Irene and Jack Ch. 01

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Chapter one of this short series is the first story I had written, it’s been on my computer for some time. Hopefully I caught most of the errors.


The house was nothing but chaos and a whirlwind of activity. People everywhere, shaking my hand, wishing me well, offering condolences, the afternoon seemed to go on forever. The reality of it was, I just wanted them to go away, then I could wallow in the misery of having lost my wonderful wife of 30 years. The memorial service had been midday, and as is custom in our part of the country everyone was invited back to our home for sandwiches, more pot luck dishes than an army could eat, chips, and of course, lots and lots of desserts.

I met my lovely Ingrid while doing one of those “backpack Europe over the summer” endeavors after graduating high school. It was fun in a way, but in hind sight, other than meeting my future wife, it had been a waste of time and money. I’ve never seen the two “best friends” I went with since we returned to the states. They went their way and I went mine, somehow losing track and never reconnecting again.

As you may have guessed by the name, my Ingrid was from Scandinavia, Sweden to be precise. I didn’t meet Ingrid when we traveled through Sweden, we met at a night club in Barcelona, Spain. She and her girlfriend sitting at one of those elevated bar tables trying to ignore the idiot bothering them. We were about six feet away and I could tell he was an American, living up to the obnoxious American stereotype. I decided to stick my nose in and hope it didn’t come down to an altercation. I’m 6’1″ and although I wasn’t as fully developed as I am now, I wasn’t a light weight either.

I walked toward them and as I reached the table I put my hand on the guys shoulder right next to his neck. I politely told him it was obvious the ladies weren’t interested, and he should let them enjoy their drinks without his banter. He looked at me and growled something about messing with the wrong guy, as he attempted to turn I simply squeezed that large muscle extending from the neck down along the shoulder. (Hell no I don’t know what it’s proper name is, I’m not a doctor). Being a farm boy and having milked cows all my life my hands were like vises, as I squeezed harder and harder I could see his body slink until he was about a foot lower than me. I spoke softly as I said, “do we have an understanding here?” He nodded his head and scurried out of the bar when I released him. As I was turning to walk away the tall blond touched my arm and ask me to stay. We chit chatted about everything and nothing, it was so easy to be with each other. Knowing I had to leave we exchanged phone numbers and addresses vowing to contact one another.

Back in the states, life got busy. I was at Kentucky University majoring in business administration, and as time slipped by I just never got around to making that call. New classes were beginning right after the Christmas holidays and I was pleased that I was past the obligatory classes freshman must take the first half of the year and could now begin courses in my actual major. I noticed her the moment she walked through the door, it was Ingrid. I had been toward the back and she was toward the front, so she didn’t notice me. After class I caught up with her in the hall and called her name. Spinning on her heels I could see the surprise on her face, but I also saw the beaming smile. To make a long story short, we stayed together from that point on, marrying in our senior year and like all young married couples in college, we managed to somehow pay our bills and finally get that diploma.

Ingrid’s parents had both perished in a small plane accident and she was going to school through a trust fund that had been set up by her grandparents. She could do with it as she liked, providing it was applied to her education. She chose Kentucky because her grandma’s sister lived there. The money she didn’t use for education then became hers to use as she wished at the age of 26. Ingrid took that money and set up an education fund for each of our three children. All of them in college, with the youngest being a freshman this year.

Ingrid’s death was unexpected and brutal, she’d had a brain aneurism and was dead within two days. How could life do this to me? Together we’d built a successful business, she was the brains, me being the brawn and money guy. In an age where everyone was enamored and bowled over with the super skinny image, Ingrid had realized there was a huge market for plus size gals, so we started an online catalog business catering to plus sizes only. Phat Ass Phassions was the corporate name, the catalogs were marketed as PAP. Ingrid was anything but skinny, but she wasn’t fat either, what most people would call average.

Our favorite time to talk was in bed, just before going to sleep … or making love, and sometimes while making love. Ingrid was a talker during sex, the more important things when we casino siteleri were in the slow deep stroke moments just enjoying the fact that we were one, and naughty as hell when it got down to the bumping and banging moments in that much sought after race to the finish line. One night as we were slowly making love she started talking about some of the ladies she hung out with who were getting breast implants and wondered if I’d like that as well. I told her I was quite satisfied with her 34 C’s, who had time for more than a handful at a time anyway. She was smiling as she looked into my eyes, “good answer cowboy, good answer”.

A few minutes later she spoke, “While we’re on the subject of bodies and things you like, how about my muff, should I shave it like the others are doing?”

“No, you keep that pussy just as it is, the first thing I want to feel when I slide my hand into your panties is that lovely bush of soft downy hair.”

I’m aware there are ladies who have wild bushy almost forest like growths, but Ingrid did not, it was soft and silky. I loved to put my face in her muff and just breath in her musky aroma. She smiled as she looked at me and said,

“Another good answer cowboy. Time to speed up baby, maybe we should stop long enough for you to put your hard hat on, because you are so going to get fucked tonight.”

My Ingrid was tall, solid, and didn’t have any more girth to her than any other woman who’d birthed three children. I could still put my hand on her hips and not find any excess. She was what my mom called “stout”. Outside the house she dressed very conservatively and professionally, but under that modest looking clothing was some of the sexiest lingerie you can imagine. She called it her, “take me home and fuck me secret”, a secret that only two people knew about, she and I. What a tease she was if she knew we were alone, occasionally she’d flash me a quick glimpse of her garter straps in the lunch room. Knowing I was going to have to sit there another ten minutes to get rid of my hardon.

She didn’t wear lingerie when we were dating and even after we’d moved in together about two years before we married. It wasn’t until right after we’d married that I was daily treated to the sexier hidden world of my new bride.

Talk about an almost perpetual erection, my God, I could hardly think straight much less go to classes. If she wore jeans or pants she always wore matching bra and panty sets, usually sheer or very close to it. If she was going out in a dress or skirt (other than a summer sun dress or that type of thing) there were always stockings, garter belt, matching panties and bra. She loved boy shorts, the lacy see through type, and sheer panties, guess what I loved, uh huh, boy shorts and sheer underwear. She never was much of a thong gal, said they were uncomfortable and a bit too breezy for her liking. She did own a few, for those times she might have on slacks or a pencil skirt that would show panty lines.

That little vixen would purposely wait until I was out of the shower in the morning, and back in our bedroom before she would start dressing. I told her she was torturing me watching her dress and that she was a brazen hussy. Her answer was, “yes, but I’m your hussy, your slutwife, and you can ride me like a ten dollar whore anytime you’d like.”

There was more than one day we were both late for classes or work. After about three months of this onslaught on my libido I ask her what led to the change in her under clothes … not that I minded. She told me that right after we got married she had ask her grandmother, who’d been married for 63 happy years, what her secret was to make sure her husband never strayed.

Her grandma stated that the answer had three factors, and when applied together always worked. “Number one, stockings immediately peak his interest, a garter belt almost assures an erection, and pretty underwear always make sure you have his complete attention. Number two, once you have his full attention, “make sure you keep his belly full and his balls empty”. Number three, be a proper mom in public and a slut in the bedroom. If you do these things Ingrid, he’ll never have a reason to stray.” I can honestly say I never had a thought of straying.

Back to the present:

So here I was, sitting on my couch, lost in all of my cherished memories when I was abruptly brought back to the reality of the moment by my 3 year old granddaughter, climbing on my lap to kiss me goodbye. I had been so lost in my memories that I didn’t even realize it was early evening, most of the guests had gone and now our son and family were about to head home. They had a two hour drive and wanted to get on the road. Both of our daughters were staying the night and would be leaving in the morning. My youngest daughter Debbie ask if she could do anything for me. I thought a moment, told her I was going to go sit on the front porch swing, and if she looked in the canlı casino frig in my wood shop she’d find a Dr. Pepper. If she wouldn’t mind bringing that to me I would be most appreciative.

About five minutes later I was sipping on my Dr. Pepper and enjoying the late autumn evening. Once again drifting off to another time and place. It was Ingrid who insisted we put on a full front porch when we bought the house. It was one of the best investments we’d ever made. We spent countless hours in that old swing, dreaming, or watching all the neighborhood kids play in the yards.

We had even interrupted a make out session or two on that swing as the kids started dating. Ingrid used to get upset at me for not oiling one of the ceiling hooks, that is until the kids started dating. As quiet as they tried to be smooching in that swing, the squeaky hook always gave them away. The first time we figured what was going on I laughed and said, “see, there’s a reason I haven’t oiled that hook in 10 years”. She thumped me on the chest and went outside to break things up before they got too hot and heavy.

I have to say, Ingrid and I spent many evenings engaged in hot and heavy breathing in that swing after putting the kids to bed and turning out the porch light. There was more than one night that Mr. McGregor caught me with my hand inside Ingrid’s blouse, or her hand in my pants as he walked his dog. We’d just smile and say good evening, then run inside and fuck each other senseless.

After a while we smartened up and started bringing a blanket out with us. I noticed that once we started taking a blanket, Ingrid switched to skirts and light house dresses for our front porch make out sessions. When I asked why, her answer was, “access Jack, access.” I never complained.

Still lost in the fog of memories I didn’t realize anyone was talking to me until she gently took my hand in hers. It was Irene, my personal secretary. She had been hired as Ingrid’s personal secretary about a year ago, and when Ingrid died I ask if she would mind being my secretary. I had never had a personal secretary in all these years, now I felt as though my life was overwhelmed and needed someone familiar, but not intrusive.

As she took my hand I placed my other hand atop hers and thanked her for staying so long and seeing that things were taken care of. Just then the girls both came out, I bid them goodnight and said I’d be in shortly. Irene said she’d stay if I wanted her to, we sat and reminisced for almost an hour before she decided to head home. Before she left she again took my hand and said, “if there is anything I can do to help you, anything at all, please tell me and I’ll see that it’s taken care of”. Looking back there seemed to be a heavy emphasis on “anything at all”, but in my stupor of grief and agony I missed it altogether. As she drove away I thought to myself, gosh, no wonder Ingrid liked this girl so much, what a trooper.

Who’s Irene?

Ingrid had personally picked her from a pool of thirty plus applicants. She was only 21, wasn’t the top of her class, had no formal training so to speak of, no degree, no references. Ingrid said she had heart, she could train her much more easily than the others who had already learned bad habits and practices from others. Ingrid called her a “clean slate”.

Irene is about 5’5″, lovely long dark brown hair with a kind of reddish sparkle in the right light. She was overweight nut not obese, she was thick, but not jiggly, what my mom would have referred to as good breeding stock. (Gotta love those farm mom’s, always looking for more kids to help with chores.) Her upper legs weren’t flabby, then again, they were not the kind you buy skinny jeans for either, her waist was well pronounced, her belly didn’t hang over her waist and her breasts were well proportioned to the rest of her body.

Not huge and out of place, just a nice hand full, with enough left over to suck on. A gentle face with soft features and a smile that could light up a room. Her lips were soft looking, pouty, sensuous and full, a mouth you’d want to spend hours kissing, or have wrapped around your cock. Then there was that hair, I’m a sucker for long hair and I think Ingrid told her that, because she had a short bob type cut when she first came to work for us.

Throughout the time she worked as Ingrid’s personal assistant you could see the subtle changes in Irene. While I always wore a suit and tie, or dress shirt and sport coat with dress slacks, along with Ingrid dressing impeccably, we let our workers wear what they wanted if it was fitting of their position. The receptionist had a different image to maintain than the guy taking orders on the phone, every employee knew what the dress requirements would be for their job when they were hired, and all were expected to dress accordingly.

Since Irene’s initial position was not one of great exposure, she used to come in dressed quite casual, sweatshirt, kaçak casino T-shirts with yoga pants, stuff like that. At times her attire was quite revealing so Ingrid ask why she dressed that way. Irene told her the only way guys would pay attention to her was if she dressed a little slutty. Ingrid told her if that’s what they wanted, they weren’t worth it. Over the next 5 to 6 months Ingrid showed her how to dress professionally and with taste. The results were encouraging, Irene held herself with an entirely different level of esteem. Her confidence increased, her attitude changed, she had begun growing into the woman she was destined to be.

We’d started the business on a shoe string budget. With Ingrid’s brilliant insight, as well as long hard hours by both of us and our meager work force we were a viable business. Within five years we had built the company into an operation with two shipping warehouses and 41 employees. Through the years the business had grown exponentially.

We were about as diverse as we could be, hiring every race, nationality and both genders with ease. When possible both of us interviewed each applicant, we didn’t give a damn about quota’s, or ethnicities, or whether they were black, white, brown, or green with pink pock-a-dots. If they could do the job, we hired them.

I was back at work after all the hoopla following the memorial service, things seemed normal until I noticed something out of order with a young man we’d hired just a week before Ingrid’s death. He had grown up in the ghetto, had managed to escape that environment and gone to school for economics.

He was a tall good looking young black man, dressed nicely, had a shaven head and looked as though he spent more than the occasional day at the gym. We always interviewed in the cafeteria, it gave us an idea of how focused the person could be and gave us a glimpse of whether they could concentrate in an active setting. The day we interviewed him I had another meeting and had to leave after about 5 minutes.

Although his credentials were good, his attitude seemed right, and he gave the correct answers, he didn’t do well in the concentration department. Easily distracted whenever a female entered the room, and in the brief time I was involved with the interview I thought I saw him staring at Ingrid more than once. Later that afternoon we discussed the situation, and though we had doubts, we decided to give the young man the chance he’d been looking for in life, contingent of course on passing a blood test and completing his 90 day probationary period.

He wasn’t our first black employee and wouldn’t be our last either. Within a week we were already getting complaints about his behavior being out of line at times. Then Ingrid died, and I was away from the office for several weeks. What struck me the oddest upon my return is that he was always away from his work station, hanging around the office talking with the secretaries and other female personnel. Since I had only met him once briefly, and hadn’t been there in almost a month, it didn’t seem that he knew who I was.

I noticed Irene was visibly shaken one morning so I called her into my office and ask what was going on. She stated that being new to this part of the building she didn’t want to be the office tattletale. I barked at her, “tattletale my ass, what the hell is going on?” I had never spoken to her like that and it frightened both of us. I quickly stood, apologized, then ask her to sit with me on the couch and tell me what was going on in my company, that I wasn’t aware of.

She hung her head, then sighed heavily.

“I don’t want you to think I’m being racist, but Jeremy, the new intern is always making lewd comments to the girls and this morning he grabbed my breast.”

“What kind of comments was he making Irene?”

“He seems to target younger girls, telling them they need more chocolate in their lives. To the married women he was saying that when they got tired of their husband’s inability to satisfy them sexually to give him a call and he’d show them what sex with a real man was like.”

“How did grabbing your beast happen?”

“I was at the coffee station when he walked over putting his hand on my butt, when I slapped it away he grabbed my breast and told me I’d be begging for his cock soon enough.”

To say I was pissed is an understatement. I had seen behavior like this before, and not just from young aggressive black men, we’d fired more than one white guy for the same reason. I knew the only way to deal with this kind of situation was head on. I thought to myself, do I walk over to his cubicle, kick his ass and then chuck him off the roof, or do I do this right and dismiss him properly through HR.

I chose the latter, then I decided to up the ante a bit and see if he took the bait. The next time I saw Irene at the coffee station I waited until Jeremy arrived, I could tell by her body language he was bothering her. I turned on my digital recorder, put it in my shirt pocket and walked over to get myself a coffee. I heard Irene say, “stop it” and walked toward her desk.

Standing next to him I said, “Pretty girl.” What came next surprised me.

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