A retail manager has fun with s new employe
Saturday morning began quietly at Shari’s house.
At fifty-nine, Shari had settled into a familiar routine. She managed the Acme Brick and Tile showroom, supervised employees, handled customer complaints, and kept the business running. Her husband was out of town for the weekend, leaving her with an unusually empty house.
There was one person she’d been thinking about.
The new warehouse assistant was twenty-two, handsome, energetic, and increasingly flirtatious. For several weeks, he’d found reasons to stop by her office. Sometimes he asked legitimate questions about deliveries or inventory. Other times, he lingered, complimenting her hair or making her laugh.
Shari knew she was old enough to be his mother. That was part of what made his attention so surprising.
At 10:17 that morning, she picked up her phone.
Shari: “What are you doing today?”
His answer arrived almost immediately.
Him: “Nothing much. Why?”
Shari: “I’ve got the pool all to myself. Thought you might like to come swimming.”
Him: “Are you serious?”
Shari: “Absolutely. Bring your swimsuit. And don’t make me regret inviting you.”
Him: “I’ll be there.”
Shari stared at the screen for several seconds.
“Oh, Lord,” she whispered, laughing. “What have I gotten myself into?”
11:30 a.m. — The arrival
When the doorbell rang, Shari was wearing her colorful striped bikini beneath a loose cover-up.
He stood on the porch carrying a towel and wearing a T-shirt and blue swimming trunks.
“Well, look at you,” Shari said.
“Look at you,” he answered.
She laughed. “You always this smooth with your boss?”
“Only when she invites me swimming.”
“Come on in, troublemaker.”
She led him through the house and out to the backyard.
The swimming pool sparkled beneath the bright sun. A wooden fence surrounded the property, and the neighboring house was partly obscured by trees.
He looked around appreciatively.
“Nice place.”
“Thank you. I’ve lived here a long time.”
“And you’ve got this whole pool to yourself?”
“Today I do.”
She slipped off her cover-up and placed it over a patio chair.
He smiled.
“That swimsuit looks really good on you.”
Shari put her hands on her hips.
“You’re going to get yourself into trouble talking like that.”
“Maybe I don’t mind.”
She shook her head, smiling.
“Get in the pool.”
12:15 p.m. — An afternoon of swimming
For the first hour, they behaved much like any two people enjoying a summer afternoon.
They swam laps, splashed one another, floated in the water, and talked about everything except work.
Eventually, they stood together in the shallow end.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Depends.”
“Why did you invite me?”
Shari looked at him for a moment.
“Because I enjoy your company.”
“That’s all?”
She smiled.
“You’re awfully persistent.”
“I’ve been trying to figure out whether you’ve been flirting with me.”
“And what have you decided?”
“I think you have.”
Shari laughed.
“Well, aren’t you confident?”
He moved a little closer.
“Am I wrong?”
She considered her answer.
“No,” she said quietly. “You’re not wrong.”
For several seconds neither spoke.
Then he asked, “Can I kiss you?”
Shari looked toward the house, then back at him.
“Yes.”
Their first kiss was tentative. The second was longer: their mouths parted, and their tongues darted around inside each other’s mouths, exploring and tasting, the kiss deepening as she pressed closer and he answered with the same hungry urgency.
When they separated, Shari laughed nervously.
“Good heavens.”
“What?”
“I haven’t felt this nervous around a man in years.”
“You’re not the only one.”
1:30 p.m. — Photographs beside the pool
After another swim, they climbed out and stood together on the sun-warmed concrete.
“Let’s take a picture,” he suggested.
Shari straightened her bikini.
“All right. But you’d better make me look good.”
They stood side by side, smiling at the camera.
Then he put an arm around her waist.
She leaned against him.
“One more,” he said.
This time, Shari turned toward him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
He kissed her.
The afternoon became a succession of affectionate moments: embracing, laughing, kissing, and enjoying the novelty of being together outside the workplace.
At one point Shari stepped away and posed alone with her hands on her hips.
“How’s that?” she asked.
“Perfect.”
“You’re a terrible flatterer.”
“I mean it.”
She smiled at the camera.
2:45 p.m. — Inside the house
Eventually, the heat drove them indoors.
Shari offered him something cold to drink, and they sat together in the kitchen.
Their conversation grew more serious.
“There’s something we need to acknowledge,” Shari said.
“What’s that?”
“I’m your manager.”
“I know.”
“And I’m married.”
“I know that, too.”
She studied him.
“This isn’t something I normally do.”
“I’m not expecting anything from you.”
“I need to know you understand that whatever happens today can’t affect your job.”
He nodded.
“And I need to know you’re here because you want to be,” she added.
“I am.”
Shari reached across the table and took his hand.
For a moment, she seemed torn between the familiar responsibilities of her everyday life and the unexpected excitement of the afternoon.
Finally, she stood.
“Come with me.”
3:00–5:30 p.m. — The guest bedroom
Shari led him down the hallway, her bare feet quiet on the wood. At the guest-room doorway she stopped, turned, and looked up at him. The air between them felt charged.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Yes. Are you?”
She studied his face for a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”
She kissed him—soft at first, then deeper—and drew him inside. The room was dim, afternoon light filtered through the blinds. She closed the door, then reached for the ties of her bikini top. He watched as she slipped it off, then stepped out of the bottoms. At fifty-nine her body showed the life she had lived: full breasts that settled with a soft weight, a rounded belly, hips that had carried weight and work, skin that had seen decades of sun and care. She stood without covering herself, letting him look.
He exhaled. “God.”
“Come here,” she said.
He stripped quickly—shirt, trunks—and she took him in with the same frank appreciation. Young, lean. Already hard. Pointing almost straight up, with veins standing out along all sides of it and the head swollen huge. She stepped close, pressed her body to his, and kissed him again while her hand wrapped around his cock. He groaned into her mouth, hips twitching.
“Easy,” she murmured against his lips. “We’ve got time.”
She sank to her knees on the rug. His hand hovered near her hair, uncertain. She looked up, smiled, and licked a slow stripe from base to tip before taking him into her mouth. The first few strokes were deliberate, wet, and measured. She used her tongue, her lips, a light suction that made his thighs tense. When she took him deeper, he made a broken sound.
“Shari—fuck—”
She pulled off just long enough to say, “You’re sensitive. I like that,” then went back down. One hand stroked what her mouth couldn’t take; the other rested on his hip, steadying him. She worked him with the unhurried skill of someone who had learned, over years, exactly what felt good and how long to keep it there. He had never had anyone suck him like this—patient, thorough, reading every twitch. His fingers finally settled in her hair, not guiding, just holding on.
When she felt him thicken and his breathing turn ragged, she eased off, kissing the head once more before rising. His eyes were wide.
“Holy shit,” he said. “I’ve never—most girls just—”
“I know.” She kissed him, letting him taste himself. “Get on the bed.”
He did. She climbed over him, straddling his thighs, and leaned down so her breasts brushed his chest. She took his cock again, stroking slowly while she kissed his neck, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.
“Tell me if you need me to stop,” she said.
“I don’t.”
She rose, lined him up, and sank down in one long, careful motion. The swollen head of his cock pressed against her, splitting her lips and pushing them apart as it eased inside. Her full bush brushed against him as she lowered herself, the soft curls dragging along his shaft while he felt her internal muscles grip and flex around him, drawing him deeper. The stretch made her breath catch; he filled her differently than she was used to—harder, longer, almost too much at first. She stayed still, letting her body adjust, then began to move. Slow rolls of her hips, then a deeper grind. Her hands braced on his chest. She watched his face the whole time.
“You feel so good,” she said, voice lower now. “So hard. I can feel every inch.”
He gripped her hips, then her waist, then her breasts—careful at first, then bolder when she pressed into his hands. “You’re so wet. And tight. I didn’t think—”
“Didn’t think an old woman would feel like this?” She smiled, a little breathless, and rode him harder. “Surprise.”
She leaned forward, breasts swinging, and kissed him while she fucked him. One of his hands slid down to where they were joined; his thumb found her clit and rubbed in clumsy, eager circles. She guided his fingers with her own until the pressure was right, then let him take over. The combination made her moan against his mouth.
“There. Just like that. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. She came first—sharp, surprised, thighs shaking around him—grinding down hard while her inner muscles clenched. He groaned at the feeling, hips bucking up into her. She rode the aftershocks, then sat up again, still moving, slower now, drawing it out.
“Your turn,” she said. “Tell me when you’re close.”
He lasted longer than he expected. She changed the angle, reached behind herself to cup his balls, leaned down to let him suck her nipples while she worked her hips. When his grip tightened and his voice cracked, she stayed exactly where she was, taking every thrust.
“Inside,” she said. “I want to feel it.”
He came with a low, broken sound, pulsing deep inside her. She kept moving through it, milking him until he was spent and sensitive. Only then did she ease off and settle beside him, both of them breathing hard.
They lay there for a while, his hand resting on her belly, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. Eventually she reached between her own legs, gathering the mess they’d made, and brought her fingers to her mouth. He watched, stunned.
“Come here,” she said again, and when he did she kissed him, sharing the taste. Then she guided his hand lower. “Touch me. I want your fingers.”
He obeyed, two fingers sliding into her easily now, curling the way she showed him. She rocked against his hand, teaching him the rhythm, the pressure, the spot that made her gasp. When she came the second time it was quieter, longer, her hips rolling against his palm while she whispered encouragement against his ear.
Later she took him in her mouth again, slow and thorough, until he was hard. She rolled onto her stomach and pulled him over her. He entered her from behind, one hand braced beside her shoulder, the other on her hip. She reached back, spread herself, and told him exactly how deep, how fast. He lasted even longer this time, watching the way her body moved under him, the soft give of her ass against his hips, the way she pushed back to meet every thrust. When she slipped a hand beneath herself and rubbed her clit, the sight and sound of it undid him again.
They rested. They talked—about the job, about being twenty-two and still figuring things out, about being fifty-nine and still capable of wanting like this. She laughed when he admitted he’d been nervous, that most of his experience had been quick and awkward. She told him he was a quick learner. He told her he’d never felt anyone move the way she did, never been with someone who knew her own body so well and wasn’t shy about using that knowledge.
By the time the light outside had shifted toward evening they had gone again—her on her back this time, legs wrapped around him, both of them slower, more deliberate. She came with her mouth open against his shoulder, nails digging into his back. He followed not long after, buried deep, her name on his breath.
They stayed tangled together until the room cooled. Shari eventually sat up, stretched, and smiled at him with the easy satisfaction of a woman who had taken exactly what she wanted and given it back in full.
“Still sure?” she asked, teasing.
He laughed, still catching his breath. “Yeah. Definitely sure.”
5:45 p.m. — The last photographs
Later, Shari freshened her makeup.
She chose bright red lipstick, a more dramatic look than she’d worn outside.
He complimented her smile and asked whether he could take another photograph.
She tilted her head toward the camera and smiled broadly.
“One more for your collection?” she teased.
“Only if you’re comfortable with it.”
“All right. But these stay private.”
“Of course.”
The photographs captured a different side of the afternoon from the outdoor swimming pictures: Shari indoors, smiling, with her curly hair framing her face and her red lipstick standing out prominently.
6:15 p.m. — Goodbye
By early evening, the house was quiet again.
He collected his towel and changed into his clothes.
Shari walked him to the front door.
“Well,” she said, “that was certainly an interesting Saturday.”
He laughed.
“That’s one way to describe it.”
She smiled, but her expression soon became serious.
“We need to be careful at work.”
“I understand.”
“I mean it. I’m still your manager on Monday.”
“And I’m still the warehouse guy.”
“Exactly.”
He kissed her goodbye.
After he drove away, Shari returned to the kitchen and looked out through the glass doors toward the pool.
The towels were still draped over the patio chairs. Two glasses sat on the kitchen counter.
Everything looked ordinary.
But she knew the afternoon had complicated her life considerably.
She was married. She was nearly sixty. And she had just spent an intimate Saturday with a twenty-two-year-old employee.
Shari picked up her phone and looked at the photographs.
Then she set it down and began thinking about Monday morning.
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