The boss's wife and the boys at the auto repair shop

Our company sold expensive foreign cars. We had a peculiar team: the managers were all hardened windbags in cheap but well-pressed suits, the secretaries had silicone-like everything, and then we—the service department. The techies. There were three of us: Sanya, Dan, and me. We didn't wear suits, we swore, and we were the only ones who actually understood how all these fancy cars worked, and weren't just kissing customers' asses for a percentage of the sale. Taras Arkadyevich was the head of this entire cesspool. A fat, sweaty man in his late sixties with a perpetually purple neck and a gold signet ring on his little finger. He yelled at everyone, delayed wages, and considered himself a business genius simply because he'd once borrowed money and opened a dealership in the right location. We quietly hated him, but tolerated him because he gave us the opportunity to tinker with expensive cars and occasionally make a small profit on spare parts. But he had one asset who made the entire team, from the car wash attendants to the top managers, drool—his wife, Marina. It's unclear how this old fart managed to acquire such a woman. She was thirty-two to his fifty-eight. Tall, almost as tall as me, but always looked down on everyone in her heels. A typical trophy blonde, but not the kind that looks like a cheap barbershop doll, a truly expensive one. Tight black dresses that clung to her like a candy wrapper, hiding nothing. She had the figure of a basketball player: broad-boned but toned, with powerful, smooth thighs and the most luscious thing I'd ever seen—a huge, perfectly round butt. It wasn't just an ass, it was a dream. When she walked through the showroom, the click of her heels echoed in everyone's groin. Naturally, she drove the latest model of a black Gelendvagen, which we serviced. But, as always, it was the content that ruined everything. Marina was completely empty-headed, yet she fancied herself a socialite and style icon. She could spend hours on her phone, scrolling through the Instagram feeds of equally empty-headed idiots, and demanded to be treated like royalty. If we techies passed her in the hallway, she didn't even nod. She'd look right through us, like we were dirt under the wheels of her Gelik. That was what irritated me most: her stupidity and pathos out of nowhere. Sanya once said, watching her go, "I wish I could shut that thing up for a couple of hours so she wouldn't cackle." We laughed and forgot about it. But forgetting was impossible. Fate had arranged everything. Taras Arkadyevich, like any old goat, celebrated the New Year in style. He rented a banquet hall. The entire office got completely wasted. Sanya, Dan, and I, as usual, kept to ourselves, sipping on good whiskey on the house, which the sales managers couldn't even distinguish from bootleg vodka. By midnight, the boss was so drunk that security guards had to take him home, one way or the other, while his wife, who had been playing the Snow Queen all evening, barking orders to the restaurant staff, stayed behind to "close the party." And that's when she got carried away. Apparently, the absence of the old fart who was always controlling her every breath, plus the collective excitement of the holiday, plus the alcohol did their job. She suddenly sat down at our table with a glass of champagne. Her eyes were already oily, her lipstick was slightly smudged, and the cleavage we'd been staring at all evening was visible in her cleavage. "And you boys, why are you so boring? Always talking about your hardware?" she drawled in a petulant voice, unceremoniously placing her elbow on the table next to my plate. We exchanged glances. Sanya, who was the most impetuous among us, suddenly blurted out: "It's been boring without you, Marina. The boss's gone, so now we can stretch our legs." She laughed a stupid, barking laugh. Normally, she would have complained to her husband for such impudence, and the man would have been fired that very day, but now she was intoxicated. We poured her more cognac. She chattered on and on: about her clothes, about how tired she was of "those stupid managers," about how Taras didn't appreciate her. We nodded along like Chinese dolls, knowing it was our turn. An hour later, the room was almost empty. Marina was already openly throwing herself at Dan, telling him he was "the biggest and strongest." I knew the moment had arrived. I simply stood up, walked up to her, almost touching her shoulder as she sat on the chair, and calmly, without further ado, said: "Listen, Marin, the cooks have already left. But we have a nice bar in the service area, in the break room. It's quiet, calm, without those secretaries of yours who are always giggling. Shall we continue? It's getting awkward—you haven't even had a drink with us to celebrate service, and we're practically carrying your Gelik around in our arms." She looked at me with a long, unfocused gaze. I could see the gears turning in her empty head. The party was over, she didn't want to go home to her snoring husband, and here were three big guys looking at her like she was a goddess. She shrugged and said, "Why not? But I have... expensive shoes, be careful not to step on them." Our lounge was shabby, with a hard leather sofa stained with oil and the smell of gasoline. But Marina didn't care anymore. She plopped down on the sofa, crossing her legs so that her skirt rode up to its very limits. I decided not to slobber like we used to at college drinking parties. I simply walked up to her, unbuckled my belt and fly, and pulled out my fully erect penis. It was right at her face level. Marina stopped mid-sentence, staring at it like an expert assessing a product. "You're so impudent," she whispered, but there wasn't protest in her eyes, but drunken hunger. "My husband will..." “My husband is out cold right now,” I interrupted and grabbed the back of her head, gently but firmly guiding her head. She didn't resist for a second. Her plump lips, the ones she so loved to pout on Instagram, wrapped around the head. She sucked greedily, with a ferocity I didn't expect from this porcelain doll. She wasn't just giving me a blowjob; she was devouring my cock. Sanya and Dan, who had initially stood there like two pillars, immediately perked up. They approached from either side, and within a minute the room was filled with sounds that sounded more like the roar of engines than lovemaking. Marina worked her hands and mouth, switching back and forth like an experienced mechanic changing spark plugs. I felt myself reaching the limit. Two weeks of abstinence and constantly staring at her ass at work had taken their toll. Grabbing her hair with both hands at the back of her head, I held her head in place and began to fuck her mouth hard, with a steady thrust. She gurgled, tried to breathe through her nose, but endured. I broke through. I came right down her throat so hard that it felt like I'd released everything that had pent up for a month. When I pulled out of her mouth, she pulled back and coughed, but then, demonstratively, as if on camera, she opened her mouth and demonstrated the result, and then swallowed it in one motion. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, smearing the remnants of red lipstick across her chin. It was an epic scene. Dan and Sanya repeated my maneuver exactly the same, but this time they were looking at her face and the neckline of her expensive dress. "B-bitches," was all she breathed, spitting and laughing at the same time. "You've ruined the dress. Take it off then, why not..." We helped her undress. Helped is an understatement. We simply pulled off the rest of her clothes, and before us stood that very figure that had managers quitting. A large, chiseled ass and a complete lack of breasts—incidentally, she was an A-cup at most. It even contrasted comically with her powerful lower body. Her ass was simply made for fucking. I glanced at Sanya, and he nodded. We laid her out on the couch like an expensive spare part. Sanya sat down, leaning his elbows on the armrest, and impaled her on his cock from above, facing him. She tried to kiss him, but he pointedly turned his face away. After what she'd just had in her mouth, even he, not the most squeamish guy in the world, didn't dare do it. “You do your job,” he muttered to her. I approached her from behind. My goal was clear: that gorgeous, impudent ass that had been dangling under my nose for years. I spat on my cock for lubrication, pressed down, and entered her ass. She went in like a hot knife through butter. This bitch was clearly used to it. Marina let out a stifled squeal, but Dan had already arrived and was back in her mouth. We gagged her so tightly that she couldn't make a sound. Double penetration in the filthy back room of the dealership, with the owner's wife, who didn't even greet us—that was the best way to end the year. Fucking her in the ass was pure pleasure. I remembered how she looked right through us, how she demanded a perfect wash, and with each thrust I hammered into her the retribution for all the humiliation. After fifteen minutes of this hell, she no longer moaned, but simply moved limply to the rhythm of our thrusts, completely out of her mind. We pulled her into the middle of the room and positioned her doggy style on the concrete floor. The oil stains on her knees no longer bothered her. We lined up around her and the three of us came all over her back and the back of her head, thickly coating her hair and neck. The sight of our boss's wife on all fours in a puddle of her own saliva and our sperm was the best New Year's card. When it was all over, we wiped her down with some industrial wipes and found a bottle of mineral water. It took us about half an hour to bring her back to her senses, because she simply couldn't string words together. She dressed haphazardly, her hair pulled back into a bun so that no trace of our "congratulations" would be visible. Already standing at the exit of the service, while I was calling her a taxi to her luxury cottage, she came up to me, swaying on her stilettos, and dictated her personal phone number to me, bypassing her secretary and husband. "You, uh... write this down," she muttered hoarsely. "Taras is taking me to Milan in a week, but it won't be long. And when I get back, I'll call. You guys are great stress relievers. Much better than my therapist." And she added quite quietly, straightening the collar of her ruined dress: "Don't think I'm a slut. It's just that this old goat hasn't fucked me properly in five years, he just puffs on top for three minutes and then falls asleep. And you know, I'm a hot woman. I need a man's energy. So don't lose my number." She left by taxi, and we remained sitting in the service center and smoking. A couple of weeks after returning from Italy, she called me herself and came to the dealership for a "technical inspection." Only this time, waiting in the backseat of her car were three of her airheaded friends, whom we met later. But that, as they say, is a whole other story. P.S. And no, this is not a fabrication. Everything happened exactly as it happened, right down to the make of the car and the color of the ruined lipstick. I've changed the names, though—the service's reputation needs to be protected. Otherwise, it's all true.