He can order me around, insult me, and scream at me. I don't care. Every time he picks on me I take it right back out on his wife. I take it out on her hard. I call her the insults she likes: bitch, whore, slut. I get her to scream at me, to scream at me when she comes. I like the sound of my name on her voice much better than on his.

The company picnic is at one of those ridiculous private picnic parks, where the employees get a meal commiserate with their salary and station in life. Me and the wife and kiddies are in the level just above peon. We get hamburgers; the peons get hotdogs. The boss and his wife get roast chicken. I can taste it on her tongue, along with my come.

We're in the back seat of his car because his car is bigger than mine, and I love the idea of him driving to work every morning and home every night, thinking about new ways to make me miserable in a car I make his wife come in. She's totally disheveled, her shorts are on one ankle, her tank top's pushed up over her breasts, her eyes are glazed and her legs are wrapped around my back, pulling me in, deeper and deeper.

She already came. I lost count how many times, but I'm still hard, and she loves the feel of me inside her. I know because she called me at work one day to tell me while her husband was standing over me, getting on me about some little detail I'd missed. I don't miss anything with her. I know every erogenous zone on her body, every little spot where a well placed hand or mouth will send her over the edge of sanity.

But we're way past that now. We're in fuck land. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck land. Over and over, over her and in to her and out of her and in again, God that feels exquisite. The only feeling better I know is sitting in a meeting with my boss and remembering this moment, the sounds of his wife's squeals in my ears, the jiggle of her breasts beneath me as I slam my hips into hers, the wasted look in her eyes, the taste of her mouth, that feeling, that exquisite feeling the second

before

we

explode.