Ned Samuels - Hand maid

Say good-bye to evenings out, say good-bye to middle managements slobs, Veronica said to herself. She'd had enough of all that at this juncture. Three downers followed by a fair-to-middling degenerated into the pits was almost too much to take. Sam Barber was smooth, no doubt about that. He came on like an ad from a men's magazine, but then it happened. Vern already had the script memorized: (1) this is an affair; (2) my wife doesn't have to know; (3) you don't have to play second fiddle.

Second fiddle! – more like symphony janitor.

So now Vern had her mind all made up. Days would be the usual office nonsense – the light chatter, the senseless flirting, the search for Mr. Right – but nights, she would be pure auto. Vern surveyed her body, and was pleasantly impressed. Her breasts were huge, her hips curved in the right place and her ass was outstanding enough to cause takes in the office, even on Monday mornings. She had a good apartment, too. The bed dominated the studio, but she had the necessities, like an eating area, and a sitting area, and best of all, a fireplace to warm whatever might be in need of simmering.

Vern's eyes skidded about and then settled on her package. It was a big package, but not that big. But not that small. Actually it was one of the most important packages the girl'd brought home in quite a while. Thinking of the contents made her tingle, first through the spine, then in more favored spots. She looked at it and fingered it. Vern walked over to the curtains, then she put the bag on the table. Vern needed a drink. Martini in hand, she soon returned to her little surprise. A smile escaped her lips. Come now, this label's a joke, she said. Vern looked at several pictures of a wholesome lass holding an elongated structure, applying it to her back and upper shoulders.

The caption read: "Learn how to relax. Let Vibro Lax let you sit back and unwind."

Vern began to hum to herself: "Dum da-dum, da… dum, da…" Removing the package, the young secretary's voice became lower, like a breathy moan. Oh, I am a young wench and I'm going to get mine!

Slowly, Vern opened the top, then began to slide her accessory out of the box, already conjuring her imagination, remarking on the vibrator's phallic qualities. It's all mine, she thought. No jilts, no wilting, no wives, no mornings after at the office, and best of all, now Vern was captain – it was her show. Vibrator in hand, Veronica walked over to her full-length mirror and decided to bask for a few minutes in her own reflection. Not bad, she had to admit, not bad at all.

Vern felt something deep inside of her cunt send some desire up into her skull. Sure, she was horny and she was proving she didn't need some corporate stud to keep her going. Why, she was a machine, a unit unto herself, the captain of her own sex ship.

She gazed upon what most men would feel compelled to look at twice, and then do more than look.

Then she moved closer to the mirror.

Vern delighted at her form, the way her brown hair fell on full shoulders; her eyes were large and brown, and if we make take the liberty at this juncture, a hotbed of power, when activated, bringing a man down on his knees, ready to beg for the box; then there were her breasts, large, in the eyes of some positively huge, but best of all, firm and proud; the rest of the young lady was on the thin side but strategically formed.

What did the Greeks call it? Pollution? Laying the body waste? Not at all, said Vern with a sly smile across her lips. Suddenly, gripped by passion instigated by looking in that mirror, Vern grabbed her breasts and began to squeeze them, knead them, push them together and then to the side, manipulate them until she could feel her spongy nipple getting hard, pushing into her palm, becoming redder and larger. Oh, ooh, she moaned to herself, engulfed in her own passion, and we might add, momentarily losing interest in her new toy.

Vern fell back on her rug and landed on several cushions, breaking her fall (it could not have been better if she had poised, aimed, and fired). Instantly male names and faces raced through her mind as her hips moved upward, as her hands wrenched her undies down below her knees, exposing her luxurious pubic hairs, and when she spread her knees apart, a seething, pink honey-box. The names passed: Jack Waterhouse, Marty Ingleton, Ross Ruens, Doug Meunier; bodies: fat, tall, athletic (ectomorph, endomorph, mesomorph) – one after the other.

Vern couldn't remember being so horny, because besides the comfort, they were all so real and all hers for the choosing. Pressing her hips up into the air, churning and twisting, eyes rolling slightly up ward, the lady conjured her scenes and then in a moment of recognition settled upon her material: John Winston, John the Con, the man with the schlong, or as the steno pool used to say, "Sshhh… it's long." Now he was all hers to live out again, this time without the jilt of an ending. She remembered.

"I'd like to defoliate you," he said.

"Is that right?"

"I'd like to defoliate, violate, and not even mitigate," he'd quipped.

Vern remembered it as if it were yesterday, the way she shamelessly bared her breasts beside him in the front seat, the way she placed his hand on her breast, right over the nipple, the way she cupped her hand and placed it on top of his crotch, feeling his manhood grow. She remembered everything. Placing her hand inside her slit at this point in time, she recalled the billboard outside the car, the way the "O", was missing from "COUNTLESS WOMEN USE DIAL", the way she laughed just when he was penetrating. She remembered how red he became, then joined in when he turned and noticed what tickled her.

Vern's fingers were moist now. Her finger had be come John's cock, fat and full. Vern felt her body from head to toe, pushing her fingers through her hair, ascribing circles about her breasts, then pushing downward on her sides (feeling the curve of her hips). Her mind's eye was dynamite, bringing dialogue into play until she wasn't sure what was fact and what was fancy. "Put it in John, put that big cock inside all the way." She could feel its tender, pink head penetrate and then the way the entire shaft seemed to enlarge once inside. Rolling her eyes, Vern tried to flatten her breasts, but the tissue was so firm – had such consistency – that they defiantly remained protruded.

She was in the front seat now: 'CUNTLESS' outside the window, rain pouring down incessantly, John's snipe thickening the air, "You're no frump," coming at her with his hot breath. The scene was chiseled like a fresco: John the Con's hand pushed from her stomach, then settled in the dark place under breast. They were naked (that was one thing Vern still couldn't picture – how the hell had they managed it?) and Vern managed to perch her leg over John's thigh until her knee was just over his groin. At the very moment she applied pressure, at the instant she could feel his member pushing into her skin, she pushed her titty upward, positioning his finger so that her nipple came forward, begging to be sucked, even bitten, anything! The more Vern pushed on her knee, the harder John squeezed, the wider Vern opened her mouth, the more tongue and spittle she received from that dynamo.

"Baby," he'd interjected, as if so excited he could no longer hold his tongue back, "I've had a lot of women, you know that; I'll be honest with you: secretaries, management people, lady execs, academics – a French teacher at Sorbonne to be exact – political chicks, but Vern, you're completely unique." Vern egged him, until he continued, "It's not just body, it's something about you, those… those eyes." That's when Vern realized that was her main weapon, drawing card, seducer, invoker, revoker, whatever the situation may call for. Some pash, she thought, but then she was overcome by what this man was doing to her.