Thank You Heels - Sex Stories

Thank You Heels

I I had problems when I was young. I won’t go into all the horrific details because I want this to be a happy story and no one likes a whiner. I’ve always been blamed for the decisions I’ve made going all the way back into early childhood when I didn’t even realize I was making decisions. But they say children are not responsible. So at what point did I cross the line? at what point was I “supposed to know” the right and the wrong thing, for me and for everybody else? I don’t know and I’m sure no one reading this knows either. No one ever taught me shit. I’ve learned it all on my own, the hard way. I’ve never been to Europe or the Bahamas or anywhere really and I probably never will. I am bitter. Of course my girlhood wasn’t all bad. I remember something of happiness but it reaches me through the drift of so many awful years that it’s stained and I despise the mindless happiness of myself as a child and of all children. I kept for many years the sincere belief that the world couldn’t possibly be as bad as adults kept saying it was. It turned out to be true but it’s also true that they only tell you that in order to frighten and control you and I knew this and that knowledge kept me from believing it was true. You never get rid of these thoughts you know? You have them every single day, you struggle with them. They take you over sometimes so that you forget where you are and what you’re doing. They eat away at you from within and so you drink, you smoke, you snort, you fuck, ...

... and in the morning your face is in the mirror looking at you. I went through a dark time before I met Samantha and fell in love. I won’t talk about her too much. She’s sacred to me and she makes me happy but sanctity and happiness are boring and I don’t want to bore. She taught me things, about computers and applying for work, she got me out of where I was and into J&J where I’ve got my own little desk and console, my own little cubicle where I can put up pictures of she and I and our cats. She taught me self-worth and for the first time in my life I started thinking of myself as a real person. When she got sick and had to go on disability it was devastating. What came from the insurance company was only a fraction of what she had been making at her job and our bills started to get the better of us. I was good at my job and thought the time had come to try to move up the ladder. My boss’ name was Audrey. Her moods were as changeable as her wardrobe; a beautiful haute couture queen who rolled through our maze of cubicles every day like a newly waxed Maserati: sleek, expensive and fast. Her husband Dennis owned the company but you seldom saw him. A stodgy square white-bread type who smoked cigars with a piggish air of self-satisfaction. I loathed the sight of him although I had the feeling Ms. Audrey had him wrapped around her dainty finger. I learned very soon, we all did, that she was not to be trifled with. Her secretary when I first started, and she went through scores of ...