Chapter 5

"B-but, you just gave them to me to type! Just before lunch, M-Mr. Norman!" the old bat squeaked.

Henrietta Marshall looked as if she was going to wet her pants. She wasn't crying yet, but she was sniffling and her thin, long nose was twitching and the skinny, mousy-haired old bag was about as close to tears as she could get. Her eyes were getting watery behind the shell-rimmed glasses she wore.

I glared down at where she was cringing behind her desk in the outer office. "Don't give me excuses, Mrs. Marshall!" I snapped. "Get those goddamned purchase order records typed-now! I want them on my desk in half an hour." Although I was really sticking it to her, I kept my voice down so anyone who was passing the purchasing department would not get an earful.

"I ... I can't get it done that quickly, Mr. Norman!" she stammered. "I simply can't do it." She had spoken as I pivoted and walked rapidly toward my plush, spacious inner office. I stopped and whirled to confront the scared, sniffling secretary with another irate glare.

"That's the sort of whining jazz you've been giving me all week," I hissed. "If you can't do your work and stop giving me an argument every damn time I ask for something, you don't belong behind that desk."

"I ... I'm sorry, Mr. Norman," she said, bristling at my threat. "Mr. Liggett never complained about my ... "

"I'm sure he didn't," I said with a sneer. "And he got dumped because he couldn't handle his job right. I don't give a goddamn what Liggett did or said. I'm running this department now, Mrs. Marshall, and there isn't going to be any more goofing off. Do you read me?"

I didn't wait for her to blubber out another tearful protest. I just spun on my heel and went into my office, slamming the door behind me.

I couldn't figure why she stayed around and kept taking the crap I was dishing out. Hell, I'd ripped her clear to the bone all that week. Always when we were alone in the office and always without raising my voice.

It wasn't just because of Myra Lawrence that I wanted Henrietta Marshall out of there. The dried up old biddy was too conscientious and loyal. She could be trouble. If she ever opened up and word got to Les Zimmer that she thought those purchase orders Jim Liggett was blamed for botching had been tampered with, I could expect to be called on the carpet by the short, wiry runt of a general manager and asked some embarrassing questions. I felt sure I'd be able to handle that sort of a suspicious interrogation and keep hedge-hopping around the truth so nothing drastic would come of it, but still, why let it happen at all?

Right then, I was in solid with the top brass. I was really digging in and making the dust fly-giving the impression that I was knocking myself out in the best tradition of the "do-or-die" spirit, giving my all for good old Space Age Metals.

For those first few weeks, that was my plan, because I knew Les Zimmer and the other executives were watching to see how the new purchasing agent could run with the ball.

Evenings, too, of course. Except that all I was really doing was pushing piles of purchase orders from one side of my desk to the other, making unnecessary phone calls to suppliers, asking about deliveries, checking prices, changing quantities on my previous orders-anything to keep the phones in my office ringing and a steady stream of industrial sales representatives parading in and out of the office.

All the time that the war of nerves was going on between me and Mrs. Marshall, Myra Lawrence was getting more impatient. Finally, one Friday night about a month after I'd taken over the purchasing department, that red hot woman cut me off. By that time, of course, we'd been through some pretty wild sexual games together, and I was hooked on her. She had an effect on me that no other woman had ever come close to duplicating and when she closed the door in my face, I was one unhappy guy.

The first few times she' said no were sheer hell. We'd be in a secluded booth in some out-of-the-way bar or we'd be dancing somewhere with our bodies pressed tightly together. Myra would give me a strange look. Not just a teasing smile or a taunting stare with her seductive black eyes, but a million-volt gaze that promised sexual delights that would surpass everything we'd experienced together.

She'd press her firmly soft, rounded breasts against me, and if we were dancing, grind her hips against me, too. If we were in a dark booth, she'd let my hand slide between her legs and glide up under her skirt, or she'd permit me to cup one of her superb tits for a moment.

Then she'd pull away.

"Is it getting difficult for you, Paul, baby?" she'd whisper, giving me another of those slow, high-voltage looks that promised everything. "Do you want to screw me so bad that you can't sleep when you go home and climb into bed with your wife?"

"Goddamn it, Myra," I'd usually snap. "Cut it out!"

She didn't have to tell me what I'd have to do to make her "friendly" again. I knew damn well.

By then, of course, Donna knew I was definitely playing around with another woman. We'd been careful, but we had been seen together by someone who knew my wife. Actually, an interracial couple like us drew attention no matter where we went. And the fact that Myra was so strikingly attractive just added to the stares we got everywhere we went together. So, it came as no surprise that someone who knew Donna spotted Myra and me together.

It got to be a full week since I'd done anything in bed with a woman except sleep-and damn little of that, either. So, on a Sunday night when Myra coolly refused to even see me, lying on the phone that an out of town cousin was visiting her, I stayed home with Donna.

It was a hell of a long evening. We sat in the apartment living room. She was in the big chair and I was sprawled out on the sofa. We watched Ed Sullivan and then the Sunday Night Movie on television. Rather, I should say, the set was on and we both looked at the flickering images. I don't know about Donna, but I couldn't have told you what I had seen ten minutes after it was over.

Before the end of the TV movie, I found myself looking at my wife's legs. Donna was wearing a dark brown outfit with a mini-length skirt that hit her about four or five inches above the knee. From where I was propped on an elbow on the sofa, I could see far up under her tight skirt and, to tell you the truth, I found that view a hell of a lot more interesting than the tube.

Then, I realized I was staring at the big, thrusting bulges in the front of her dress. Donna was a tall, well-proportioned woman. If she were not, her 38-inch globes with their ruby-red nipples would have looked ponderous and awkward. Actually, although they were smaller than Myra's, Donna's jugs were more than a handful.

I glanced up, taking in the neat, intelligent, pretty face and the way the reflection from the nearby table lamp and TV set highlighted the reddish-brown silken shine of her hair.

Suddenly I realized that I wanted to make love to her.

Not just her, I guess. Any woman would have probably looked good. And I didn't want to make love, either. I wanted to be screwed-but good! Donna was still my wife, I rationalized. She was there and so was my passion and desire, begging for release.

I got up and walked over to where she was seated. Donna's hazel eyes left the TV screen they had been dully staring at. She must have seen the lust in my eyes, because even before I could reach down and get my hands on her lush tits, she blocked me.

"No, Paul," she said without emotion. "It's too late for that sort of thing." Her voice was steady and quiet and bitterly final.

I grinned, shaking off her restraining fingers. "Late?" I mocked. "Why, it isn't even ten o'clock yet. Come on baby, let's go to bed and...."

"Stop it, Paul!" she shouted. "I don't want to....!"

She tried to squeeze her legs closed when I reached down to touch her.

"Now don't tell me that you don't want it, Donna," I growled. Unless she was getting some sex on the side, and I knew she wasn't, she hadn't enjoyed sexual intimacy with a man for months. Every fiber in her body had to be tingling with desire so I pressed my attack until I had one hand cupped over her breast and the other between her legs, stroking her love box. She let me pull her up from the chair and put my arms around her, but when I tried to draw her toward the bedroom, she surprised me and slipped out of my embrace.

Shaking her head violently, Donna shouted as she ran across the room: "No Paul, no! I don't want you to touch me! I don't want to go to bed with you, you dirty bastard! You'll never lay me again ... never!"

"You're my wife," I reminded her, my own passion beating savagely at my loins. I stalked after her as she headed toward the kitchen. "Damn it, Donna, I'm going to have you right now, whether you like it or not. You can just lie there." I told her.

She gasped when I grabbed her from behind and reached around her to squeeze the fleshy mounds of her breasts. She didn't fight me when I turned her around and started undoing the front of her dress. Softly, with no emotion, she said: "Do you want me to get pregnant again, Paul?"

Her words stopped my lust more quickly and effectively than if she'd pulled a gun on me.

I dropped my hands from her jutting bosom. She turned her face from me, but I noticed tears running down her face beneath her hair which has tumbled forward.

"Go to....to your other woman," she said with her voice on the point of cracking. "Go to that black slut everyone in town has seen you with. I never want you to touch me again."

I wished to God that I could go to Myra right then, but I knew I couldn't. I left the apartment, though, and went for a drive out by the lake front.

When I returned several hours later, Donna was sleeping. As I crawled into bed with her, I was determined to do something the next day to change things with Myra.

Les Zimmer was in the process of dictating letters at his desk, when I walked in. He waved me to a chair beside his desk and went right on talking into the small microphone he held close to his mouth.

I lit a cigarette and leaned back. I wondered just what Henrietta Marshall had whimpered to the general manager when she'd turned in her resignation the first thing that morning. She was finally leaving after more than a month of enduring the brand of vicious fault finding and unfriendliness I'd been dishing out.

Unfortunately, the old prune had felt it necessary to explain her reasons for resigning to Zimmer. Myra Lawrence had phoned me as soon as she got the word on the office grapevine that Mrs. Marshall was in bawling her eyes out to Zimmer. Naturally she was excited about the old battle ax leaving because she knew she would step into her position as my secretary. Just to make sure Myra felt indebted to me, I had lied to her on the phone.

"I knew she was leaving, baby," I told her. "Didn't I tell you that it was all arranged. There's no reason for you to hold out on me any more is there?"

"No reason at all, Paul, darling," she cooed. "I'll make it all up to you tonight."

Her promise and her husky voice had nearly given me a hard-on right then and there. Getting my hands on that gorgeous chunk of woman again was all I could think about.

"All right, Paul, now we can talk," Zimmer said, switching off the recording machine. He folded his hands on the desk top and looked at me with his blue eyes grim and searching in back of his dark-rimmed glasses.

He frowned, preparing to plunge into the midst of what I knew was on his mind.

"Mrs. Marshall was in here to see me early this morning," he began. "In fact I asked her to drop by when I learned that she was leaving without even one week's advance notice."

"She told you I was a slave driver. Right?" I interjected. "That she just couldn't stand any more abuse from me. Right?"

"That's about what it boiled down to, Paul," Zimmer said, nodding his head. "Why were you so rough on her?"

I shrugged, acquiring a troubled, thoughtful look. "Maybe ... maybe I was too rough, Les," I said. "Mrs. Marshall tries hard, but....she had that job for a long time, didn't she, Les?"

He nodded again, still watching me with critical interest. "Almost as long as Jim Liggett. They'd worked together on our purchasing for close to twenty years. Why did you have to climb on her back, Paul?"

"Well, I didn't want to," I lied, "but ... Les, I'll give it to you as straight as I can. She was geared to ... to Jim's work speed. That wasn't fast enough for me. I guess I'm impatient, Les. I'm in a hurry to get things done and get them done right the first time."

I paused and took a deep, thoughtful drag on my cigarette. "Maybe I was rude to Mrs. Marshall sometimes, Les," I continued. "It's just that I like to get things done, keep things moving, and ... well, she just couldn't keep up, Les. It's as simple as that."

The office was very quiet. Zimmer continued to stare at me. He was absorbing my explanation, deciding whether to buy it.

Finally, Les Zimmer nodded again. "I suspected it was probably something like that, Paul. You'll have to watch yourself, you know, with whomever you get to replace Henrietta. An executive has to be able to get alone with his people. Human relations is one of the most important phases of any business. How you get along with others often means the difference between making good in your own career or washing out. I'm sure you realize that, Paul."

I put on a serious, grateful grin. "I want to do a job here for you, Les. And, I appreciate it when you take your own valuable time to steer me back on the right track. I'll try to remember everything you've told me. And ... well, thanks a lot."

Did he ever lap it up! A benevolent, fatherly-type smile replaced the thin stiffness of his lips and those keen blue eyes crinkled with friendly approval.

"You are doing a good job, Paul," he said. "Just don't let it run away from you. Yell when you get in deep water of any kind. After all, it wasn't too long ago that you were a clerk and I know you're still learning. I don't expect you not to make mistakes. We all make them. But you're doing a fine job. Keep it up and you'll be fine."

"I hope Mrs. Marshall will get a job where she can work at her own pace," I said, looking at the carpet on the floor. "I do feel rather bad about what happened, Les. I'd be lying to you though if I said I was sorry she's not around to slow me up. I need a younger woman-a girl who has the energy and speed and intelligence to handle the job."

Les stood up, signaling that our conversation was about finished. I stood, too. "Got anyone particular in mind?" he asked.

I snubbed out my cigarette and tugged at the lobe of my left ear, pretending to think about his question.

"Oh, I guess there are several girls in the office typing pool who could become good purchasing department secretaries," I said. "Miss Lawrence has done most of the extra typing that Mrs. Marshall couldn't handle ... and she'knows shorthand, too."

Zimmer grinned broadly at me. "She's also about the best looking woman I've ever seen and she had the biggest set of jugs in the whole damn company." He laughed as he spoke and walked around in front of his big desk. "Okay, Paul. Help yourself. You can tell Mrs. Hughes that you cleared Myra's transfer with me."

I grinned down at the runty, balding general manager as we stood next to the closed office door. We shook hands and I thanked him again. Then I left his private office and went off in search of Mrs. Hughes, the plump, brown-haired clerical department supervisor.

She gave me a bovine stare of frank displeasure when I located her in the cafeteria lingering over a cup of coffee. She and Henrietta Marshall were pals and she made it obvious that she considered me in the rotten bastard category.

"There are other girls better qualified for a secretarial position." she started to protest.

"Just tell Miss Lawrence that she's transferred," I interrupted, my own eyes becoming hard and equally chilled and ugly as I stared the buxom frump into silence. "I want her at that desk in my outer office and ready to go to work just as soon as you can tear yourself away from your coffee break. Any questions?"

The bitchy supervisor would have loved to toss her paper cup of scalding hot coffee into my face, but instead, she gave a contemptuous sniff, tossed her snooty nose in the air, and strode away from me toward a table where some of the other older females were gathering for the mid-morning gab fest.

She would do what I'd told her, there was no doubt about that. She would take her good old time about informing Myra that she was now secretary to the purchasing agent, but eventually, she'd have to do it.

It was almost noon when she did.

I was at my desk, getting ear-weary from listening to the canned sales pitch from a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed college boy turned sales rep for an industrial paint manufacturer. Then I saw Myra's 42-inch bust punching provocatively against the blue sweater she was wearing. She stood in the doorway and gave me one of those slow, taunting looks with her black, smoldering eyes and soft, full lips caressing me from a distance. It wasn't the same cool, stand-offish look she'd been deviling me with for almost two-weeks of hellish abstinence. This one was a look of pure sexual promise.

He stood up and when he saw Myra, I thought his knees were going to give out. He almost tripped over his sample case and when she stayed in the doorway so he had to edge his way past her jutting beauties, you could almost hear him panting.

Myra waited until I'd walked over, checked to be sure that the coast was clear for a minute at least, and then eased the door shut. When I turned to face her, she pushed her luscious tits into my eager, outstretched hands for me to feel and fondle. Then she eased the rest of her fantastic frame against me and we kissed a long, soul-searing kiss.

Her full, dark lips were sweet tasting and her tongue lashed against mine in a frenzy of rapid, urgent thrusts while my hands continued to squeeze through the softness of her sweater. I could feel the explosive pounding of her heart and the hard erectness of her nipples through her bra.

We broke it up in less than a minute, because both of us realized that fooling around in the office at that time of day was just asking for trouble.

"Tonight," I growled at her. "I'm coming over tonight, baby, and we'll have our own, private little orgy."

"You're ... the boss, darling," Myra whispered through her moist, slightly parted lips that were curved in a soft, satisfied smile. "I've missed our good times, too Paul. Tonight I'll show you how much I've missed you."

Her shapely backside twitched happily under the material of her mini-skirt as she opened the door and went out to her desk to begin her new duties as my secretary.

I grinned, looking out at her. She finally had her promotion and the considerable boost in pay that went with it.

I'd collect my bonus later that night!