Chapter 2
Less than ninety miles away in Broughton, nationwide headquarters of the sprawling corporate giant that was Intercontinental Electronics Corporation, Jack Pierce was making time on his business trip. Like any smart executive on the way up, he was being nice to the boss' wife.
Jean Pierce's husband, Jack, was virile, clever and aggressive. In his early forties, he was handsome and well-dressed in an Ivy League sort of way, although he had never finished college. He had gotten a job as a lowly sales-correspondent with Intercontinental Corporation. By dint of hard work and being a good company politician, he had worked himself up to the point where he had become Northeast Area Sales Supervisor. It was a definitely big job, the obvious next step was a Vice-Presidency in Intercontinental-which meant sole control of any one of the associated companies run by Intercontinental.
Jack Pierce was hoping to be in charge of Harrison Products Division, I.E.C.'s branch in Harrison City. It was the largest manufacturing plant in Harrison City, where he and Jean lived, and employed about 1,700 people. So far, everything had gone well with him in his role of rising young executive. No mean feat in the "holier-than-thou" type of organization Intercontinental Electronics was supposed to be from the the top down.
Smoking was strictly forbidden on the company premises to all employees, shop or front office. An alcoholic couldn't possibly last on the payroll. Employees were encouraged to be solid, church-going citizens and executives were urged to become community leaders in Charity Fund Drives and Better Business Leagues. A juicy divorce was enough to keep a junior executive a junior until he was sixty-five.
"Of course, I'm not ultra-strict myself on these things," President Robert M. Satterlee would say to his Area Sales Supervisor, Jack. "You must admit, however, that a strict insistence on a high code of personal sex morality for our employees has given us the best corporate image in the country."
Jack Pierce agreed with the boss as usual. Every nod of his head, he figured, inched him that much closer to the Vice-Presidency in Harrison City he had his heart set on.
It was a most attractive position, so naturally there were plenty of contenders. There were other Area Sales Supervisors, administrative executives directly on President Satterlee's staff, of men throughout the country that Jack Pierce had to admit privately were as well-qualified as himself to handle the job. But Jack Pierce had an ace in the hole, so to speak.
Connie Satterlee, the wife of the president of Intercontinental Electronics Corporation, was his mistress.
He had been secretly screwing her for nearly a year now.
She had promised to look out for his interests. He knew she could do the job. A whispered word in the privacy of the I.E.C. Presidential bedchamber....
Satterlee would have his hands on her tits, all set to shove his cock in, and she would say, "Darling, who's going to get that Vice-Presidency that became vacant last month?" and he, all impatient to put it in her cunt, would say, "I don't know," and she would say, "Don't you think it could be a good idea to give it to Jack Pierce?"
Connie could swing it, she had real cunt-power.
Jack was positive of that. She was an aggressive, domineering kind of woman, who had a bigger voice in the running of the business than most people suspected. She could wind Bob Satterlee around her little finger. It would be no trick at all for her to catapult Jack Pierce into that Vice-Presidency he craved so passionately.
Jack had realized that from the start. And so, when it seemed obvious that Connie Satterlee was willing to be fucked by him, he had lost no time in taking advantage of that pleasant fact.
He had first shoved it into her twat on a cool September night, right in the Satterlee mansion. There had been a business conference with executives from every division there to discuss general problems. The meeting had disintegrated into several factions, and things were getting so sloppy that Jack Pierce had decided to take a walk, let everybody yammer away for half an hour or so, before he got things under some kind of control.
The Satterlee mansion was an ideal place for taking walks in. It was a nineteenth century structure of enormous size, it looked like it had about two million big rooms, most of them empty. You needed a road map to make your way around in it. A local legend had it that one of the previous owners had gone for a stroll when he first moved in and had been lost in the mansion for two days before his servants found him, groping his way through the basement. Jack believed it.
He walked along the second floor, past the meeting rooms and the huge ornate library, and found himself more or less accidentally entering the wing of the building where Satterlee and his wife resided.
A door opened. A woman stepped into the hallway, Connie Satterlee.
"Hi," she said. "Get bored with the meeting?"
"A little."
"Step in. Have a drink."
"Glad to," Jack said.
They went in. He found himself in an elaborate drawing room whose white, gold-trimmed walls and high cathedral ceiling bespoke the luxury of a bygone era. He noticed that Connie locked the door behind him as he entered.
She rolled up a portable bar. He told her what he wanted to drink, and she fixed it for him, mixing the drinks as efficiently as a man. He had always thought there was something mannish about Connie Satterlee. Not about her body, God knew; she was as supple and feminine as any cunt ever was. But her personality was a man's personality. She had an urge to dominate, to take charge. She wasn't designed for sitting around in genteel idleness and letting men make the decisions for her.
Physically, she was a short, broad-shouldered redhead, just under forty. She was graceful and sleek but gave the impression of having tremendous physical as well as mental strength. Her tits were round and full and high, her arms slender, her ass agreeably flaring. Jack Pierce knew all these things about her-and knew, too, that her legs were tapered and beautiful-not because he had fucked her, but simply because he read the newspapers. The First Lady of I.E.C. enjoyed taking photographs in bathing suits, the photographers enjoyed photographing her that way, and the papers enjoyed printing the photographs. She had even made the front pages once in a most revealing bikini.
But this particular night Jack Pierce found out a little more about Connie's anatomy than could be determined by the most diligent study of the newspapers.
They had a couple of drinks apiece. They sat close together on the couch. After a while Jack kissed her. She kissed back, tongue ramming aggressively against his mouth.
She said, and made it sound like a command: "Make love to me, Jack."
He didn't undress her. There wasn't time; he really had to get back to that meeting, he knew. So he simply lifted her skirt. He pulled it up around her waist, and was a little startled to find she wasn't wearing any panties. Stockings, yes. Garter-belt, yes. The garter straps encircled her waist, but between them nothing covered her but skin. She was stripped and ready for action, her cuntlips moistly pouting at him....
She laughed. "I just figured I might meet somebody with an interesting cock tonight," she told him, as he looked at her unexpected naked pussy.
He shoved his prick right up her cunt and started fucking her.
Jack Pierce was not the greatest and most virile lover in the world, but he knew how to please a woman. And Connie Satterlee was not a woman who was difficult to please. No lengthy preliminaries were needed.
And so that was a brief but most enjoyable screw as he shot his load into her writhing cunt and then Jack was getting up and adjusting his clothes, and Connie was lying there gasping and smiling a Mona Lisa smile, and then she pulled her dress down over her twat, still dribbling with his sperm and her cunt-juice and said, "I'll see you again some time, lover." He had gone back to the meeting and made it go the way he wanted it to go.
She had seen him again, and he fucked her again.
Again and again and again.
That had been September, and now it was the following July, and Jack Pierce knew every square inch of Connie Satterlee's cuntlips and cunt-hole by heart. His business position required him to make the trip to the town of Broughton at least once a week, and sometimes more often, to confer with the President of I.E.C. He did so. And he also found the opportunity for a little screw with the President's wife, once a week, sometimes more often.
And so, Connie Satterlee knew him pretty well by now, too. She knew the ways he liked to fuck and she knew what he liked to eat for breakfast, and she also knew that he was passionately desperate to have her husband name him as Senior Vice-President.
The place where they met, all the time, was a motel three miles from Broughton. The routine was always the same. Jack would drive out there and register for a room under the alias of "Mr. Rogers." Meanwhile, Connie would travel out to the motel aboard a municipal bus, or sometimes by taxi. She did not dare use a limousine, of course. The license plate would give her away. She always came in disguise: dowdy loose-fitting clothes, purchased especially for the purpose, and a big dumpy hat with a speckled veil, and whorishly thick make-up, and thick horn-rimmed spectacles. Nobody, but nobody, could recognize the shapeless, middle-aged woman as President Satterlee's chic wife.
They had been getting away with their secret humping for months, now. Jack had been a little worried at first, but not any more.
On this particular rainy July day, he reached the motel in mid-afternoon, checked in, and made himself comfortable. He had brought a fifth of bourbon with him, and while waiting for Connie he bought some mixer and some ice cubes from the vending machines in the corridor. She arrived half an hour later.
"Hello, gorgeous," he said.
She gave him a grimace. In her disguise, she looked absolutely hideous, and the high humidity contributed to the effect of the dumpy hausfrau.
"Wise guy," she said. "Fix me a drink while I get this garbage off me."
He poured drinks, while she stripped out of her formless clothes and scrubbed some of the make-up from her face. In a few moments, she was nude. He handed her a stiff drink. Walking to the window, he unslatted the blind for a moment, looking out at the driving gray rain. Then he looked back at her, taking in the supple contours of her nude, beautiful body.
She was good to look at, all right.
Her breasts were round as apples, only bigger than apples usually grow, and with luscious nipples. Her waist was narrow, her hips wide, her legs solid. Her asscheeks had a meatiness to them that Jack appreciated, but there was nothing blubbery about her; it was good solid hump, the kind a man enjoys getting his hands on.
"Finish your drink," she said. "Get undressed."
He nodded. He was accustomed to being bossed by her. He didn't really mind at all.
He removed his clothes. She came over to him and put her arms around him. They stopped facing each other, the tips of her breasts just barely grazing his skin. He was on the short side, only five feet nine, and he enjoyed being six inches taller than her. His own wife, Jean, was practically his own height, and that had always made Jack uncomfortable.
On the other hand, Jack had always regarded himself as the master in his own household. But here, this relatively small woman had a will that more than matched his own. She always called the tune.
They kissed lightly at first, then more passionately, his tongue caressing her mouth, her breasts rubbing against him, flattening against him, the nipples like two hard little drills in his skin. His arms enfolded her and slid down her back, down to her gorgeous asscheeks.
His hands played out over them. His fingertips crept about her asshole and then underneath to her cuntlips. He could detect the warmth of her wet cunt. She began to pant, to move her tits and pussy against him.
But she would not have been Connie if she had let him take the lead in their fucking. Jack waited for her to make her move, and it was not long in coming.
She pushed him gently down until he was seated on the edge of the bed.
Then she knelt before him.
Her head lowered. Her lips parted. Jack gasped in pleasure as she went into action, sucking his dong-head and then sliding her lips up and down his stiff shaft....
Sucking his cock like this was about the most subservient thing a woman could possibly do for a man. Yet somehow Connie did not seem subservient. She remained in charge, she remained dominant, even as she crouched there, giving him a blow-job in a way that could usually be interpreted as an abject surrender.
Jack's breath came in irregular little bursts as passion took hold of his burning cock. He wondered vaguely if Connie ever sucked off her husband. Quite probably she had. But Jean rarely if ever would give his pecker a blow job. She had once said, when he asked her to, that she didn't enjoy sucking him off and since that time cock-sucking just hadn't been part of their marital repertoire.
He closed his eyes.
He stroked her thick red hair.
He reached down, caught hold of her firm breasts, and gripped them tight, letting the nipples jut out between his fingers.
A long moment passed. The only sounds in the room were those of Jack's pleasured gasping, and Connie's lips sucking his cock wetly. Jack wondered if she intended to keep working right to the finish and let him shoot his load in her mouth. That would be out of character, he thought. Connie didn't go in for merely substitute fulfillment. She would want real pleasure at first hand, and she couldn't get that with his scum in her mouth.
He was right.
She got to her feet, and he saw that her eyes were horny and smoky with lust, that her lips were slack, that her breasts were rising and falling in agitation, that her tits were standing out in fierce rigidity.
"Lie down," she told him throatily. "On your ass."
Jack understood. He stretched out on his back.
This was one of Connie's favorite ways of making love. She had a number of favorites. They were all fine with her, all except the usual one. She found it somehow degrading and humiliating to let a man get on top and fuck her. That was good enough for millions of American women every night, but not for Connie. To her, that kind of fucking was a symbol of man's unwarranted assumption of mastery over women.
This way of screwing was a lot more agreeable to her, in a symbolic sense.
Because this way, Connie was the boss.
She moved to position, settling her moist cunt professionally on his stiff prick.
Jack Pierce gasped in passionate delight as she slid her hot cunt all the way down on his cock.
She began to work, gently at first, then more violently. Jack looked at her and saw her breasts, leaping and jiggling in front of his face, shiny with sweat, the nipples blazing like beacons. Her tits were doing a horny little dance of lust. He reached up and grabbed them. They were as hard as the breasts of a statue. When Connie became excited her knockers grew in some mysterious way.
She fucked faster, and then faster, spinning vigorously, using his stiff prick.
They were both sighing and panting, now. Connie was enormously skillful at screwing in this manner. She had had a lifetime of experience, a liftetime of demanding her cunt's pleasure from men. She knew exactly how to give any man's cock maximum stimulation, how to make the cunning cuntlips and clitoris ply their trade in the right way.
Connie brushed her breasts across Jack's chest, then raised herself a little and let his questing lips close over her hard, red nipples. Jack kissed one tit and then the other hungrily as Connie's belly, buttocks and hot cunt kept up a maddening rhythm. His pulsing prick was engulfed in the flame of her cunt's heat. She frenziedly began to quicken her humping pace and moaned as Jack nibbled those ruby nipples.
"I like that, lover," she gasped and her cunt went into frenzied working as a shudder shot through her body.
Jack groaned with each maddening grind of her pussy. His prick was reaching the point of no return.
Suddenly, Connie screamed "Fuck me all the way now, Jack!" as convulsive spasms of come ecstasy wracked her. It spurred him into shooting his load of hot scum into her cunt with a furious rush of intermingling mindless pleasure. She clung to him, her slippery cunt and buttocks still twitching spasmodically as they were both lost in the ultimate sensation of a sweet orgasm.
After their breath stopped whistling through their nostrils, the tycoon's wife asked her husband's star executive, "You like?" Then she wantonly swung her big, soft tits slowly across his face.
"Who says you can't mix business with pleasure?" the star executive murmured as his lips caressed each of Connie's tempting nipples. What a woman his cock felt ready for another hump-session.