Wife blackmailed at business conference
dodge
Part One
Mrs. Maggie Seaver attends an out of town business conference.
The conference has many different activities associated with it.
Maggie attends a small group session dealing with the subject of
enhancing personal relationships. She finds the speaker, a
psychologist, Dr. Eric Carlson very interesting. His views and
recommendations seem relevant and useful to her - especially
since as of late she has been experiencing difficulty balancing
her busy schedule between work and home. In fact she has noted
that her husband, Jason, has been very unhappy with her
inattentiveness to his needs.
A cocktail reception is hosted for the conference attendees.
Maggie is surprised, yet pleased, to run into Dr. Carlson. They
have a long, congenial chat. Maggie finds that she is opening up
herself to him. He suggests that they dine together. She is a
married woman and she politely declines, even though the offer
is tempting. Dining in public with a business associate is not
out of the ordinary, she reminds herself, however.
The following evening Maggie goes to the conference dinner
party...
Maggie is dressing for a party in an elegant silk dress with
thin shoulder straps. It falls smoothly over her breasts, baring
her shoulders and the upper part of her chest, and gathers at
her waist in dark red folds before falling to a hemline well
above her knees. She clasps a bracelet a gift from Jason, at her
wrist. Her neck is bare below the folds of her carefully combed
hair.
Maggie likes these evenings. The civilized chatter of business
associates, the pretentious splendor of the large hotel where
they gather to drink and eat. The women are groomed and
presented, their hair tastefully coiffured. They wear good
jewelry, family things with small but impressive stones. Always
they condescend to Maggie, calling her "such a lovely thing,"
and "Jason's lovely wife." It is not, she knows, that she is
being singled out for special attention, she is part of a trend
of working young women.
Tonight's party promises to be especially enjoyable. It's too
bad that Jason is not with her Maggie thinks. Inside the hall,
she hands the attendant her invitation. A tray of drinks, wine,
is passed and she takes one. Somewhere a band plays lively
music.
"You look sensational," a voice says. It is Linda, one of her
business associates. She wears black silk, and expensive
jewelry, Maggie notices. "Maggie," she says, kissing her on the
cheek, "I'm glad that you could come. That red dress looks
sensational on you. Al the women will be jealous, not to mention
the men..."
"Thank you," Maggie replies in a cheerful tone, "I'm looking
forward to this."
Everyone is here, Maggie thinks, surveying the crowd. The well
groomed heads of the women and elegant men, dressed in their
power suits. Almost immediately, the wave of acquaintances
begins, coming in twos and threes. Faces from the past, people
who are familiar from some other business setting. Maggie smiles
and nods until her face feels stiff, frozen with the efforts of
looking interested.
Thankfully, the call to dinner beckons. She finds her table
almost immediately, not far from the door. A man holds her chair
for her. She sits, examining the beauty of the setting; flowers
and silver and china, The table is set for eight.
Behind her a voice rises in pleasure, greeting a friend, "You're
sitting here?" He says, "I'd like to meet my associate, Maggie
Seaver."
Sighing, Maggie rises and turns, then feels her cheeks color
with embarrassment as she fumbles and drops her purse. She is
sure that he has been staring down into the top of her dress
which is looser on the top of her breasts than she remembers.
"Eric," the voice is saying, "this is Maggie, Maggie, this is
Eric Carlson, and old friend and colleague."
"Oh," Maggie says quietly, staring. He leans slightly forward.
"Maggie," he says quickly, "I'm glad to see you again." He
presses her hand. "I knew you were a lovely woman, but I never
imagined."
"Thank you," says Maggie, trembling. She can't tear her eyes
away from his. Someone pulls back her chair and she sits again.
Eric Carlson sits down beside her. The others take their seats.
The table is soon full. Maggie is grateful for that, at least.
The men begin to discuss the day and quickly move on to
politics, commerce and the markets.
The woman on Maggie's other side is young and vibrant, an
advertising executive responsible, she tells Maggie, for a major
series of commercials. "What do you do?" She asks politely.
"I'm in television," Maggie replies.
"Oh, good," says the woman as she engages Maggie in lively
conversation about the whole medium.
Dinner is served in courses and is delicious. Maggie drinks
several glasses of wine. An efficient waiter seems intent on
keeping her glass full at all times. When the main course has
been finished and the plates cleared away; there are a series of
short speeches and a round of toasts, extolling the successes of
the past year. Maggie automatically raises her glass and drinks,
each time, numbly feeling the cool wine slide down her throat.
The band begins to play.
"May I have this dance?" says a familiar voice. Eric Carlson get
to his feet and looks down rather expectantly.
"I'd be honored," she says simply.
"Watch him," says a male colleague say with a laugh. "He's a
devil!"
Maggie gets up and lets him lead her to the dance floor. He is a
good dancer, his hand firm around her waist. Maggie is awkward
in his arms, shaking and stumbling. He is patient with her. She
relaxes. He grips her ever so much closer to him. Her breasts
are drawn to where they just touch his chest. Maggie moves her
head toward his shoulder, but stops just short. She is unsteady
on her high heels from the wine. The music is pleasant. She
momentarily closes her eyes. She thinks of Jason. She also
remembers that is has been several weeks since they have made
love. She feels a stirring need inside. She is conscious of a
growing heat in her crotch area.
They dance several dances and then return to the table. Maggie
feels suddenly suffocated by the surroundings and confused by
her own needs. She excuses herself and exits the large dining
room. A flight of stairs is directly in front of her. She climbs
the steps to a mezzanine area. A door leads to a balcony. It is
dark and pleasantly warm outside. She needs to be alone.
An affair on the balcony...
Maggie walks to the end of the balcony, her high heels
clicking on the hard surface. It's very dark. Maggie hold her
hand before her face and can barely make it out. She is glad
that she left her seat. She does not enjoy being in a room full
of strangers. Here, at least, she is alone.
Then there is another sound. Perhaps someone else has decided to
get away from the room inside, she thinks. But even as she
thinks it, there is a small wind at the nape of her neck. Maggie
freezes, her eyes open, staring into the darkness. She turns and
sees a man crossing the balcony towards her. She says nothing.
The man takes several steps and comes up, lightly, behind her.
Then, except for his breathing, there is nothing: no word, no
touch.
She is astonished at her own calmness, for which there is no
rational explanation. Surely this is, to say the least, an
inappropriate contact and an uninvited one. And yet, Maggie
knows instinctively that the body standing behind her is that of
Eric Carlson. It's warm against her back. It's still. It's
simply there.
And suddenly, without warning, she wishes it would move. She
would like to feel those unseen hands beneath her clothing,
against her skin, even, she realizes, inside her body. Maggie's
throat catches at the thought, releasing a small gasp. The body
behind her is motionless.
What is he waiting for? She thinks, but even as the words form
in her mind, Maggie knows the answer. He is waiting for
permission. Not an involuntary gasp, something deliberate and
unmistakable, something that could only mean yes.
Maggie closes her eyes and slowly arches her body, carefully,
until her head falls slightly back and her buttocks first touch
and then press firmly into the stiffness in his groin.
Immediately, his hands come up and press her head between them,
the mouth at her neck opens and seems to swallow her nape,
making her shiver. She presses back harder and he moans, a low
sound that vibrates into her skin.
The hands descend either side of her head and reach in front
of her, moving lightly over her breasts and stomach, then coming
back to find the nipples, already hard and pressing against his
fingers. Instinctively, she pulls at the top to her he dress,
gathering it into damp fists, and his hands dive beneath it. His
hands are broad and warm on her abdomen. Behind her, she senses
his urgency and reaches back, finding the thick outline of his
cock and offering it her hand. The man moans again, and Maggie
feels the rush of her own power, and smiles to herself.
His fingers are raking her breasts, side to side. The pull at
the lace of her brassiere, making small tears, then, frantic,
they tear deliberately and Maggie feels herself falling into his
hands. The tongue licks her neck. Her nipples are his now,
rubbed between fingers, teased and brushed. Maggie squeezes the
stiffness in her hand.
A voice says, "Lift your skirt!"
She bends down and does what he asks, wadding her skirt in front
of her. The backs of her stocking covered legs now bared, she
turns until she faces the balcony wall and railing. She leans
forward slightly. Briefly, he steps away from her, then Maggie
hears the rasp of his fly coming undone, a quick catch of his
breath as he releases himself. A hand reaches for her ass, then
another, then both dip between her parted thighs and are
instantly wet. She moves her hips slightly, rubbing against
them. Her nipples, crushed against the wall, throb with heat. He
is impatient with her stockings. He would like to tear them,
Maggie thinks.
She frees one of her own hands and reaches back to show him
the edge at her waist, where it begins, and he grabs it, rolling
it with both palms down the sides of her legs to mid-thigh. She
arches back t him, separating her buttocks, inching her legs
farther apart, wanting his wet hand, his slippery fingers inside
her.
Instead, the man's hands settle on her ass, softly at first and
then more insistently. She is being spread apart, wide and
wider, until she feels tightness and something just short of
pain. She is balancing on her high heels. There is a shift of
his weight behind her, then something shocking and cold. Maggie
presses her mouth to the wall and its steel swallows away the
sounds she makes.
Come on, Maggie thinks. She has not said it aloud, but the man
rises, his pelvis tilted beneath hers, and one arm snakes around
her waist. She offers her hand as a guide, but he doesn't need
it. Maggie feels the thrust in his moan even before she feels it
inside her, but then she fills with him and moans herself. It is
a slow, sweet pounding, a secret thing. She reaches for her own
breasts, imagining invisible mouths sucking at them. A hand
tangles in her pubic hair, looking for something and then
finding it, pressing gently at the rim of each of his thrusts.
The movement quickens. Her cunt feels swollen, sticky, open. His
gasps sound like agony.
The word in her mind is "almost," and she thinks it over and
over, "almost...almost...;" then is happens. Her breathing
quickens, and she utters a semi-intelligible,
"Uh,uh...ah,ah..yes, yes..."
Her body bounces wildly on the cock on which she is impaled.
He comes as well, hissing a low "oh, baby" into her ear. He says
it again.
Then the hand slips quickly away and is busy behind her. She
feels him falling free of her cunt in a moist wave and hears the
rustle and zip of his clothing. For a moment he is motionless,
then Maggie senses his hand brushing past he and along the wall.
He moves away and she remains still, her cheek to the cool
metal.
A minute more, she doesn't move. Then, dimly, Maggie is aware of
her rolled down pantyhose biting the outer sides of her thighs.
She sighs and regains her balance. Reaching down, she rolls up
her panties and pantyhose again, pausing to lightly brush
against the mound of her pubic hair. It throbs and quivers. Her
skirt is released and falls heavily around her knees. Maggie
tries to adjust the torn lace of her bra over her tender
nipples, then adjusts the top of her dress. Automatically, her
hands reach up to test her hair. It is smooth and untroubled.
Her mood is stunned but calm and almost, she realizes, tender.
She looks toward the balcony door. Her eyes find the light and
adjust. She moves inside to the ladies room. In the mirror she
sees her own face, lips pursed, smiling, the eyes full of mirth.
She is thinking, so this is how it begins. She thinks back over
the events of the evening.
Inside Maggie returns to the party and seats herself at the
table. People are talking and dancing. No one seems to have
taken her absence for something unusual. She is relieved of this
at least.
"Let's dance," Eric Carlson says. It is an imperative, not a
request.
Maggie rises and accompanies him to the dance floor. He takes
her strongly in his arms, but in a socially correct manner.
"Well, well," he says, his voice intimate at her ear.
"Please don't tell anyone," Maggie cries, gripping his shoulder
with her hand. "Please, please don't tell anyone. I've made a
terrible mistake." "It was the wine..." she adds somewhat lamely
as an excuse.
"My dear Maggie," he laughs, "I have no intention of telling on
you. You have a secret. I like secrets, secrets are powerful. I
enjoy power."
Maggie shivers.
He is silent for a moment, bending her to the music. Briefly,
she feels his cheek press her own. "I've known your associates
for some time. They have secrets too."
"I don't care about their secrets," Maggie pleads, "just don't
tell mine. It was all a terrible mistake. You took advantage of
me."
The song ends and there is polite clapping. Maggie starts to
leave the dance floor. "Another dance," he says, almost
politely. Not wanting to upset him, Maggie takes his hand and
they begin to move.
"Tomorrow there is no planned dinner. I would like you to dine
with me," he says.
Maggie starts to make and excuse, to refuse. She thinks better
of it. She needs to talk to him; to make sure that he
understands that this was all a mistake.
"Meet me in the lobby at seven o'clock," he says.
She nods.
"Wear a dress, a cocktail dress," he says, "two people having
a friendly dinner, you know."
She nods again, not quite understanding.
The music plays on. They dance without speaking. When the song
ends she turns to him an asks, hesitantly, if they can return to
the table. "I don't actually feel very well," Maggie says.
"Would you mind?"
"Of course," he says. "You go and say your good-byes. I will see
you tomorrow night. He pauses, and then adds, "One more thing. I
don't like pantyhose. Wear stockings with your high heels."
Maggie does not know what to say. She returns to the table for
her bag. Eric moves off to another part of the room. She is
relieved. She moves quickly, hoping to escape without seeing him
again, but as she is leaving the room, he catches her eye from
the edge of a crowd and holds it, intent, his mouth folded in an
expression of pleasure and control. She remembers the expression
as she rides the elevator alone and returns to her room.
End of Part One
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