"I don't know why that makes such a difference," Walter Morrow told her. "Feel that cock? What difference does a wedding ring make to a stiff prick? I'm not asking you to leave your husband. I just think we ought to enjoy each other this evening. Then you can go back home, happy and content."

Next he would tell her that other married girls in the office were screwing around. Sheila knew that. She knew that Mrs. Farrow in the accounting department was putting out for Mr. Higgs, the comptroller of the corporation. She knew that most of the girls in the office, married or not, were available to the more handsome young executives and salesmen. She knew all of that. Then, he could tell her that Tom, her husband, was fucking anything he could get his hands on. She had heard that before. Just because Tom went don to the tavern every night, some of the girls tried to convince her that he was playing around on her. She didn't buy it.

She forced herself to struggle free of Walt's arms. She stepped back from him, making herself appear angry. She glared at him, fighting the temptation to smile as warmly as he. She shook her head.

"No!" she repeated. "And I don't care if every married woman in town is sleeping around. I don't care if my Tom is balling anything with a hole between its legs. I'm married. I… I… oh, please, wait! Don't make it harder on me."

She spun around as her anger dissolved. Tern of frustration tilled her eye. The redhead fought against her tears and ran out of the room. Walt Morrow watched her, eyeing the luscious way her tiny waist spread out into such enticing hips and ass, eyeing her lovely legs that swung through the door. He smiled. She'd come around. Yes, it was only a matter of time before that exquisite piece ended up in his bed. He took a deep breath and waited for his erect pecker to shrivel. The tall, lean, young man closed his eyes as a smile played at the corner of his mouth. He pictured the girl with her husband.