! Honey, is that your ... your thing? I don't think it's ever been that big. It's not even Saturday yet."
"I know," Martin slid his arm over her, kissing his wife. Her lips worked against his, and he pushed his tongue into her mouth on a whim. Hers lay there, not engaging. Pressing his bare cock insistently against her hip, Martin eased his hand up her shirt, seeking a nipple, and finding them both quite flat. Slowly, gently he began to rub one, and was rewarded by a gasp from Melody as it began to swell up and thicken in his fingers.
"Oohh, Martin," she said, pulling away from his invading tongue. "That's nice, sweetheart, but maybe a little rou- ow! Ow! Martin! Do not pull like that! Stop."
"Oh my god oh I'm so sorry Melody," Martin yanked his hand out of her shirt like it had been burned. "Maybe we can try again? Start over?"
Her brow furrowed. "Okay, just kiss me." They began making out again, Martin kissing his wife as gently as the raging rod between them would allow. He put his hand on her waist, and began easing it inside the waistband of her pyjamas, reaching back as he ground his hardon into her.
"Ow. Martin! No! That's- ow! You can't grab my- my- my butt like that." She pushed him away. "Stop. Just, stop. I'm not in the mood at all. I don't know what has gotten into you." In a huff, she rolled away as far as the bed would allow, leaving him with a powerful erection that showed no signs of flagging.
Martin rolled over and thought hard about going to get his phone, thinking of Kristen's perfect legs, the thick meatiness of her ass, the way her pussy filled up the eyepatch of her thong. Wondering if she would fill the blue one with cum as she had the black, fucking the hell out of a "good boy" who was his age with her mature pussy.
Soon, Melody began to snore. As quietly as he could, Martin rolled out of bed and padded into the kitchen. Picking up his phone, he weighed it in his hand, knowing there was no good in what he was thinking about, knowing that looking at his boss's secretary that way while his wife slept in the next room would be the worst thing he could do.
He set the phone back down firmly without turning it on. Instead, he sat his naked ass down at the computer desk, and turned it on. As quietly as he could manage, somehow wondering if Melody could hear which letters he was hitting, he typed "MILF" into Google and hit the search button.
The top results were a slew of news pieces.
>MAY-DECEMBER ROMANCES ON THE RISE, SCIENTIST SAYS
>Seattle, WASH (AP) -- "It's all there in the numbers, a statistical fact," said Dr. Oleanna Wu, speaking at the
>Kincaide Sociological Institute today. "Young men are turning to women half-again, twice their ages by the
>thousands, not only as viable or possible partners, but as preferable partners. It's a..."
There were half a dozen of these, all with the same quotes. He gave half a thought to reading one of the articles, but the pounding erection between his legs hadn't really gone anywhere.
The next link led to an Urbandictionary definition, and then the porn sites started. Martin checked to make sure the volume on the computer had been muted, and began a trip down the rabbit hole of MILF porn.
The rest of the weekend passed in a sleep-deprived haze for Martin. By day, he and Melody went about their usual routine, if a little stiffly. Following Friday night's performance in the bedroom, she had decided that a chilly detente would be the best course of action, and shied away from the least touch from her husband, though on the surface she was the very model of loving politesse. He on the other hand, longed to lay hands on her, if only as an outlet.
Under the guise of "working on the Pauling file," he spent each night glued to his computer screen, watching hungrily as ripe, mature women took on thick young cock in every combination and colour imaginable. Martin had never been much of a watcher of pornography before, and was instantly fascinated by luscious bare flesh presented to the viewer, all thick curves aching to be grabbed and manhandled. A good feminist, he'd been brought up to believe that pornography was inherently degrading to women, but these MILFs didn't seem to be degraded; if anything, their instant, natural command of the cocks in these videos venerated their sexuality. Even when they were taking on more than one man, they always appeared to be in control, taking what they wanted rather than the other way around, and taking with an ease that Martin found almost hypnotic.
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