Hand maid

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Say good-bye to evenings out, say good-bye to middle managements slobs, Veronica said to herself. She'd had enough of all that at this juncture. Three downers followed by a fair-to-middling degenerated into the pits was almost too much to take. Sam Barber was smooth, no doubt about that. He came on like an ad from a men's magazine, but then it happened. Vern already had the script memorized: (1) this is an affair; (2) my wife doesn't have to know; (3) you don't have to play second fiddle.

Second fiddle! – more like symphony janitor.

So now Vern had her mind all made up. Days would be the usual office nonsense – the light chatter, the senseless flirting, the search for Mr. Right – but nights, she would be pure auto. Vern surveyed her body, and was pleasantly impressed. Her breasts were huge, her hips curved in the right place and her ass was outstanding enough to cause takes in the office, even on Monday mornings. She had a good apartment, too. The bed dominated the studio, but she had the necessities, like an eating area, and a sitting area, and best of all, a fireplace to warm whatever might be in need of simmering.

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