Anniversary Cheat

We proceeded to his hotel room. His jacket and tie were off, as were my shoes, blouse and skirt. He was a great kisser, too. Then the room phone rang. He answered, and turned absolutely white. It had to be his wife. A kinky smile crossed my lips. I knelt and fondled his package through his pants, stroking his nice big erection, while he talked with his wife. After he hung up, I stood, smiled at him, and unclipped my bra. Before it could fall off, he seized my shoulders, gripping so hard it hurt.

"Listen. This is all a mistake."

"What?" The line was so stereotyped I gave a little grin.

"Please go. Now. We are not doing this."

I even chuckled a little as I smiled and grabbed for his crotch. "Something else says we are."

"No, we aren't."

"But why? She's gone to bed; she'll never know. And you can't say you don't like my body..." I shimmied to make my breasts jiggle, and stroked him again. He was iron hard. I enjoyed his confusion as his virtue made a pitiful last stand, and got even hotter anticipating my certain victory. I felt what a man feels when he is pursuing a woman and knows he almost has her, and when her resistance finally breaks, it will shatter into a million pieces.

"You have a..." he gulped. "a great body. And a pretty face. And you're very sexy. But there's one thing you don't have."

"What's that?"

"Love. You don't love me; I don't love you; we are not doing this."

"But it's just sex..."

"There's no such thing as just sex. It's broken promises. It's disrespect. Most of all, it's not love. Can I love my wife while ... while we're doing this? No. So we will not do this. End of story."

Suddenly it had become important to me to get this young husband into bed. I'd had him so close, I could taste it, and him. I tried pouting at him, crying, threatening, questioning his manhood, everything I could think of. He was hot for me, no question, but he wouldn't budge. Finally, humiliated, I put my clothes on and walked to the door.

"When you come to the office tomorrow..." I began coldly.

"I won't be at the office tomorrow," he said, his head hanging. "I don't think I can work with you after this. It won't prejudice your contract; there'll be another rep from my company." He raised his head and looked me straight in the eye. I could see that he was still hard.

"I wish one thing for you," he said. "I wish you someone who will love you, whom you will love enough that you will never need anyone else. It's the best thing on earth, and it's worth doing anything – or forgoing anything – to keep."

My whole face was flaming as I left his room. I knew as soon as the door was shut, he would be beating off over me, wife or no. It didn't help. I went home and cried, for the first time since my ex-husband left.

The next day at work was hell. Sure enough, Mr. Faithful wasn't there, but another rep was, and I worked out a good deal with him with nothing more than mild flirting. One of the partners who hadn't laid me yet called me in to say some very flattering things about my work. After the door was closed he said even more complimentary things about my attitude, then about my body. I reacted appropriately, and soon found myself quite efficiently stripped, groped, screwed, and driven through repeated climaxes. He was bigger than I had expected, knew how to use what he had, and quickly discovered how to push all my buttons. Which he did, repeatedly, enthusiastically, and in a half dozen positions. I was relaxing in a very nice afterglow – we had finished in spoons on the couch – when he threw me my clothes and told me to get out, he had an appointment in five minutes. He kept both my bra and my panties: he wanted souvenirs, he said, and the panties were just too small. Really, a pretty normal day, and the sex was well above average, even for me. But I still felt like crap when I got home, and I didn't know why.

There was only one thing to do. I called Brandon. He laughed at me. "My next few weeks are pretty booked, babe, but I can work you in after that." I heard the sounds of slapping flesh and feminine squeals in the background; why wasn't I surprised that the guy who took my virginity was enjoying some little cutie while talking to me? "How's the 29th next month? I'll only have the day, but I can do a house call for you." I mumbled I'd call back later. He laughed and hung up.

I was now 29 years old. There were a few more lines on my face, but I weighed the same as I did 10 years ago. You could still bounce a quarter off my ass, my tits still had the perfect teardrop shape with no sag, and there wasn't a trace of cellulite anywhere. I was still smart, I was still hot, and if I wasn't exactly young any more, you couldn't tell by looking – anywhere. And in the last 24 hours, I had been turned down for the first time in my life, and the guy who took my virginity was taking booty appointments – weeks in advance. What the hell was going on here?

The rest of the week was filled with normal days, normal work, normal flirting, and the normal amount of sex. But I felt worse and worse. Friday after lunch, one of the dweebs from IT was working on my computer, and something fell, and he got on the floor and picked it up. As I said, I don't flirt with the dweebs, but he got an accidental upskirt. He totally froze in place. His eyes got real big and he stared until I realized what he was seeing.

Another time, I would have thought it was funny. But whatever it was that had been bothering me all week boiled over, and I lost it. I pulled him up by his ear (I remember my grandma doing that to my brother once) and let him have it. All of it. Everything I could think of, delivered at top volume, straight into his now tomato-colored face, for a full five minutes. I think they heard me outside on the sidewalk. When I ran out of things to call him, I repeated a few for good measure, then turned my back on him. I lifted my skirt and wiggled my ass, to show him what he'd never have.

To this day I swear that what happened next was an accident. I truly didn't intend to do it, I never even thought about it, but – I farted. Big and loud. I walked out of the office to raucous cheers and laughter, not sparing a glance for the poor IT guy I'd just humiliated. It wasn't even his fault – he'd just looked at what I was showing, after all. Not that I cared, at the moment.

About an hour later, one of the older women in the office came up to me and uttered the four scariest words in the English language: "We have to talk." She made less than I did, but she was one of those people you have to have in an office because she knew everything and everyone, and could make it all work together. So I wasn't stupid enough to blow her off or disrespect her when she sat me down in a conference room and began her lecture.

"Of course, you're going to apologize to Geoffrey," she began. Of course. He would be a Geoffrey. But she was right; I was already beginning to feel ashamed of myself, especially for the bit at the end. I nodded.

"But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. You know I've been here a long time, and I've seen just about everything. I've seen a couple of dozen just like you, if you want to know. Smart, sexy, ambitious, not shy about using everything you have to climb that ladder. Don't get your dander up – I'm not calling you a bimbo. Though even bimbos are useful in their place, you should know. Your type is different, and you're as good a combination of brains and sex as we've ever had. Like most of your type, you enjoy all of what you do, both the actual work, and the sex. And you're good at it: you really do have it all.

"But you know, something always happens. Something causes them to question why they're doing this. They're doing all the same things, and suddenly instead of being fun and rewarding, it's all crap. That happened to you this week, and that's why you blew up at that poor IT dweeb."

What? Had the old battle-axe just called 'Geoffrey' a dweeb? I looked carefully in her eyes; sure enough, there was a little twinkle there that told me she thought he was just as much a loser as I did. I relaxed a little.

"Like most girls of your type, you're not very self-analytical. So I'll help you. What you're feeling is generally known as, 'Is that all there is?' You're still young, you're whip-smart, you're sexy as all get-out. You're successful in your profession, you're making great money, and you're getting sex on your terms when you want it. You have everything you ever thought of wanting. But suddenly none of it matters. There has to be something else, but you have no idea what it is.

"The bimbo types, of course, can go into stripping or something like that; it's a new adventure but using the same tools, and makes good money, so it works for them. You wouldn't last a week in the sex trade.

"Some girls react by leaving the work place, pouring their energy and their formidable abilities into their husbands and children. They almost always make good mothers, though a bit tiger-mom-ish. And it may surprise you that they almost all become faithful wives, no matter how much they spread it around while they were here. But you seem to have misplaced that nice husband of yours. Too bad: he'd have been just what you need right now.

"So what I suggest for you" (I was waiting for the 'my dear,' which was implied rather than said) "is a fresh start, using just your brains. You're smart; that will be with you when you're my age. Your looks won't. And you'll get self respect by succeeding without using your body. Unfortunately, you won't be able to do it here."

My jaw dropped. I stared. "You mean they're going to fire me? over this?"

She laughed – a real laugh, too, not fake or sarcastic. "No, my dear, they won't – especially after today. You're too valuable to them in all sorts of ways. No, the reason you must leave is that while you are here, you'll be valued at least partially for your looks, because you've trained the people here to think of you that way. Here, you'll always be the sex bomb with a brain, not the smart woman who happens to be hot. Do you understand?"

I did. I thanked her, and went off to apologize to Geoffrey. He really wasn't a bad sort – he wasn't too upset, and didn't try to push things too far or rub my nose in it. It's too bad he was such a dweeb; I might have enjoyed getting to know him.

I called in a few favors from old-timers (OK, so I gave out a few, too) and found out that my suspicion was right: the grey haired office battle axe had once been a young, smart, hot analyst, like me. She had obviously taken her own advice; I decided I would, too.

A NEW START (MOSTLY)

Two years later found me in a smaller firm, in a smaller town near where I grew up. I was already chief analyst, and I would make partner in two years when Fred Jenkins retired. We'd become the most profitable brokerage house in the state for our size. And I didn't sleep with anyone, or even flirt, to make that happen. Every new year's, I still send a thank you note to the grey-haired battle axe at my old firm.

I was 31, and I still had it, in case you're wondering. Every now and then, when I felt the urge, I would go out and pick up some guy. It was a night he would never forget, nor repeat.

One day I got an e-mail from someone calling herself Mary Harmon. I'd never heard of such a person, but the name Harmon drew my curiosity: it was mine, while I was married. So I read it instead of deleting it.

It turns out she was Mary Morrison, and she had been a couple of years behind me at school. It took some thought, but I finally remembered her: a tall, skinny, serious girl, dressed to hide what little shape she had, but if you took a second or third look at her, she was actually pretty, in an earnest sort of way. She said she had married my ex-husband, had seen my picture in the local paper (they were big on 'local business woman makes good' stories), and had persuaded her husband to invite me to dinner at their house.

I finally decided, why the hell not. It wasn't as if my social calendar was overflowing anyway. I wasn't mad at my ex any more, and had grown up enough (finally) to realize that it wasn't really his fault. Besides, I was curious to see what Mary Morrison was like now. So I accepted.

I stood on the front step of the smallish but immaculate house and smiled. It was so exactly what my ex would want. I rang the doorbell.

The door opened to reveal a little girl, about eight or so. I gasped: she looked exactly like the Mary I remembered, straight brown hair worn long off her face and everything, only shrunk to child size.

"Miss Lucie? Please come in." Her serious-but-sweet smile lent warmth to the formal address; she was charming.

"I'm Marie. Please have a seat," she motioned to what was clearly the best chair in the living room. She had even practiced the gesture, the little minx.

"Mom and Dad asked me to let you in because they can't because dinner is at a critical juncture." She pronounced the unfamiliar words carefully, but correctly. "What's a critical juncture?"

I explained, and we talked for a while. Her poise and confidence were the equal of many an adult woman, her sincerity and charm put me completely at ease, and she displayed what seemed to be a freakishly large vocabulary.

I noticed a formal picture of a handsome young Marine in the place of honor on the mantle. I asked if it were her uncle.

"No, that's my father. He was killed in Afghanistan."

I sat, stunned. What do you say to something like that? Whatever it was, I couldn't think of it – still can't.

"Please don't mind, Miss Lucie." The little girl's candid eyes and serious-but-sweet smile looked up at me.

"I never saw him, so I don't really miss him. And of course I have Mom and Dad. But they say we must never forget him and always honor him, and do our best to make him proud. He was a hero." She said it simply, as one might say 'he was a fireman' or 'he was an engineer.' We sat quietly for a moment. She sprang up with an expression of horror, suddenly a child again.

"Oh, my gosh. I forgot. I'm so sorry. I'm supposed to offer you something to drink. We have," she paused while she remembered her list, "ice water, iced tea, cranberry juice (but you wouldn't like that), or root beer (that's the best). We have other things too, but Dad will have to get them for you because I'm too young."

I told Marie I'd like a root beer; she smiled and almost skipped to the kitchen to get it. As I listened, I heard her say, "No, I want to take it to her!" Then an adult voice too low for me to understand. "I like Miss Lucie, she's nice." I heard my ex chuckle; little Marie was clearly getting her way.

I rose to greet the procession: Marie with my root beer, Mary Morrison Harmon, and my ex. Marie handed me my drink, which gave me a few seconds to compose myself. My ex smiled and extended his hand.

"Welcome, Lucie," he said. He looked more relaxed than I ever remembered seeing him. I never saw him that calm and happy after my weekend with Brandon, that's for sure.

"May I present my wife, the former Mary Morrison?" It was all done formally and correctly, but there was a warmth there that made what I'd considered the silly social conventions actually meaningful.

We shook hands. Mary hadn't changed, on first glance. But a deeper look showed a mature, happy, confident woman, secure in herself, secure in her family. I'd always considered her not in my league when it came to looks, but I had to admit that she was beautiful now. The height that had made her gawky at 14 made her elegant now; her simply-done hair perfectly set off a classically beautiful face unmarred by makeup and warmly lit from within. She still wasn't 'hot' and never would be, but she was beautiful in a way I knew I never would be.

Dinner was amazingly comfortable. I've never enjoyed eating with children, even (especially!) my own little brother, but Marie was more polite than many adults I've known. Her good manners combined with her childish enthusiasm to make her irresistible. I had expected Mary to be at least a little uncomfortable around her husband's hot ex-wife, but she wasn't. After dinner, my ex excused Marie to her homework (she'd been allowed to postpone it in honor of my visit); he promised she could come back and say good night to Miss Lucie before she went to bed. He then headed to the kitchen to clean up, by obvious pre-arrangement. Mary and I proceeded to the living room.

I hadn't known Mary well in school, but there was something so comfortable about her, that before long we were talking as if we'd been best friends. She let it drop that she'd been a virgin when she married Jeff, her Marine first husband.

"Then you must not have dated Brandon," I said archly.

"Oh, but I did," she actually giggled, "sort of."

"Sort of? I didn't know he did 'sort of.'" I had to hear about this.

"Some of my friends set me up with him. The bargain was they would get all the gory details afterward: gossip fodder, you know. He asked me out – I don't remember where we were supposed to go – and of course I wasn't going to turn down the most popular senior in the school, so I said yes. He gave me this look, and I could feel it all the way through me.

"It was a couple of days until our date, and he would sometimes see me in the hall, and give me that look again. The feelings got stronger every time. Finally the day came. I met him at school, so my parents wouldn't know how much older he was. He didn't say a word; he just started driving, giving me that look from time to time. I had never even kissed on a first date; now, every time he looked at me, I revised my boundaries again, to give him a little more. Then he looked at me and made this little speech about always doing it on the first date.

"Lucie, I was quivering all over like you would not believe. I'd never felt anything like that before. I was only 15, after all! Part of me – a lot of me – was ready to let him have whatever he wanted. Then I heard my dad's words in my head: 'You're worth more than that, Mary.' I asked him (with the part of my mind that wasn't screaming at me to just give in), 'What should I do, then?' He answered, too: 'Sometimes the only thing to do is run.'

"So I did. I got my legs set under me and put my left hand on the seat belt latch. I'm sure he thought I was rearranging myself so he could see more of my legs, and my skirt did sort of ride up. I got my right arm out of the seat belt and braced it on the door handle, and when he stopped at the next red light, I was gone!" She was chuckling at the remembrance.

OK, I admit it: I goggled at her. This shy little naif had actually had the balls – there was no other word for it – to walk out on Brandon. From his car. And at 15, no less! I was never able to do that, even when I had a husband to do it for. "Wow!" was all I could say.

"I think I waved at him when I reached the sidewalk, though I don't remember for sure. I certainly thought about it. After all, he couldn't very well leave his car to chase me, so I felt safe. I walked about four miles home, and that was that."

"What did you tell your parents?"

She laughed. "I told them he thought he was hotter stuff than I thought he was, so I left him.

"He tried to make some trouble for me at school, cornering me against my locker and that sort of thing. He could still arouse me just by looking, but I was never again in serious danger of letting him have me. Then one day, he had me pinned against my locker and was starting to feel me up, when this angel boy made him stop. He turned out to be Jeff, and after that, it didn't matter what Brandon did, or how he looked at me."

"You mean his look didn't turn you on any more?"

She considered for a moment. "Yes, it did, in a way. I mean, I could still feel it. But I knew that if I ever gave him anything, I would regret it, and besides I was falling in love with Jeff, so Brandon just didn't matter any more."