Swati sat restlessly at her work area, occasionally checking her watch, waiting for others to go. At last, she heard her ten colleagues descending the lobby, passing her door. As they passed, they bade farewell to Swati.

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“Have an awesome end of the week, Boss!”

“See ya, Swati!”

“Give that little girl of yours an embrace for me!”

Her employees loved her. She was the ultimate player’s coach, always willing to put in the extra time with them, and allowing them enough of a leash to make their own decisions, with only just enough oversight to prevent everything from going horribly wrong.

Perhaps more than anything, they appreciated that she let them bow out early for the weekend, while she would stay an extra hour or so, and yet not harbor any resentment about it.

Swati, meanwhile, loved her employees, and loved her job. She had moved to California from India to take this position, and knowing that it was a huge commitment, had poured her every effort into it. As a result, she had earned promotions and raises at a more frequent pace than her colleagues. They, too, though, could not harbor any resentment towards her, as they knew she deserved it, and she always paid respect to those in the company who helped her get where she was.

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Her home life was stable, steady, consistent. She had a loving husband who was, for lack of a better term, completely boring. As dedicated to his work as Swati was to hers, he lived a conservative life that permeated his politics, social life and his marital bed.

Swati loved him, no question, but her mind was constantly bombarded with sexual, borderline perverse, fantasies. And while her employees might have admired her for working late on Fridays, Swati would anxiously await this time for the rare moment of privacy it granted her. Constantly surrounded by her family or colleagues, she would “work late” on Friday to enjoy some quiet time.

She watched the security monitor on her desktop, waiting for the last employee to head out to the parking lot, and then she opened up her favorite website Desi bahu dot com. She browsed quickly through her list of favorite stories, selected one of the dirtiest erotic sex stories, and sat back in her chair.

“Suburban MILF is captured and turned into a fuckpig,” she read the description out loud as she parted her legs and let her left wrist nuzzle against her sex. She had read this story many times, but she still read every word, reveling in the pacing and delayed gratification she could achieve by not jumping to the “good parts.”

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Of course, what she loved about this story was that it didn’t dwell in the back story, and it still got to the action relatively quick. And once it got there, it was explicit and filthy, just as she liked it.

“Present your cunt,” the protagonist’s master commanded of her. Swati always waited until this line to spread her legs wider. Without fail, a damp spot would emerge through her panties by now, and she loved the sensation of the warm slick between her thighs.

Imagining the master’s crop was touching her slit, she pulled the stapler off the top of her desk and gently ground the smooth top of it against her crotch through her jeans. Her ass cheeks clenched as she pushed her pussy off her chair and into the stapler, appreciating its rigidity. There wasn’t anything on the stapler to simulate the veins of a cock, so it was nearly impossible to stimulate herself to orgasm. But that is what she liked about it. For now, she just wanted a tease.

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As she got to the part of the story where the fuckpig suburban wife has to service her master with her mouth in order to get him to delete some scandalous photos, she imagined herself in that position. Kneeling, mouth stretched wide around a domineering cock, looking up into the eyes of her captor. She wanted that so badly, but knew that it would never happen. Her heritage was that of a society that frowned upon sexual openness. For her to even suggest something outside the realm of vanilla sex to her husband was out of the question.

She knew that the fact that it was so taboo was what made it so enjoyable for her. And she believed that reading erotica, instead of viewing explicit videos, was a good compromise. It never made her feel too guilty, but it could still satisfy her desires.

She rubbed the stapler harder and quicker against her pussy as the master built his way towards climax. Tonight, though, she would not reach that climax.

A quick rap on her office door startled her.

“Hey Swati, I…” Rico started before stuttering to a pause.

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Swati dropped the stapler, which landed with a bracing mechanical clang between her feet behind her desk.

“Uh…sorry to interrupt. Just wanted to see if you needed a ride home.”

Rico was the office Swiss Army Knife. He was their runner, their fixer, and, most steadily, their chauffeur. Swati had fantasized about him from time to time, primarily because he had a significant resemblance to one of her favorite Bollywood icons. Though he was Mexican, his skin tone was similar to hers, and she considered her infatuation with him akin to camping in the back yard: familiar, but pushing boundaries. The fact that he had rippling muscles that seemed to pop through whatever he was wearing didn’t hurt, either.

“Shit,” Swati replied. “Sorry, what time is it?”

“Almost 6. I know you tend to stay late, and I was just about to head home myself. I could drive you, with the company car, if you want.”

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Swati normally took the train – just a few stops – and then walked the two blocks to work, but occasionally she would accept a ride from Rico. It was not inappropriate for him to knock and enter like this, given her open door policy. She couldn’t be mad at him for this intrusion. But she hated herself, and her flushed cheeks belied that whatever she was doing was not office appropriate.

“Uh, yea, please. Sorry,” Swati said as she leaned over and picked up the stapler.

As she lowered her head beneath the desk, Rico noticed something familiar in the reflection of the window behind her. The very banner and website design of a site he visited several times per week. It was then that he confirmed his suspicions that she had been pleasuring herself when he entered. He smiled an amused smile that he quickly straightened when Swati returned to her chair.

Wanting to act as if she was just finishing up when he walked in, she closed her laptop and stood up, grabbing the coat from her chair and making her way to the door. Rico, ever the gentlemen, held it for her and then closed it behind her.

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When they got out to the parking lot, Rico locked the front door and led Swati to her car. She was following with her head down, ashamed that she had nearly, and perhaps actually, been caught masturbating at the office. If he had caught her, she thought, Rico seemed impressively straight-laced about it.

Rico opened the back door for her and them climbed in front. He started the engine, paused briefly, and then turned it off.

“Is everything OK?” she asked.

“Yes, Swati, I’m sorry. I left my phone in there. I’ll be right back.”

He promptly left her in the back seat to think about what had just happened. Of all the people to catch her, it had to be the one guy she had a crush on? And how could she have missed him on the security camera? Where had he been when everyone else left?

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Rico, for his part, had his phone on him the entire time. An idea had struck him like a lightning bolt, and he acted on it impulsively, not even sure if he wanted to. He entered the building and went back into Swati’s office. He opened her laptop as he sat behind her desk, knowing that she did not properly shut it down. In a few seconds, the light came on and there it was, the Erotic Sex story she was reading.

“Holy shit,” he muttered to himself. He clicked back on the browser a few times to land on her user page “Favorites” tab.

“Neglected wife finds joy in submission? Suburban MILF is captured and turned into a fuckpig and interested in asstr stories? Indian Wife Gone Bad, Husband catches wife with dirty old neighbor?” He read everything out loud in astonishment. Swati had seemed so prim and proper literally every instant he had spent with her. He could not believe that this was the kind of thing she fantasized about. He wondered if she would have an interest in acting any of these out, or if she had already.

He took a quick picture of her favorites page so that he could study it more at home, then closed the laptop and returned to the car.

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“Sorry about that, Swati,” he said as he reentered the car. He held his phone up and gave it a little shake to show that he had been successful in retrieving it.

“No problem, Rico. Thank you for taking me home.”

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Kirti and I met and married in college, finishing together to begin our careers, she is a teacher, me as an accountant. Our sex life was normal, normal and dull. It was just straight sex, missionary style. I tried to talk to her about expanding her horizons and tried to get her to do other things, or, maybe even tell me her fantasies, but, she seemed sexless most of the time.

Then, after we had been married about three years, we found out I was sterile and that is the reason we could not have a baby. Kirti was devastated. She so wanted baby. I felt horrible because I wanted them, too, but, more than that, because I had let her down. It was about then I started having fantasies of her having sex with another man, a man who would impregnate her, a man to give her what I could not, a baby.

I never had the courage to share my fantasies with her, although they became stronger and stronger. Every time we would see a couple with a small baby, I would see the pain in her face, see her wanting. Over time, I could see something else. I could see her disgust with me for being sterile, for being unable to give her that.

She would fight her feelings. I could see her pendulum swing from being over solicitous with me to revulsion at not being able to give her a baby. It was so hard on both of us.

One night, after we both had too much to drink, I told her my fantasy. I told her I dreamed of her being impregnated by another man, of bearing a happy healthy baby, of me watching them having sex or her telling me all about it. This was so much a part of the fantasy. I must know everything, as if I were impregnating her through him.

She slapped me hard, and then she slapped me again. “How dare you think me a slut!” she screamed, pounding on my chest with her fists. “I’m your wife, you sterile wimp!” She began to weep buckets, collapsing against me as she sobbed. Immediately, she begged my forgiveness at calling me a wimp, saying she knew it was not my fault, that I wanted a baby as much as she did.

I threw myself in my work. Our relationship declined even faster, to the point she would lie there limply when we had sex. I got to the point I would rather not bother her. Yet, even though she was listless in our bed, I felt a tension building in her.

Then, the firm had a cocktail party for an executive who was being transferred to another office. Three other men had been fired. Those changes opened up some job opportunities which had not yet been filled. Mr. Rehman, the top man in the company, was going to be at the party to meet all of us. I’m sure part of the reason he was there was to evaluate some of us who might be up for a promotion.

Kirti claimed to be too tired to go, but I insisted. This was too important for her to miss. Our company liked to hire married people and wives were an important part of our culture. At the party, Kirti relaxed and began enjoying herself as she normally did. She was really a very pleasant person normally, before the baby crisis anyway.

We had been there about two hours when I realized Kirti was not by my side. I saw her talking to Mr. Rehman in the corner. They seemed intent. I turned to talk to someone else. When I looked for her again, she was gone. So was Mr. Rehman.

Immediately, I began to wonder. What was happening? Had they left together? Then, my immediate supervisor grabbed me to meet the new recruit. I was stranded, trying to make polite conversation while my brain whirled. I felt a hand on my arm. It was Kirti.

“Honey, let’s go home,” she said. Her eyes were wild, more alive then I could remember seeing them in years. She was very excited as she dug her nails into my arm. I said my farewells and followed her toward the door. Mr. Rehman was watching us as we left. In the car, I tried to make conversation but she said she did not want to talk right now. She leaned back as if asleep but her foot was moving rhythmically with her shoe dangling off her toes. She bounced into the house.

“Did you have a nice talk with Mr. Rehman?” I asked as we undressed in our bedroom after the party. The tension was thick. Kirti was moving sensually, her hips rotating more than normal, her back arched. I was hard just thinking about her.

“Yes. Why didn’t you tell me you were up for a promotion?”

“I didn’t know I was. The rumor mill had my name in the pot but I have not been officially informed.”

“Well, you certainly are being considered,” Kirti said.

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