He was sitting by himself having lunch at a little place across from the office when he spotted her.

He couldn’t help but spot her. It was almost like a radar thing anymore. If she was in the area, he spotted her. Close up, down the hall, across the parking lot . . ., it didn’t matter. He knew the exact clicking sound her high heels made as she walked, he could smell her perfume before she rounded the corner. He even recalled what she was wearing each of those infrequent days of past when she chose to single him out for her undivided attention.

But that was then. Before the hours of therapy. Before his wifes threats of divorce and subsequant reconcilliation. Before the countless solitary late nights getting drunk, staring at the moon from his private patio way out back on his estate, back beside his pool, the very pool he had almost walked away from for a late middle aged fools fantasy.

But now, he was sitting in the café, alone, near the window, when he saw her leading a group of co-workers coming back from lunch, the next restaurant over.

Tall, shapely, athletic, with perfect legs mounted atop her usual 3 inch heels, she looked fabulous. As always. And today, like always, she had a different male coworker tagging along side her, fascinated by every banal thought she uttered, trying hard not to appear too interested. The new guy. The clueless new guy. Like he had once been.

And, of course, this new male coworker was married. Of course.

That’s how she liked her tease.

Or perhaps, that's how she liked to share her pain.

The Cheerleader!



Is she fully developed in your mind yet?

Does this end with her being found face down in a DC park right before 911?

For the secretary and all that never was.





It's not Greener on the other side.


; )

Four years now he had been torturing himself over her, a slow agonizing watertable kind of torture wherein he just knew any minute he would drown from his misplaced lust. A dance, perhaps. A slow, sickening dance through the corridors of the executive suite, making eye contact on the not so innocent walkabout, accidentally showing up at the copier at the same time, her “interviews” of personal questions inquiring about the most recent status of ones marriage and whether one was happy or not in said marriage.

What he didn’t know, and what it took the better part of four years for him to figure out, was the every new man in the office got the “interview,” and the eye contact, and the flirtatious smile and the accidental rendevous at the copy machine. And some had even left their wives for her. And, for some reason, those same men later went running back to those very same wives. For some reason.

And what he didn’t know was that to those who had been through the “interview,” and who had then snickered at him and his obvious school boy crush on her, had given her her own, less than flattering nickname.

The Black Widow.

Or, as a much more mature man had confided to him,

“Sure she’ll fuck you. And it will be the best fuck of your life. And the she’ll bite your head off. And then she’ll make sure everyone knows what you’ve done . . ., before your dick dries. Just for sport."

"Enjoy yourself, son. Unless, that is, you want to keep your job."

So this is what you've been working on back there.

Things had started out innocently enough.

Shortly after he had hired on to a high level executive position he was introduced to all of the employees, including her.

That day she was wearing a brown patterned short sleeved blouse with a red skirt cut high up her thigh, a gorgeous well toned thigh that, he later found out, saw the inside of a gym every morning at 4:30 a.m. Her curly, almost frizzy honey blond hair was tossed up and over and maddeningly all about, and she beamed him with her infectious smile that pretended interest. He beamed her back with his own well practiced high octane smile that said, without speaking, “you look marvelous!”

“Mike,” his tour guide introduced, “this is Mona. Mona, Mike.”

And that was it. Innocent. They exchanged their "Hi's!" and shook hands and the tour continued. And as he walked on to the next introduction he glanced back at her and noticed her glancing back at him from her cubicle and that was it.

Innocent.

Until, say, about five weeks later. And then the heat in his head turned up a notch or three.

It was the week before her 40th birthday, when she was still all of 39 going on 22. She was wearing a black miniskirt and a black short sleeved sweater that didn’t quite come down to the top of her skirt, leaving just a hint of belly in view. She liked to show off her belly when she thought she could get away with it, regardless of how inappropriate a little hint of belly might be in the workplace. Her belly, like the rest of her body, most especially her backside, was wound tight and taught with perhaps less than ten percent body fat to be found anywhere on her. With that little body fat she didn’t have much to spare topside, but the perfect view from behind could convert any boob man into a fan of hers. She was just that buffed out. And she was turning 40 next week.

“So,” she asked, “its my birthday . . ., how old do you think I’ll be?”

Yeah, she was well practiced at being coy, and the age inquiry was her opening line for the afternoon tease feast. But then, she had never met anyone like him. He was, after all, a sorta kinda trial lawyer, a retired military officer, a one time attack helicopter pilot and one very experienced in the art of playing mental footsies with the very attractive. At least, back in the day before marriage and mortgages and kids and private school tuitions, he had been rather accomplished in the art of closing and engaging the very, very attractive. He simply sensed a weak point on his target of choice and then closed for the attack. And, he figured, a nearly 40 year old woman, albeit a very hot looking nearly 40 year old woman who dressed in spike heels and miniskirts at work as if she were competing with 22 year olds probably thinks she can still pass for 22. And that, he figured was her weak spot.

“How old?,” he mused . . . ., “I’d say . . ., maybe . . ., not a day over 45. Am I close?”

Her eyes flashed instant anger, the hook was set. “45!!?”

That’s all she said as she spun on her spiked heels and stomped off. But then, he thought, the sight of her taught backside shrink wrapped in black painted on miniskirt made it all worthwhile and his afternoon looked up from that point on.

I hate high heels.

Not me.

Me neither

They're comfortable.....

Good story so far Green, you have me intrigued.

The next three months or so a familiar patterned developed that would be the hallmark of their non-relationship. She pretended to ignore him, he pretended to irritate her, she would glare him down in the halls, he would shoot her a high octane smile and then turn off the charm just as quick.. Business as usual mixed with just a touch of childish interplay along the lines of “I am so not interested in you,” countered by a return volley of “No, I am so not interested in you more.”

The verbal exchanges were brief and limited to a “Hi Mike,” and “Hi, Mona” as they went about their respective business, he general counsel and she administrative secretary for another department. That they didn’t work directly together was, perhaps, a mixed blessing or perhaps curse. If they had worked together he in all likelihood wouldn’t have gotten any work done, yet because they didn’t work together the slow burn tease continued, as each pretended to ignore each other, yet as they each caught one staring at the other from a distance.

And then, again, a perhaps chance rendevous at the copy machine where she proudly explained that she had just entered the real estate market by purchasing a condominium. He himself had owned several houses with his wife and now he and she had a common topic to discuss over pretend photocopying.

And then, she made what he forever after thought of as “her move” and he blew it.

“So,” she said, “I bought a couple of ceiling fans and now I need to get them installed, I guess this weekend . . ., Are you any good with electrical work?”

It was that quick . . ., and he froze up.

“Uh,” he stammered, “I’m not so good with electrical or plumbing,” he replied. Why plumbing, he instantly asked himself and just as quickly realized, it wasn’t her electrical that she wanted looked at! Damn!

“Yeah . . .,” she replied, just as quickly, “never mind . . ., forget I asked . . .” and then she was gone, leaving him by the copy machine wondering what the f just happened.

Steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerike 2

And thus the pattern was set. She looked hot and irritated at him one day, and then flirtatious and inviting the next. He knew she really wasn’t irritated at him and she knew he really wasn’t going to take her up on the flirtation. It kinda sorta worked for both of them or at least, it kinda sorta worked for him. He got a fantasy girl to occasionally dwell on. He’s not sure if she got anything in return.

But basically, they remained strangers. Though they exchanged the usual hallway pleasantries, and though it was obvious, at least to him, that they shared a mutual attraction, things were what they were. He was a married man with a wife and kids and mortgage and private school tuition and a pool on a big estate and while he made damned good money, he didn’t make damned good money enough to pay alimony, child support, two households and all the other crap that came if and when ones wife finds out one is cheating with a secretary from the office. And as much as he wanted to “go there,” he didn’t “go there” because, well, just because he knew that his future would be making damn good money and living out of a car if his wife ever so much as suspected that deep down, he really, really wanted to be boning that secretary from work.

So he tortured himself. Over, and over and over again. And he thought of her constantly. And he knew the sound of her heels clicking on the tile floors of the hallways as she walked up behind him, and he knew the smell of her perfume before she turned the corner, and he remembered the details of her attire from each chance encounter, and every six weeks or so she’d interview him once again at the copy machine, inquiring about how things were going with his marriage and whether he was happy or not and the usual sort of things. And he would play along and savor every moment of those chance encounters and relish her flirtatious moments whenever they came about. And at some point, he realized, his attentions became a sick sort of obsession with her and he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

Day, night, he thought of her. He woke up in the middle of the night and stared at the ceiling, thinking about her while his wife softly snored in the bed next to him. He was spell bound and disturbed and frustrated and obsessed. And he was making his life his own living hell.

Green, one suggestion ..

Take a sledge hammer to your computer before the wife reads this.

Will it end up being a tranny?

Green, just a short story?


I think it's classified as 'torture' under the Geneva Convention.

Ok, then I think I'll make some coffee.

Hurry up and get to the shaved pussy parts.

And unfortunately for him, at the same time he is experiencing this weird kind of sorta maybe attraction at work, his marriage really is suffering at home. Perhaps he and his wife were getting bored with one another, perhaps he was putting in too much time thinking about work (ahem), perhaps it was a combination of things, but his wife was letting him know in her own personal way that . . , well . . ., things weren’t working out too well.

Mainly, his wife lost interest in the “marital” aspect of marriage. Peri-menopausal, perhaps. He getting a little too thick in the waist for her taste, perhaps. He not measuring up to her parents expectation, perhaps. Or maybe she just liked the fact he was gone 13 hours a day and gave her all his money. Perhaps.

But things weren’t working out too well at home. And he was tortured. He did, after all, love his wife. He did, after all, bust his ass to give her and the kids a good life. He did, after all (OK, he blew it, but we won’t go there), turn down the opportunity to inspect the Cheerleader’s electrical and, more likely, plumbing (and he still pains himself with mental images of what he imagines are her perfectly groomed girl parts).

No love at home. Not allowing love at work. Mental health devolving into mental hell.

It was his life, and it was his doing. Like combat low crawling over ten miles of broken glass, he set himself up and now he was living in his own personal hell.

And he couldn’t keep his heart from racing each time he heard that special click of heels coming down the hall or that special scent of perfume about to round the corner.

And so he gets drunk on his special patio on the back of his estate out by his pool, staring up at the moon, wondering why the hell he did this to himself.

Tell us about his wife fucking the pool boy.

Very nive, Green...

I was wondering when you were going to post some of your writings.

Looking forward to more...

Nive, very nive.

He needs to think that way about his wife, but then that's what makes you, you.

Well where's the rest man, come on now!! You just can't leave people hanging like this.

Yea, there's about 4 of them at my workplace.

Nothing but trouble...

Keep lots of people around, and you're safe®.

needs some panty lines... or skirt riding up to reveal stocking tops

'it was the rare modern female who would herself deign to don that time-honoured weapon of male seduction; the garter belt and stockings'

maybe some sheer blouses... and panty lines

'her sheer black bikini panties shone through the lilting fabric of her tight white skirt... and he knew from before how every cotton crotch of her endless pairs of shiny panties was cutout... this aside from the evidence provided by her sweet scent meshing with nylon and wafting through the air about her'...

the clickety clack of the heels is a good start though... and the part about 'she could convert a boob man into a leg man'...

not bad... i would have made her raven-haired with pale skin and blue or green eyes... with a betty page hairstyle... bangs... maybe that could be another character...

either way, perhaps you should have an episode where she coaxes him into wearing a penis chastity tube... and how he tries to explain that one to his wife...

or maybe she leaves scratches from her bright red fingernails, up and down his back...

maybe throw in some more drugs, aside from plain booze... just some thoughts...

maybe some secret society action; dimensional doors; astral portals... inhuman creatures... succubi

or not

I like the audio of the tap-tap-tapping of the heels in this story. It’s pervasive and an immediate association.

I’m always conscious of it when I wear heels, and that’s part of the reason I like wearing them. (And the times when I don’t).

Thanks. I'll try to get to Chapter 2 today.

I think we need to flesh out the home life before we go much further.

Eagerly awaiting chapter 2 here.


My favorite line:

Four years now he had been torturing himself over her, a slow agonizing watertable kind of torture wherein he just knew any minute he would drown from his misplaced lust.