Work Wife

I’ve always been drawn to Diane. From our very first shift together, her easygoing vibe and sharp, irreverent humor felt like a perfect match for my own. Her looks—blonde with a figure she knew exactly how to use to her advantage—were an obvious bonus, and she wasn't shy about referencing the effect she had on people. Diane had always been my obsession, my quest.

As we got closer, I didn't bother hiding the fact that I wanted her. I was just one more name on the long list of men who’d felt the same way, I’m sure. But then she told me something I actually found hard to believe: she claimed she’d only ever been with her husband, Jeff—the same guy who’d been her first back in high school.

Still, I persevered. Surely she had to wonder, at least occasionally, what she was missing. As our friendship grew, our rapport became so obvious that she eventually became my "work wife." We spent almost every lunch break together off-campus. At one point, she even let me in on a secret: the other women at work had been talking, apparently noticing my physique through my clothes and speculating about what I was packing.

It reached the point where everyone simply assumed we were having an affair. She played it cool, never confirming or denying a thing. She clearly enjoyed the attention and the power of knowing she could make it a reality whenever she chose. I leaned into the role, too—my constant propositions and suggestive comments became a regular part of our back-and-forth.

I often joked about skipping our usual Taco Tuesday at Pepe’s in favor of a midday tryst at the Daisy Motel. It was never a "yes," but it was never a hard "no," either. She kept the door just cracked enough to keep me guessing. Her comments were just as bold; once, when she needed a favor, she didn't miss a beat before asking, "You scratch my back, and I'll scratch your... balls?" I agreed, and though she didn't pay up then, I tucked that debt away in my back pocket.

The stakes changed when she neared a major career milestone. She was in danger of falling short without help, so she turned to me for a final push.

"What’s it worth to you?" I asked, giving her a leading look.

"If I get this," she shot back, "I’ll blow you."

When I reminded her she still owed me for the last time, she pivoted. "Okay, maybe not that... but I'll give you a handjob."

I helped her, even though it was risky. If management had discovered she hadn't done the work on her own, she would have faced serious consequences. But she got the advancement, and we went to lunch to celebrate. Once the food arrived, I steered the conversation toward the debt.

I leaned across the table, my voice dropping an octave, thick with the frustration of months of "work wife" games. "Look, I’ve made it more than clear I want to fuck you, Diane. You know that. But since I know you won't go there, you've gotta give me something. We had a deal, and it’s time to settle up."

She let out a nervous laugh, her fingers fidgeting with a napkin. "I mean, I did most of the work for that advancement. You just gave me that final push."

"That 'push' saved your career," I countered, locking eyes with her so she couldn't look away. "No more metaphors, no more stalling. It’s time to pay up. The least you can do is hold up your end of this bargain. You owe me."

She sighed, but it wasn't the sound of someone being cornered—it was the sound of someone finally letting a long-held excuse take over. She met my gaze, and for the first time, the teasing was replaced by a sharp, deliberate focus.

"Fine," she whispered, a small, knowing smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "You're right. I do owe you. I'll follow through."

The next few days were a masterclass in anticipation. Finally, she looked at me on Wednesday and said, "Friday. We’re going to lunch."

"Sounds good," I replied, my pulse already ticking up. "Want to grab beer and wings at The Hub?"

She just gave me a look—a look that said she was done with public places. "Friday," she said again. "Just be ready."

That same Wednesday afternoon, Jasmine scheduled a training session with me. She was an intriguing mix of Asian and Hispanic—truly exotic and striking. She was also about five months pregnant, which only seemed to add to her glow. As we worked closely together in my small office, the proximity became impossible to ignore. It wasn't long before I caught her gaze shifting; she was staring directly at the unmistakable bulge straining against my dress slacks, her eyes lingering just a second too long for it to be an accident. I guess Diane’s story about the girls checking me out was true.

Friday morning, the air was electric. We kept our distance, but every time our paths crossed, the quiet understanding between us felt louder than anything we could have said.

"I’ll drive. Meet me at the car," Diane finally said.

I headed to the lot and jumped into the passenger seat. We sat there idling, the AC humming, but we weren't moving. Suddenly, the rear door swung open and Jasmine jumped in, breathless and smiling.

"Jasmine’s coming with us," Diane said, finally shifting into gear.

I blinked, completely thrown. "Okay... to the Hub?"

"No! I asked her to help me out," Diane replied, a mischievous glint breaking through her nerves. "Gimme a hand. Or give you a hand, I guess. You ok with that?"

"Um..." was all I could manage, my mind racing to catch up with the sudden change in plans. "I mean, I thought it was just going to be us."

"We talked about it on the way home yesterday," Diane continued, "and she’s all for it, ain’t ya Jas?"

"Hell yeah!" Jasmine chimed in from the back seat. "Diane told me about your deal and I said she’s crazy not to do it—and if she won’t, I will!"

"Where... where are we going to do this?" I asked. I wanted Diane involved, even if only to watch. That was non-negotiable.

"You two can just do your thing back there while I drive," Diane suggested.

"No," I said firmly. "That’s not the same. Go over to the Daisy. I'll get the room. We're doing this right."

The jokes about the Daisy Motel were officially over. Diane signaled and turned into the lot. As she pulled into a spot, I added, "I'm not just having Jasmine help you out while you stare at the wall, Diane. If she’s giving me a hand, you’re going to be right there. I want to see both of you."

Jasmine leaned forward, her shoulder brushing mine. She wasn't just willing; she was horny, and she made it obvious she wanted this just as much as I did. "I get to have all the fun, but there’s something sexy about you watching, Di. I think you might even get into it once it’s all hot."

I led them into the sparse room and locked the door. Jasmine didn't waste a second; she kicked off her shoes and immediately stripped off her polo and bra.

"Damn, I hate these things! Okay," Jasmine said, slapping her hands together. "Let’s get this party started. You getting comfortable, Di? Getting out of that bra? Let the puppies breathe!"

"No," Diane said, her arms crossed tight. "I’m keeping my clothes on."

"Aww, I was hoping we’d all get naked," Jasmine teased, leaning back on her elbows to give Diane a playful, appraising look. "You’re both so fucking hot. I mean, look at him, Di. And you... you know you’ve got the body for it. Don’t be a prude now that we’re finally here."

Diane’s grip on her own arms tightened, but her eyes never left me. The crimson in her cheeks had spread down to her neck. She looked like she was vibrating with a mix of nerves and a sudden, undeniable curiosity.

"I said I'm keeping them on," Diane repeated, though her voice lacked its usual bite.

Jasmine just laughed. "Whatever you say, girl. But I'm not letting this go to waste." She turned her focus back to me, her eyes dark and heavy. "Watch close, Di. You might learn something Jeff never taught you."

I pulled off my shirt and slacks, standing there in my boxer briefs before dropping them to the floor. Jasmine stepped into my space and cradled my weight in her hand. "Day-um! Look at that, Di!"

"Yeah," Diane said lowly, stepping closer. "That’s definitely bigger than Jeff’s. His is about that... even when he's hard."

"Lay down!" Jasmine commanded. I scooted to the middle of the bed and Jasmine got on her knees next to me. "Oh yeah! I’ve been so fucking horny since I’ve been pregnant. I love this." Diane sat on the corner of the bed, the mattress tilting under her weight and bringing her right into the thick of it.

Jasmine used a two-handed twisting motion as I sprang to full life. "Look. I can barely get my hands around it," she panted. She glanced at Diane. "Your fingers are a little longer, I think you probably could. You want to try?" Diane gave no response, her gaze fixed on the way my skin was stretched tight.

"Should have brought lube," Jasmine muttered. She spit on the head and worked it around. "Damn, I’m dry. Spit on it, Di. Help me out."

Diane leaned in, her blonde hair falling forward, hovering inches above my cock. Jasmine paused and removed one hand, offering me up. "Wanna taste?"

Diane let the saliva slowly drip from her mouth onto the head, watching it glisten. "No, I’m good," she whispered.

Jasmine was intent. She brought her mouth down, sucking and using her tongue for a frantic moment. She pulled back, gasping. "Sorry, couldn’t resist. So horny it’s killing me." Then she went back to deep sucking and vigorous stroking.

With Diane’s full attention locked on me, I quit fighting the sensation and burst, shooting a massive stream high in the air. Jasmine’s vigorous strokes flung it everywhere—all over her own bare breasts and, miraculously, a stray drop landed right on Diane’s chin.

"Damn," Jasmine breathed, tracing my softening length. "I really wanted to ride it. Can you get it up again?"

"Yeah, gimme a minute," I panted.

"No time," Diane said, her voice sharp but strained. "Gotta get back."

"But you have the room all night, right?" Jasmine asked. "Let's come back after work. Before you drive us home, Diane? Just for a little while."

The question hung in the air, shifting the weight of the afternoon. Jasmine let out a triumphant little hum and ducked into the bathroom to freshen up. She reappeared a moment later and tossed a thin, scratchy motel towel toward the bed. Diane caught it, using a corner to wipe the stray drop from her chin with a quick, nervous motion.

Then, she moved toward me.

She sat back down on the edge of the mattress and reached out to clear the splashes from my belly. She wrapped the cloth around my dick, her fingers finding the shape of me through the thin material. She didn't just wipe; she gave a slow, rhythmic squeeze as she worked, her gaze fixed downward. She gave one last, firm squeeze through the towel—a lingering, silent acknowledgment of the debt—before finally letting go.

"Let's go," she said softly. "We're going to be late."

Before we exited the car back at the lot, Diane finally blurted out, "Ok, that was hot. I’ve never watched anyone do anything before, but that was..." She trailed off, her face a deep crimson.

At three-thirty, my phone lit up: We’re leaving early. Ready?