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This story was caught, filleted, and cooked in the FishTank. Final seasoning, before presentation, was added under the supervisor of Master Chef MatTwassel.
Once upon a time in a drab and dreary bank, at a nondescript desk worked a plain and rather ordinary woman named Helen. As supervisor of the safety deposit vault, Helen conducted the business of banking in a professional and appropriate manner. In fact, accepted procedures, polite conversations, and appropriate behaviors seemed to pervade all aspects of Helen’s life – even her marriage.
But today was a Friday, and it was nearly closing time. Outwardly composed, Helen felt the low buzz of anticipation build inside her. The bank doors opened and Helen swallowed in anxiety. She forced herself not to look up. The gentle tapping of a cane grew louder. Helen stood and greeted her final customer of the day. “Good afternoon, Mr. Williamson. How may I assist you today?”
During Helen’s 27 years with the bank, she had observed Mr. Williamson visiting the safety deposit vault countless times. But it was only after Mr. Williamson broke his hip that it became interesting. He required physical assistance during his visits and asked that Helen accompany him.
The new routine of Mr. Williamson’s visits was always the same. Helen would turn the keys, pull the safety deposit box from the wall, and place it on the table. She would then open the lid and step far enough away to grant him privacy.
Mr. Williamson, the skin of his aged hands translucent like parchment, would pull a photograph from the box and hold it unsteadily before him. His fingers would trace across the surface. Helen would watch Mr. Williamson’s face gradually lighten, his eyes shine brightly, and his bent frame slowly straighten. The slightest of smiles would play across his lips, then purse into a kiss. He would slowly return the photograph to the box and close the lid. Like the monotonous flapping of a bellows returns a dying ember to bright flame, the repeated visits aroused Helen’s curiosity.
Today was no different than any other. Helen pulled the box, opened the lid, and stepped back. Today was no different as Mr. Williamson picked up the photo, looked at it, traced the image with his fingers, smiled and blew that silent kiss. But today was different, because something completely unexpected happened. Mr. Williamson dropped the photograph. It sailed right out of his hand and seesawed down to the floor, landing face down.
“Oh,” said Helen in the quietest of voices. “I’ll get it.”
Helen bent swiftly and picked up the photograph. By every code of professional conduct and customer privacy, she knew she should not turn the photograph over and look at it. But Helen did turn canlı bahis it over and she didn’t just look at the photograph – she studied it. She simply couldn’t help herself. The photograph itself looked old, and yet the image was fresh and clear.
A girl in her late teens or early twenties seated on a park bench. Behind her, a long line of palm trees edged a white sand beach. The girl’s face seemed innocent and carefree. Helen was drawn to her eyes, and she found herself looking deeply into them. The girl’s eyes were wide in astonishment, or was it something else?
The girl wore a simple sundress. The dress, unbuttoned and pulled slightly to the left, revealed … a perfect breast. The girl’s left hand, which had just pulled the material aside, had a finger extended beneath a very erect nipple. There was something about the finger, though; Helen noticed that it was somewhat blurred. When Helen realized that the girl was stimulating her nipple, she felt her own nipples respond.
Helen’s gaze lowered along the line of opened buttons until she arrived at the very center of the photograph.
The girl’s right knee was bent with her right foot tucked just under her left leg. Her naked thighs led you to her exposed cunt. A wild patch of pubic hair crowned softly bulging lips – spread apart by the first two fingers of the girl’s right hand.
Helen’s focus dimmed, her hand trembled, and she gasped as a mild orgasm shivered through her. The stale air of the vault filled with the strong scent of Helen’s arousal.
Mr. Williamson carefully took the photo from her hand and returned it to the box.
That night Helen practically raped her husband. “What was that all about?” her husband inquired afterward.
“I needed it,” Helen told him simply.
Helen found that she needed it quite often. At first, her husband responded to her – gratefully, enthusiastically, vigorously and repeatedly. In time, his interest waned. Helen’s did not.
The photograph had enflamed something long dormant within her. Her comfortable life, at one time so safe and satisfying, now seemed leaden and mundane. She engaged in wild flights of fantasy regarding the girl in the photo. Helen began writing stories about the girl. Many of the stories were romantic and sensual. But some of her stories were sluttish, and the scope and depth of their depravity frightened Helen.
* * * * *
7th of June – He was waiting for me in his office. I tried to put him off – to tell him that it was over. He wouldn’t listen, or I wasn’t very convincing. He simply unzipped his trousers and pulled my mouth to his cock. I felt him grow hard in my mouth and I smiled to myself at my talent. He fucked my mouth until my eyes watered and then bahis siteleri he pulled his wet prick out.
“Did you bring it?” I nodded meekly as I pulled the sterling silver cake-serving knife from my purse. “It was a wedding gift, from his parents, I’ve never…”
He turned me around and bent me over his desk. I was squirming beneath him as he slid his hand up my legs. He tore my panties off, and then stabbed me with his cock. I was holding onto the edge of the desk as he pounded into me. That was when I noticed that his office door was ajar. Anyone could walk in and see us!
He held the silver handle of the knife before me. “Better get it wet. You know where it’s going.” My sphincter muscles clenched and spasmed.
I was late getting back to the bank. His cum was leaking from my cunt and my ass. He told me to bake my husband a birthday cake, on this his special day, and be sure to use the knife. I could hardly wait to get home.
* * * * *
Helen didn’t tell her husband about Mr. Williamson or the photograph, nor did she tell him about the stories she wrote or the fantasies she had. But she also didn’t hide her diary very well. A few weeks after Helen had begun writing the diary, her husband began fucking her again.
Sometimes he squeezed and pulled too hard at her nipples. Sometimes he pounded her cunt relentlessly until she was satisfyingly sore. And sometimes when he ignored her pleas of “too much,” when he sent her soaring to heights unimagined, she would find him glaring at her…as if she had done something terribly wrong.
Late one evening, after a deliciously savage fuck that left her husband fast asleep and Helen desiring more, she was inspired to write a new story in her diary.
She went to her desk and opened the drawer. The diary was there, but it was upside down. Helen thought for a moment. That was when she knew. “He’s been reading my diary. He thinks I’m having an affair. No, no – he thinks I’m a slut!” Her hand was between her thighs in no time at all. Her orgasm was the most intense she’d ever experienced.
In the afterglow of her delight, she thought of the photograph and all the changes it had caused in her life. She decided she wanted a photograph of her own. She wanted a photo of herself looking like someone’s slut. She wanted a photograph that her husband could find.
She took dozens of photos of herself with a friend’s digital camera until she had the one she liked. In the photograph she was sitting on a pillow leaning back, her arms draped across the headboard of their bed. Her hair, which was usually pulled back or done up, was loose and disheveled. Her make-up was different, too. It was softer and drew attention to her eyes. Bright red lipstick bahis şirketleri enhanced the fullness of her lips. A black lace corset pushed her breasts up and forward, one nipple spilling over the top. Garter straps hung uselessly, and a single black hose was gathered around her left calf. Her right leg was bent and splayed to the side revealing her cunt. But it was the expression on her face that made this particular photograph the right choice. She looked very satisfied.
Helen left the photograph where he couldn’t miss it – especially after she told him where to look. She had sent him in search of some old costumes for a Halloween party they’d been invited to attend.
At the party that night she flirted shamelessly with every man there. During the drive home the tension in the car was suffocating. Quietly unbuttoning the top of her costume, she turned to him and asked if there was anything wrong.
Without saying a word, he pulled the car over to the side of the road. He opened her door, beckoned her out, grabbed her, and threw her face down into the back seat of the car. He tore her costume off and fucked her.
When they got back home he fucked her again and continued to fuck her throughout the weekend. He even fucked her in her ass.
That night, his cum trickling from her anus, he slammed the diary on the night table. “Me or them,” he roared. “I won’t share you.”
“But honey,” she began.
“I know everything,” he said. He jabbed the photo before her eyes. “See!” The photo shivered in his hands.
“You, I want you,” she said meekly.
She did have one simple request.
In a drab and dreary bank, at a nondescript desk worked a plain and rather ordinary woman named Helen. For too many years Helen had gone about her duties in a thorough and efficient manner. Papers were marked as they should be, filed where appropriate, and the business of banking conducted in a professional, and otherwise unremarkable, manner.
On this typically dull day, Helen returned to her desk, having just helped a new customer with her safety deposit box.
There were two voice mail messages waiting for her.
The first was from her husband; thank God he didn’t leave his name. “I want you. I want your soft lips. Lips I will kiss until they’re swollen with desire. I want your breasts. I want to caress them and hear you moan as your nipples respond to my touch. I want your cunt. I want to hear you cry in ecstasy as I fill you again and again.” There was a pause and a trembling sigh. “And then I want your wrists and your ankles because I am going to tie you to my bed.” Helen unconsciously crossed her ankles and rubbed her wrists. She found the mental image of herself tied spread eagle to their bed very exciting. When the image changed to her tied face down, she shivered uncontrollably. She played the second message. Her husband’s voice was pitched low, just above a whisper. “And I bought a video camera today.”
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