Mr. Worley was in his early fifties, turning bald. He was a wiry little man. At five-foot-five, he stood two inches shorter than Marge. Mainly he made all the drinks and tended the cash register, but he seemed to love his business and was all over the place when things got busy. The only thing the jovial little man didn't do was hop cars. He and Marge hit it off right from the start. By the end of her first shift, they'd dropped the "Mister Worley" and "Missus Sayre" bit and were calling one another by their first names.
The only real objection Marge had about her job was the hours – two in the afternoon till ten p.m. when the place closed – because she didn't like the idea of leaving her nine-year-old son alone in the evenings. At first the boy walked to the drive-in and hung around for an hour or so after Marge had given him his supper, then Mrs. Nelson sort of adopted him and Marge quit worrying about him so much, knowing he was being looked after in the evenings and put to bed promptly at eight. It wasn't so bad. The drive-in was closed on Sunday and Monday because Jim wouldn't work on Sunday and said he'd learned the hard way that Monday was a money-loser.
Although Jim was married, happily he said, he insisted on driving Marge home every night and she let him. She liked the man and saw nothing wrong with accepting a ride from him since he was her employer. Then they got to stopping at a bar for a nightcap. One night they had three drinks before Jim took her home and Marge, who was a bit tipsy and hadn't had any loving for weeks, allowed her boss to kiss her goodnight.
Jim was all over her in a matter of minutes. They were parked in the alley behind her apartment, and he was wrestling her around in the seat as if they were a couple of teenagers, French-kissing her while he fought her hands to play with her foam-rubber tits through her blouse. Finally he shoved his hand forcibly under her dress and began rubbing her cock-starved pussy.
"No, Jim!" she panted, when he slipped his hand inside the secretion-soaked crotchband of her nylon panties and probed two fingers up into her juiced-up slot. "Ohhhhh… oh, don't! Damn it, I ca-can't… let you screw me!"
But screwing her wasn't what he was after. He begged her to let him go down on her, nothing more, swore he could worship her for her fabulous legs and ass, that watching her move around in the kitchen had made him crazy to eat her snatch. He didn't care that her crotch was sweaty and that she needed a douche. In fact, the strong smell of her aroused cunt seemed to excite him all the more.
He wouldn't take no for an answer. Like a wild man he wrestled her down and, jerking her panty crotchband to the side, began slavishing licking her hairy hole, whimpering and shaking with emotion as he did so.
Once she felt his lapping tongue and suctioning lips working on her erogenous crack, Marge melted and let him have his lustful way with her. He made her cum twice before he groaned and shot off in his pants.
"God, I don't know what came over me, Marge," he said when he finally let her up. "I've never done that to any woman before. There's something about you, baby, something that brings out the animal in me. I'm not gonna say I'm sorry because I'm not. Jesus, I've never enjoyed anything so much in my whole life. Don't quit me, Marge. Stay on. I'll give you a nice raise if you will."
She accepted a cigarette and a light from him. His hands were still shaking. Strangely, she didn't regret what had happened. He'd satisfied her sexual needs, leaving her in a relaxed mood of physical well-being. "I'll never have intercourse with you," she said. "You're a married man and I'm not about to become a home-wrecker."
"Just let me eat you out every now and again," he pleaded. "All I want to do is worship that delicious cunt of yours with my mouth."
"Are you sure you'll be satisfied with that, Jim?" she asked in a tauntingly throaty whisper, for she was beginning to enjoy the mounting sense of power which her physical appeal apparently gave her over her boss.
He gulped and shook his head. "I'll be wanting to lick those pretty little feet of yours, too, and your gorgeous legs… and, oh, God… your ass… that beautiful ass! Marge, I've been fighting this for years. But you, whatever it is about you… I can't fight it anymore. At work… nothing will be different there… do you understand? Except I'll raise you twenty-five dollars a week starting this week… and I'll pay you more later… if you'll…" His voice trailed off.
It was his expression of blissful humiliation more than what he'd said which struck a responsive cord in Marge and brought a part of her personality which she'd never known existed rising to the surface.
"I think I'm beginning to get your message, boss man," she intoned, and slapped him quite hard. When he only whimpered, she slapped him. "That's the way you want me to treat you when-we're alone, isn't it, Jim?"
He gulped and nodded. "We'll go to a motel next time. I've got some leather things I'd like you to wear. You will dominate me, won't you?"
"Completely," she assured him, for now that she realized what their relationship was to be, she was eager to get it going. She'd read of such things before, and now she knew why it'd held that inexplicable sense of fascination for her. "Do you sleep in pajamas?" she asked.
"Why, yes, I do, but why do you ask?"
Her smile belonged on a jungle cat stalking its prey. "Because I wouldn't want to mark you where your wife might see it. You don't want her to know, do you? Of course not, so bare your chest for me."
Obediently he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled up his T-shirt.
"I've noticed you admiring these long red nails of mine. I've always wondered why I took so much trouble keeping them this way. But now I know, lover, thanks to you."
With that, she reached over and raked her sharp fingernails slowly across his chest. The more he whimpered and trembled, the deeper she dug them in. There were four red welts across his chest when she finished.
"Did you enjoy that as much as I did, Jim? Does it excite you the way it excites me?"
"Christ, yes! More!" he pleaded.
"Oh, no," she laughed. "That's all you get tonight. I'm calling the shots from now on. Buy me some thigh-high boots, will you?"
"Black ones," he husked.
"Of course black," she said, and told him what size to buy before she sent him on his way.
Marge went up the stairs humming softly to herself. She felt good, confident, powerful, and she knew her new self-confidence was a direct result of the dormant streak of female dominance which Jim had evoked from her. It gave her a strange and wonderful feeling, although she realized it was only a small part of her total personality. She supposed she ought to poke it around, examine it, analyze it, but she was disinclined to do so. How much better it would be for her in the long run to simply savor and enjoy this new facet of her personality, for it drove away her fears concerning the future. All her life she'd felt dependent on men in one way, or another, and she'd resented it. But no longer. Now a man was dependent on her, and it worked an odd sort of magic within her. Now, for the first time since her husband had deserted her, Marge felt able to cope with life as it was.
It made no difference that her new-found optimism was totally unrealistic, for like the bumblebee – whose body is too heavy for its wings but it doesn't know that and so flies anyway – Marge refused to be concerned about details which didn't interest her.