The bright red lines of each strike were clearly swelling.The scene jumped. This time a very pretty petite naked blond was shown carrying a wooden case to a man seated in a tall chair. She put the box in front of him and it was clear that the box was a shoe shine kit. She opened it and took out a vibrator and a rag. The camera angle changed to show the view from behind the seated man. From this angle you could see an audience of eight or ten men. They looked like a biker gang — leather, tattoos, scruffy. She turned and faced the audience. Her right foot went up on the box and she started using the vibrator, running it in and out of herself while she leaned back and showed the men her body. The man at the chair said something and she stopped and turned to him. He put his foot on the box. Then, with agonizing slowness, she squatted over his black boot until her distended pussy lips came into contact with the leather. He forced her head to his lap and her face into his jeans clad crotch. As I turned away I got a text. My heart leapt – Rachel? No – Gary!There is no divorce. We are talking about getting back together. Do not try to contact her, she is not interested. Keep out of our lives.I stared at the text, totally puzzled. What to make of the message? I had thought it was her belief she was a failure or some such idea, but this message implied the divorce now seemed to have been a wake-up call that she could save her marriage. No wonder she cut off all communication with me. I wondered if she would ever face me, tell me herself and explain.So it was in a deeply depressed state that I climbed the stairs back to the function room.Here was I, the host at a triumphal celebration where everyone was delighted with success (I included myself in that) and the prospect of a hefty bonus, and now all I wanted to do was to leave. All my satisfaction and delight at our success had been sucked out of me. I had lost Rachel.Harry Dreckson, the other director on our floor, noticed.
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