My Weekend in Portland -- Chapter 1 of 15 (MF FF MFF, slow)

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WARNING -- This is a work of erotic fiction intended only for
readers of a legally responsible age in the jurisdiction where
they live. This work may be archived and redistributed, but it
may not be sold or changed in any way. I encourage comments and
criticism.
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By Chaz Thain

Portland is a great town. In fact, I used to live there until I
was pushed out of my job for reasons I didn't understand at the
time. More about that later.

Anyway, I live in San Francisco now, and one day my boss told me
to get packed and head for Portland. One of our top clients
needed some serious hand-holding. So I flew north expecting
anything up to a week of frantic, 12-hour days with the jittery
clients.

I was able to quickly get our clients past their big problems and
they were pleasantly surprised when I cleared up several smaller
glitches as well. We were done by late morning Friday, so I shook
hands all around and left with their relieved thanks ringing in
my ears.

Since I had an open ticket, my grateful boss told me I could
spend the weekend in Portland at the company's expense. I eagerly
accepted the offer but soon ran into problems finding playmates.

My old girlfriend had a new guy, and plans for a romantic
weekendon the coast. My best pal was dealing with his fiance's
parents, just arrived on vacation from the Midwest. Several other
friends also had plans, including one who still worked for my old
company. At least
he had time to buy me lunch.

I was leaving his office after lunch, heading for the elevators,
when I ran into another old co-worker, Ruth K-------. In fact,
Ruth used to be my supervisor. Our relationship had varied from
strained politeness to occasional moments of genuine warmth, but
she was not an easy woman to get along with. One day she could be
warm and personal, the next cold and aloof. We had gotten along
fine at work and really had no relationship outside the office.

So I was surprised by her reaction when we met by chance. Ruth
hauled me into her office and sat me down to talk as if we were
intimate friends. She seemed genuinely disappointed that someone
had already taken me to lunch. Talking with unusual animation,
she seemed pleased, flustered and perhaps apprehensive at the
same time.

After a bit of catching up, she surprised me again by inviting me
to dinner at her townhouse. In fact, she was insistent. I
hesitated, but not for long. With all my other friends committed
elsewhere, my alternative was dinner by myself. I accepted Ruth's
invitation.

So at 7 that evening Ruth opened her door for me. A New York
native, she was 28 and educated at a first-class university. She
had worked several years for an East Coast division of the
company before getting an unusual transfer to the Portland
office. The company rarely transferred low-level supervisors all
the way across the country.

We talked and drank glasses of wine as she prepared dinner, and I
found myself looking carefully at Ruth. Her large, brown eyes and
dark, shoulder-length hair were her best features. Her typical
expression at work was a bit severe, her thick hair tightly
controlled. But when she relaxed her face was expressive and
quite pretty. At 5'7" and maybe 145 pounds, she was no fashion
model, but then I've always disliked the anorexic look.

She had broad shoulders for a woman, and hips to match, but her
waist, calves and ankles were relatively slender and nicely
proportioned. There had always been some curiosity about Ruth's
body among her male coworkers because she dressed for work in
clothes that concealed everything between her knees and
shoulders. Her breasts and buttocks seemed large, but nobody
really knew. The rumor mill reported she was a regular at the
downtown YMCA. But that was also uncertain, since most of us
worked out at a gym closer to the office.

Sitting in her kitchen while she dealt with pasta and sauce, I
became aware that Ruth seemed quietly but intensely excited,
maybe even apprehensive. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright.
Her conversation was a little distracted, but charming and she
displayed flashes of wit she rarely showed at the office. She
wore a loose, long-sleeved and high-necked blouse of some soft,
opaque fabric, closed with dozens of tiny round buttons. A nun
could have worn her brown wool skirt without embarrassment,
except that it was expensively tailored.

Through dinner the conversation was casual; work and coworkers,
my life in San Francisco, hers in Portland. But when dessert was
served, she became quieter, seeming even more distracted. Finally
we were sitting over coffee, in silence.

I realized she was working up the nerve to say something, but
couldn't begin to guess what. After a few false starts, though,
she nervously began explaining how -- and why -- she had gotten
me run out of my job more than a year before.

Some time before that, I had taken over Ruth's duties in the
Portland office while she attended a month-long training session
in L.A. She returned to find her department running smoothly
under my leadership, and her boss singing my praises. Looking
over my evaluations, she began to see me as a threat to her job.
She began a panicky campaign to reduce me in the eyes of her
boss, and succeeded too well. Orders came from New York to cut
costs and my job was eliminated even though Ruth had regretted
her actions by then. She tried without success to undo her work
and get me retained.

Most of this was news to me, especially Ruth's role, and I got
quite angry listening to her account. I kept my cool, though, for
one big reason. I found a much better job in San Fracisco barely
two weeks after being driven out of the company in Portland.
Getting laid off turned out to be a piece of luck for me,
professionally and financially, though I was less successful
socially in San Francisco. In a way, Ruth had done me a favor.

But she didn't know that. It was clear Ruth carried a big burden
of guilt over her role in getting me downsized. In fact, she
talked for quite a while, explaining in detail what an cruel
backstabber she had been. Tears glistened in her beautiful dark
eyes.

Finally she fell silent, sitting across the dining table from me,
staring down at her hands clasped in her lap. I couldn't think of
anything much to say, so I stayed silent. After a few moments she
took a deep breath and spoke again.

"I know you're angry, and you have every right to be," Ruth said
meekly. "Nobody would blame you if you beat the crap out of me
and left me bleeding in the street, not even me.

"If you want, I'd like to do something to make up for the
horrible things I've done to you," she said.

I laughed bitterly.

"There's nothing you can do that would change anything," I said a
little sharply. "Unless you can turn back time."

"I know, I KNOW, there's nothing I can really do that will fix
the past!" Ruth said, staring at me desperately. "But there IS
something I can do that would even the scales a little."

At this point I began to think she was talking about money, which
struck me as
ridiculous, so I didn't quite hear what she said next.

"Would you say that again."

"I could be your slave," Ruth said, barely above a whisper.

This time I heard just fine, but didn't understand.

"What do you mean, you could be my slave?"

"For the next 48 hours I would do anything you told me to do,"
Ruth said, her voice growing stronger. "Anything that wasn't
illegal or life-threatening."

She didn't act or sound like she was joking, but I still wasn't
sure.

"You mean if I ordered you to clean my house or give me a back
rub, or drive out to Astoria for fresh salmon you'd do it?" I
asked.

"Yes," she said, pausing, "anything."

"What if I ordered you to do something you wouldn't ordinarily
do?" I taunted, still not really believing. "What if I ordered
you to take off your blouse?"

"Is that an order?" she asked quietly, her eyes cast down.

"Yes, that's an order," I said, beginning to wonder how far she
would go.

She made no reply, but her hands moved up to her throat and began
unbuttoning the first of the tiny round buttons. Barely
breathing, my mouth was suddenly dry. I watched her unfasten one
after another until, finally, they were all undone and she pulled
the tail of her blouse with difficulty out of the waistband of
her skirt. Then she unbuttoned another dozen tiny buttons at the
cuffs and a few seconds later she dropped her blouse to the
floor. I could see from the heave of her breasts in her bra that
she was breathing heavily, almost panting. A flush spread across
the smooth, bare skin of her shoulders and neck.

"Stand up," I said, feeling bolder, and she stood, still looking
down at the table.

"Take off your skirt," I ordered, and when her skirt dropped to
the floor, "Take off your bra." Seconds later her large, pale
breasts swung free, her big, dark brown nipples already pointing
stiffly.

I stood and walked around the table to her. "Look at me," and her
eyes locked on mine. Hers were full of fear. My mind was racing,
full of ideas.

"Do you want to be my slave for the next 48 hours," I asked. She
tried to speak, her eyes boring into mine, and finally managed a
choked, "Yes."

"Suck me."


(End of Chapter 1)

----------------------------------------------------------------
WARNING -- This is a work of erotic fiction intended only for
readers of a legally responsible age in the jurisdiction where
they live. This work may be archived and redistributed, but it
may not be sold or changed in any way. I encourage comments and
criticism.
----------------------------------------------------------------
