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This story in Mature category could just as easily be in Erotic Couplings. Also, a mild fetish.

An opportunity is a good position, chance or prospect for success, an appropriate or encouraging time or occasion … a situation or condition favourable for attainment of a goal.

So, maybe picking up an excellent new employment position, when it seemed my working life was over and done, was a huge opportunity for me. Now, if only an opportunity to reopen my sex life could open up as easily. You see, I am enduring my second marriage breakup; surely good hot sex is not over for me?

I most likely made the decision to retire a little prematurely. I am only 63 but had attained what I deemed to be financial security. Sick of working and tempted by having the time to do anything I wanted seven days a week was very appealing. Not so appealing, as it turned out, for my wife, who upon hearing my declaration to retire, immediately advised me she wanted a divorce.

Sometimes, life can be a bitch. She must have tolerated my presence around the house, when I was only home at nights and on weekends, while still working, but as soon as I was at home and close by her every day, she decided she wanted out. I never considered ours a bad marriage … it was my second and I believed I had learnt the pitfalls from my first. But now, both have gone the same way, each after 19 years coincidentally and both at a point when the kids left to go to college.

I won’t review the ins and outs of each marriage … although therein lies a cause for failure. For me, insufficient sexual ins and outs as the years went by. I must have been attracted each time to the wrong kind of woman, the kind who embrace wild and uninhibited sexual pleasures while courting and until that day I placed a ring on her finger … but once married develops a propensity for going-to-bed-headaches and extraordinarily long menstrual periods to limit the opportunities (there’s that word in the story title again) to engage in regular marital sex. My preference has always been for sex at least five times a week, but that frequency was never on my wives’ agendas.

Oh well, so be it. My biggest regret is that each, in their own way, took me to the cleaners financially … hiring good lawyers that successfully bled me dry. Maybe it was my fault, for leaving my shares and investments portfolios too exposed and for trusting these women to be around longer than 20 years.

So, at 63, I was back out looking for a job. Nothing too physical at my age. I found one quite quickly, but anyone looking in on my new work situation would classify me as being a fish out of water. The company is a get-up-and-go I.T. business with 18 employees, none of the staff, but me, over 35. The owner is a woman, she is a knockout … a drop dead gorgeous 40-something with an intriguing career path.

She — Angela by name — was a contestant in one of the big beauty pageants that still proliferated toward the end of the twentieth century before the so-called women’s movement pretty much wiped them out. From winning one of those, she became a model … a good one too, so the stories say. Apparently made a lot of money from there, studied further, became engrossed in computer programming, took her time before investing in a venture that is now bounding along successfully.

Along the way, she married a guy she openly describes as a hunk. He’s a former Olympic swim star, made his own small fortune from sponsor endorsements during his athletic career. Brad’s a bit older than her, nudging 50, I’d say.

Anyway, Angela interviewed me for a position she wanted to create, and it turned out that I was exactly what she was looking for. An older man to be the Office Manager, handle the finances … the wages and paying the accounts, but most importantly, being a sage, old and wise man to keep the 18 under 35’s in check.

I’ve been there six months now and Angela appears very happy with the way I’ve settled in and how I administer the office, freeing her up to concentrate on what she does best, developing new concepts to increase her fortune. I haven’t seen much of Brad, I’ve only met him a couple of times. I recall seeing him on TV in his competition days. He has matured quite well, obviously looks after himself and still fits Angela’s description of him as what women like to call a hunk.

So, that brings you up to date on my circumstances at 63 and why I find myself working in this office environment with a gorgeous woman boss and keeping a disciplinary eye on eighteen young guys and girls.

From that first job interview, and ever since, Angela has struck me as a bright and bubbly woman, very adept at what she does, caring and considerate for her staff. Really, she is almost the perfect woman … if indeed one exists. Oh, sorry about that … said with all the bitterness of two failed marriages.

However, I have been concerned for about ten days now. Angela hasn’t seemed to be her regular self of late. So noticeable büyükçekmece escort to me, despite only working here for six months, that on Friday last, I barged into her office late in the day, sat down at her desk, and asked, “Are you ok, Ange? Anything bothering you?”

“No!” her response almost too quick, then a pause before adding, “Why do you ask?”

“I’m sorry, it’s obviously none of my business, but you don’t seem yourself this week. I can’t believe that work would ever get you down, not with your upbeat attitude to everything, but if there’s anything I can help you with, just call out. I do enjoy working here and I want to assure you that I’m always here for you.”

Up close in the personal space of her office, she appeared forlorn and downcast. It just isn’t her usual demeanour, but she denied anything was wrong, so who am I to keep pushing? I withdrew. Five minutes later, she walked by my office, pausing at the door to say, “Thanks for caring, but I’m good, Ray.”

I don’t like to see her sad like that, not her normal self. I gave it some thought over the weekend. Am I looking too deeply for something? Maybe she’s just having a bad period … from enduring two wives over forty years, I know about that.

She doesn’t get in until late on Monday, it’s so unlike her. She gave a very cursory hello as she passed my office door, not stopping, going directly to hers. At around 1.15, I hear Angela on the phone in her office next door to mine. Fortunately, most of the staff are either out getting lunch or have adjourned to the rec room at the far end of the office, where they can play pool, throw darts or just veg out to eat in their lunch break.

Quite rare for her, Angela is screaming at the top of her voice, “I knew it, Brad. You fucking dead shit, screwing around behind my back. How long has this been going on?”

There’s a brief silence where she gives him a chance to answer her accusations, but then her tirade resumes, “Who is she? Do I know her? How young, Brad? Oh my god, you are one sick puppy. Surely, you have some decency about you. For god’s sake, you are fifty and you’re out screwing some 20-year-old cunt? God, you’re a dickhead, what did I see in you?”

I rise from behind my desk, walk from my office to her door, next to mine, and lean in to pull her door closed, trying to ease her embarrassment in the eyes of staff. I return to my office … I can still hear her screaming at her husband through the wall. “So, what are you expecting to do? Are you intending to go live with her? Oh, really! Listen, you fuckwit who can’t keep it in your pants, I want you gone. I don’t care how you do it, but I don’t want to see you, or any trace of you, in my home, by the time I get home tonight. Just fuck off out of my life.”

Wow! In the six months I’ve worked for her, I’ve heard Angela drop an occasional, “Oh shit” and “Fuck it,” but this is something else. She maintains a barrage using almost every curse word imaginable, “Go live with your fuckin’ whore cunt, Brad, I hope your dick falls off.”

Silence again, I stand, walk to my open door, looking toward the far end of the office. A couple of staff members are standing at the rec room door, curious at what they have overheard. They withdraw back inside when they see me emerge from my office. I am unsure what to do. She rebuffed my attempt to check on her wellbeing on Friday, should I try again or leave her alone to stew in private?

Concerned for her, I go to her door, knock lightly and open it. She is at her desk, tissues in one hand, sobbing. She looks up at me on hearing me at her door. “Not now!” she yells angrily. I withdraw, without saying a word, closing her door behind me.

Twenty minutes later, sitting at my desk, I hear a sound. Looking up, Angela is standing, profiled in the doorway, her superb shapely body as beautiful as always. Silhouetted by the bright lights from the general office behind her, I cannot clearly see her face. “Can I come in?” she asks politely.

“This is all yours Angela, you can go wherever you want,” I’m somewhat chastened by her abrupt and dismissive, ‘Not now’ a moment ago.

She closes my office door behind her, coming across to the guest chair on the opposite side of my desk, “Have you got a minute? I need to talk to somebody sane.”

I soften, “Feel free Ange, you know I’m here for you.”

She takes a minute or so to compose herself. There are still tears although she is no longer sobbing … more like whimpering. I hate to see such a beautiful woman so distraught. “Sorry to shout at you, I was quite emotional, you obviously heard all of that, the whole office probably heard it. Oh, thanks for closing my door.”

I nodded, “That’s ok, just trying to protect you at a vulnerable moment.”

“I can’t believe it! I think a doctor would describe me as in shock. My husband has turned out to be a fucking cheater. How could he do that to me? Two weeks çağlayan escort ago, I’d have scoffed if anyone had suggested he could be a cheater. But a couple of things made me suspicious. The fuckwit regularly gets home late, even has excuses for us not to have sex. That doesn’t suit me at all, I’ve always been hot for good sex, and we had that in our marriage. But his unexplained late nights and literally starving me of sex, caused me to have a snoop on the weekend. I checked out his phone while he was showering, found some incriminating text messages, even found a pair of women’s panties in his jacket pocket … they weren’t mine.”

Is it cathartic for Angela to reveal her personal and intimate life to me? She goes on, but I’m still back where she admitted how she’s always been hot for good sex. I am seated at my desk … opposite me is my beautiful boss, tearful and vulnerable … and I feel a pulsing in my cock every time she so expressively uses words like fuck and cunt. In my head, a mental image forms of her, naked on her back, legs spread in the air, and some man — might have been Brad, couldn’t he at least look like me in my daydream — on top of her, furiously fucking her. I considered her gorgeous the first time I met her six months ago and working with her five days a week since merely endorses that view.

I try to focus, concentrate on what she’s telling me, “Ray, I felt guilty for doing it, but I inspected the panties. I can tell you I’ve seen enough dried cum in my life to know it when I see it … there was plenty in the crotch of those panties. Why were they in his pocket? Did this bimbo cunt give them to him as a trophy after fucking or did she plant them there for me to find them … and I did?”

How cruel is this? Here am I, having had no sex at all since my second wife walked out … no wonder I feel a surge in my cock hearing this lovely woman talking about having hot sex. She’s on my wavelength; I’ve always been hot for good sex myself. More reaction in my cock when she mentions another woman’s panties that contain her husband’s semen. And those descriptive words … why is hearing a gorgeous woman use certain words such a turn-on?

She continues, “Fuck him, he’s so dead to me now. I will miss the hot sex big time, but life can go on without him. Although I can’t imagine myself not having a man, and all that they possess, in my life … it will be an annoyance to resume having to date to find somebody suitable again.”

“Maybe you could try single for a while, not that I recommend it long term.”

“Oh god no, I can’t see myself single.” She pauses, looking at me, even blushing, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry Ray, you’re single these days, aren’t you? Oh, I didn’t mean…”

“Don’t worry, mine is not by choice either, Angela.”

“I don’t want to be rude, Ray, but you should know me by now, I like to call it as I see it. Surely you miss the sex too?”

“Oh babe, of course I do, that’s the worst thing. I don’t miss her so much, but I do miss all the good bits that came with her.”

“How long since you and she…” Her voice kind of trails off.

“Seven months and twenty-six days…” I raise my arm to pretend to be looking at my watch, “…and, err, six hours and 38 minutes since my ex-wife and I last had a good one,” I facetiously tell my boss.

“Oh Ray, you poor man, all that time and you’re even counting the days, hours and minutes.”

I give her a wry smile, “Err … not quite Angela, the number of days and minutes since my last fuck is a joke, I’m not that desperate yet.”

“Oh my god, I would be. I can’t imagine going days, let alone months, not having a hot fuck…”

My god, I have two ex-wives who, coincidentally, never cursed. I love hearing this attractive woman say fuck … and she says it with such emphasis. My cock twitches every time. Oh, Angela, don’t do this to me.

“…I love everything about sex. I had a boyfriend back when I was modelling, and we were hot and heavy for some time. But when we broke up, there was a bit of name calling. He was quite resentful that I was dumping him, and I remember him calling me a crazy nympho. I’ve never forgotten his parting assessment of me.”

I feel another firm twinge in my loins upon hearing her admission that she’d been described as a crazy nympho. “Why?” I dare to suggest, “did you not think of yourself as a crazy nympho?”

She giggles, “Oh no, I was in no doubt that his description applied to me at that time. I just didn’t like to hear him call me that, made me sound like a bit of a slut. There was another ex-boyfriend back then who used the slut word too in reference to me. Oh, I really have left a trail behind me.”

Something triggered her tears to flow once more. Whether it was her recalling old boyfriends and the names she’d been called, or if talking about her sex life brought back the reality that she just broke up with her husband in the last hour.

I’ve çapa escort only known her as my boss for six months, although I was aware of her from afar for two decades … I hate seeing her so distressed. I rise from my chair and come around the desk to stand alongside her. I place my arm around her neck, my hand on her shoulder, pulling her to me so that her head falls against my lower chest … her seated, me standing.

We remain this way for a few minutes. Her sobbing eases. The box of tissues on my desk is within my reach … I pull out a couple and hand them to her and she wipes away her tears some more. “Oh, I’m sorry to carry on like this, I’m not often this emotional. It must be the betrayal I feel. What must I look like?”

Should I tell her that despite her red eyes, she still looks a million bucks to me?

“You have every right to be emotional,” I say, attempting to console her, “it’s not every day that a woman discovers her husband has been cheating.” I really had no ulterior motive in mind when I came around my desk and placed my hand on her shoulder. I don’t believe I even exerted any pressure for her to press her face against my lower chest.

I need to emphasise the foregoing because at this point, I feel a touch of my boss’ hand on the outside of my trousers … in front, where what is now half an erection is snared in the folds of my underpants as it grew a little more every time she said fuck so explicitly. I look down in alarm. No … surely I am not alarmed to have this beautiful woman rubbing her hand over the shape of my expanding cock … more apt to describe my reaction simply as complete surprise.

In my first six months working for Angela, there has never been any suggestion that she might see our relationship as anything but platonic. What should I do next? I’m always the instigator, with wandering hands, in my relationships with women.

I stand stock still in silence, my hand on her far shoulder while her fingers press and rub against my clothing, is she outlining the shape of my half erection? Should I assure her it is still growing? No need for that, it’s already extending rapidly under her touch. What do I do? Should I say something, perhaps act surprised? I don’t want her thinking that I assume she’s the slut or crazy nympho as described by her prior boyfriends.

My god! Is that the sound of my fly zipper? It is! I look down, watching my boss opening my pants. I see her hand disappear into the gap in my trousers, two of my senses involved — sight and feel – her fingers are pulling down the waistband of my underpants within, low enough for her roaming hand to wrap its soft warm touch around my hot erect cock … now fully hard and ready. She pulls it out and I watch as well as feel … see it held in the grasp of her hand, softly caressing the length. What is she thinking? She will be most familiar with Brad’s, is she comparing? I’ve always considered mine average, a bit over six … hope I don’t disappoint.

Still looking down, I am transfixed, absorbed by this unexpected event. How far will she go? I watch her move her face from alongside my erection to front on. I realise what’s coming as I see her lips form a circle, ‘My god, she’s going to give me a blow job.’ Her lips slide over the hard knob of my cock, drawing it and half the shaft into her warm, succulent mouth. What brought this on? Is it her urgent need for good hot sex that she expressed so succinctly a moment ago? Is it revenge on Brad for his cheating? Or, is there pity for me not getting any sex since my ex-wife left?

Who would have thought? While her lips and tongue work magically on my straining erection – unused by anyone other than me for 7 months and 26 days — it occurs to me that my office door is unlocked … its closed, but anyone could knock and walk in unimpeded. The only consolation is that our backs are to the door, so any staff member entering couldn’t actually see my cock being sucked hard by our boss.

I want to warn Angela about the unlocked door, but if I say something — anything – there’s a risk she might stop … any words between us at such an intimate moment could break the mood. But, fear of a staff member walking in and catching us at it overrules, compelling me to ask, “Err … what about the door? Should I lock it.”

Damn! She withdraws her lips from off my erection, looking up to me from down there, “Do you want me to stop?”

Oh, what a silly question, “No, certainly not!”

“Does anyone ever come in here without knocking, Ray?”

“I don’t know, I never have the door closed.”

“No, leave it,” is her judgement and I watch her lips close over the knob of my hard cock once more, a look of ‘where was I’ on her face. Happy to have had the door problem resolved, I allow myself to fully enjoy the wonderful affect her sucking, slurping mouth has on my recently neglected cock.

I did tell her I was joking about how long it has been since I’ve had sex – not even good sex – just sex, period. It’s funny when trying to make a point, how one can seize on a number that sounds humorous, but really is close to correct. Seven months and twenty-six days is about it, and it’s too long. I begin to worry that I could cum quickly, so absorbed am I by the wonderful wet heat of her sucking mouth on all of my sensitive parts.

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