Happy Wife, Happy Life: Part Two

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Office Exposures

Derek shoved through the glass doors at seven forty-five, a full fifteen minutes early, his guts twisted up with dread about the regional manager meeting. The second his shoes hit the carpet, he could tell something was off. The usual morning drone—the whir of computers, the coughs, the shuffling of paper—was gone, replaced by a low buzz of whispers that cut off the moment he showed up. Every eye in the place followed him, some grinning like they were in on a joke, others looking away, trying not to burst out laughing. Derek’s cheeks burned as he made his way through the cubicle maze, the back of his neck crawling with the heat of their stares.

Marcus from accounting caught his eye and gave him a knowing nod, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. Jennifer from sales covered her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles as she turned back to her monitor. Even the intern—some college kid whose name Derek could never remember—stared at him with wide eyes and then quickly looked down at his phone, typing furiously.

Derek slumped into his chair, hands shaking as he set his coffee down. The cubicle walls, that ugly gray fabric, felt like they were closing in, suffocating him. He jabbed the power button on his computer, the Windows chime blaring through the tense silence like a siren. His brain spun. Did someone hear him and Carrie last night? Did she call someone? Did a neighbor catch a show through the window?

The desktop loaded. Derek clicked on Outlook, watching the inbox populate with overnight messages. Sales reports. Meeting reminders. A company-wide memo about the holiday party. And then, fourth from the top, bold and unread, sat an email from Harlan Pierce—his direct supervisor, the man who controlled his assignments, his performance reviews, his entire career trajectory at this godforsaken company.

The subject line made Derek’s blood run cold: “Your Wife’s Face Looks Better With My Load On It.”

His hand froze on the mouse. For a long moment, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t process what he was seeing. This couldn’t be real. This had to be a mistake, a hacked account, some kind of horrible joke. But when he glanced at the CC line, his stomach dropped through the floor.

The email was addressed to the entire office distribution list. Every person on this floor. Every manager, every team lead, every administrative assistant. Corporate leadership. The regional manager he was supposed to meet in fifteen minutes. Everyone.

Derek’s vision tunneled. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out the ambient office noise. With shaking fingers, he double-clicked the email.

The message body contained no text. Just three attached image files, each with innocuous names like “image001.jpg” that gave no hint of their contents. Derek’s cursor hovered over the first attachment. He should close this email. He should delete it immediately, report it to IT, escalate this to someone higher up than Harlan. But his finger clicked anyway, opening the image in a new window that filled his screen.

Carrie’s face filled the screen, green eyes glassy and half-shut, lips parted and shining. Thick ropes of cum streaked her face—splattered across her nose, dripping off her chin, pooling on her tongue. Her auburn hair was a mess, makeup smeared, and she wore that look Derek knew too well: fucked-out, satisfied, and still hungry for more. The photo was sharp, almost professional, like Harlan had taken his sweet time lining up the shot.

Derek clicked to the next photo. This one showed Carrie from a different angle, kneeling on what looked like an office floor—gray industrial carpet he recognized from the executive suite upstairs. Harlan’s hand was visible in the frame, fingers tangled in her hair, holding her head in place. More cum streaked her face, and Derek could see his wife’s blouse was unbuttoned, her breasts visible, nipples hard.

The third photo was a close-up of Carrie’s mouth, lips stretched wide around a cock Derek knew wasn’t his. Thicker, longer, curving left in a way his never did. Cum oozed from the corners of her mouth, and her eyes locked on the camera, that cock-drunk look on her face that made Derek’s stomach knot and his cock twitch in his pants.

He slammed the images closed, eyes darting around to make sure nobody was peeking over his shoulder. His face was on fire, shame and rage boiling under his skin, but underneath it all, his cock throbbed, hard and aching. He hated it, hated that he was getting off on this, knowing every single person in the office had seen his wife’s cum-soaked face. Knowing his boss—his fucking boss—had used her mouth and then blasted it out to the whole company like it was just another memo.

“Morning, Derek.”

Derek jumped, his chair squeaking as he spun around. Sandra from HR stood at the entrance to his cubicle, her arms crossed, her expression professionally neutral but her eyes bright with barely concealed amusement.

“Morning,” Derek managed, his voice coming out strangled.

“Team meeting in five minutes,” Sandra said. “Conference room B. Don’t be late.” She walked away, her heels clicking against the tile floor, and Derek heard her whisper something to Marcus as she passed his desk. They both laughed.

Derek killed his email and stood up, legs wobbling. His cock was still rock hard, bulging against his pants, so he snatched a folder and held it in front of himself like a shield. The walk to the conference room felt endless, every set of eyes glued to him, every whisper about him, about Carrie, about the filthy photos everyone had seen.

Conference room B was already half-full when he arrived. Derek took a seat at the far end of the table, folder positioned strategically on his lap, and tried to arrange his features into something resembling normalcy. His colleagues filed in—Marcus, Jennifer, Sandra, three others whose names blurred together in Derek’s panicked mind. And then Harlan entered, coffee in hand, his tie perfectly knotted, a satisfied smile playing at his lips.

“Morning, team,” Harlan said, taking his seat at the head of the table. His eyes found Derek’s, and that smile widened just a fraction. “Let’s get started. We’ve got a lot to cover today.”

The meeting proceeded with agonizing slowness. Harlan went through the agenda point by point—sales figures, client updates, upcoming deadlines. But underneath the corporate jargon, Derek heard innuendo in every phrase. “Really nailed that presentation,” Harlan said about someone’s pitch, and Jennifer smirked. “We need to go deeper into the client relationship,” he continued, and Marcus coughed to cover a laugh.

Derek’s hands were slick with sweat, clutching the folder in his lap. His heart hammered, sweat prickling at his hairline even with the AC blasting. Every time someone opened their mouth, he wondered if they’d seen the photos, if they were picturing his wife on her knees, if they knew he was sitting there with a hard-on, thinking about Carrie choking on Harlan’s cock.

The images in his head wouldn’t stop. Harlan bending Carrie over his desk, her skirt bunched up, panties yanked aside. Harlan’s fat fingers tangled in her hair, shoving her face down on his cock while she gagged and drooled. Carrie begging, calling him sir, please sir, desperate for his cum, for his approval, for the thrill of being used like the office cumslut she was.

Derek squirmed in his seat, trying to adjust himself under the table without anyone noticing. His cock throbbed, begging for attention, and he hated himself for it—hated that his own body was getting off on being humiliated like this.

“Derek?”

He snapped back to attention. Everyone was staring at him. Harlan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, that insufferable smile still on his face.

“Sorry, what?” Derek asked.

“I asked if you had the Morrison report ready,” Harlan said slowly, enunciating each word like Derek was simple. “You know, the one that’s been on your desk for a week?”

“I—yes. It’s almost done. I’ll have it to you by end of day.”

“Almost done.” Harlan chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, let’s hope you can finish this one, at least.” Another round of barely suppressed laughter rippled around the table, and Derek’s face burned hotter.

The meeting finally, mercifully ended. Derek gathered his folder and stood, trying to escape quickly, but Harlan’s voice stopped him.

“Derek, stay back a minute. Need to discuss something.”

The others filed out, casting knowing glances over their shoulders. When the door closed, leaving Derek alone with Harlan in the conference room, his boss stood and walked around the table, perching on the edge directly in front of Derek’s chair.

“About this morning’s email,” Harlan began, and Derek’s stomach clenched. “I’m sure you’ve seen it by now.”

“You can’t—” Derek started, but Harlan held up a hand.

“Can’t what? Share photos of a willing participant? Your wife came to me, Derek. Begged for it, actually. Said she needed a real man’s cock after your little… performance issues.” Harlan’s eyes flicked down to Derek’s crotch, where his erection still tented his pants despite everything. “Though it looks like you’re enjoying the show just fine.”

Derek’s mouth went dry. He should punch this asshole, should walk out, should do something other than stand here with his dick hard and his pride shattered. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could only stare as Harlan pulled out his phone.

“Here,” Harlan said, turning the screen toward Derek. “Thought you might want the full collection.”

The phone displayed a gallery of photos, dozens of them, all featuring Carrie in various states of degradation. On her knees. Bent over. Face covered in cum. Mouth open and waiting. Each image time-stamped over the past two weeks.

“She’s quite popular around here,” Harlan continued. “Best morale booster we’ve had in years. Maybe you should be proud, Derek. Your wife’s helping the entire team perform better.” He stood, pocketing his phone. “Now get out. You’ve got work to do.”

Derek staggered back to his desk, head spinning, cock still hard and leaking in his pants. He dropped into his chair and opened his email, hands moving on autopilot. He trashed Harlan’s message, watched it vanish, but then—like a fucking addict—he opened the photos again, screenshotting them, saving them to the secret folder on his phone he pretended didn’t exist.

He had to go to HR. Ted would help. Ted had to help—this was textbook harassment, workplace misconduct, maybe even revenge porn. Derek stood, straightening his tie, and was about to head toward Ted’s office when his computer chimed with a new email notification.

Laughter erupted from the break room down the hall, loud and unrestrained. Derek’s hand trembled as he moved his mouse to click on the new message, dread pooling in his gut like ice water.

The sender was listed as “Office Social Committee.” The subject line read: “Mandatory Team Building Event - Tonight - Derek’s House.”

***

Derek didn’t let himself think about the new email, didn’t let himself process what “mandatory team building event at his house” could possibly mean. He walked straight past his cubicle, past the break room where laughter still echoed, and made a beeline for the HR department at the far end of the floor. Ted’s door was closed, but Derek didn’t bother knocking—just twisted the handle and pushed inside, closing the door firmly behind him with a click that sounded too loud in the small office.

Ted looked up from his computer, his expression shifting from surprise to something Derek couldn’t quite read—amusement, maybe, or anticipation. The HR director leaned back in his leather chair, the movement causing his tie to shift, revealing it was already loosened despite the early hour. His crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and as Derek stood there trying to catch his breath, Ted’s thin lips curved into a smug grin that made Derek’s stomach turn.

“Derek,” Ted said, drawing out the name. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Don’t you have a meeting with the regional manager in…” He glanced at his watch. “Five minutes?”

“I need to report workplace harassment,” Derek said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Harlan sent explicit photos to the entire office. Of my wife. With him. It’s—it’s revenge porn, it’s hostile work environment, it’s a dozen different violations—”

“Slow down,” Ted interrupted, holding up one hand. His other hand disappeared beneath his desk, and Derek heard the subtle sound of a zipper. “Let’s talk about this rationally.”

Derek’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Rationally? He sent pictures of my wife covered in cum to everyone in the company. The regional manager saw them. Corporate saw them. How is there anything rational about that?”

Ted’s grin widened. “That’s quite the predicament,” he said, his voice dropping to a lower register. His hand moved beneath the desk, the motion causing his shoulder to shift rhythmically. “But I’m afraid there’s been no violation of company policy.”

“What?” Derek’s voice cracked. “How can you possibly—”

“Your wife consented,” Ted said simply. He reached down with his visible hand and adjusted something in his lap, and Derek noticed the unmistakable bulge forming at Ted’s crotch, pressing against the fabric of his slacks. “In fact, she was quite enthusiastic about the documentation. We have signed consent forms for all… workplace interactions.”

Derek’s brain short-circuited. Consent forms. Workplace interactions. Like Carrie had signed a stack of paperwork before letting his boss ram his cock down her throat.

“That doesn’t make it appropriate,” Derek managed, but his voice sounded weak even to his own ears. “You can’t just share pornography in a professional setting—”

“Who said anything about pornography?” Ted leaned forward, his tie swinging loose, and Derek caught the gleam of sweat on his forehead despite the air conditioning. “Those were simply… performance reviews. Documentation of services rendered.” His hand continued moving beneath the desk, more obviously now, and Derek realized with nauseating clarity that Ted was touching himself. “Besides, I’m not just the arbiter of these situations. I’m also involved.”

The words hung in the air between them. Derek’s mouth went dry.

“What?”

Ted reached for his phone on the desk, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He swiped through it with practiced ease, then turned the screen toward Derek. “See for yourself.”

The video started playing automatically, sound erupting from the phone’s speakers. Carrie’s voice filled the small office—high and breathy and so fucking familiar it made Derek’s chest tighten. “Please, sir, I need it. Please let me suck your cock.”

Derek’s eyes locked onto the screen despite himself. The video showed Ted’s office, this very office, filmed from the perspective of someone sitting in Ted’s chair. The camera pointed down at Carrie, who knelt between Ted’s spread legs, her hands resting on his thighs, her face upturned and eager. She wasn’t wearing the blouse from the photos with Harlan—this was different clothing, a blue dress Derek recognized from last week. How many times had she been here? How many times had she knelt on this floor while Derek sat in his cubicle working on spreadsheets?

“That’s a good girl,” Ted’s voice came from the video, slightly distorted by the phone’s speaker. “Show me what that mouth can do.”

Carrie’s hands moved to Ted’s belt, unbuckling it with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d done this dozens of times. She freed his cock—slim and pale compared to what Derek had seen in the photos with Harlan, but visibly hard and already leaking. Carrie licked her lips, that gesture Derek knew so well, and then she was on him.

Her red lips stretched around Ted’s shaft, taking him deep in one smooth motion that made her cheeks hollow. She pulled back, tongue swirling around the head, and then dove down again, faster this time, establishing a rhythm that had Ted groaning on camera. Spit glistened on her chin. Her eyes watered but never closed, staring up at the camera with that hungry, desperate expression that said she needed this more than air.

“Your wife’s got quite a talent,” Ted said, his voice pulling Derek’s attention away from the video. But Derek’s eyes snapped back immediately as Carrie’s moaning intensified on screen, the wet sounds of her throat working filling the office. “Maybe the best throat in the tri-state area. Certainly better than my ex-wife’s.”

On the video, Ted’s hand—those soft, office-worker hands that had never done manual labor—grabbed Carrie’s hair, fisting it tight, and forced her head down. Carrie gagged audibly, her throat bulging, but she didn’t pull away. She relaxed into it, letting Ted use her mouth like a toy, and Derek could see the moment her hand moved between her legs, could see her body shuddering as she touched herself while choking on his cock.

“She came twice during this session,” Ted continued conversationally, as if discussing quarterly projections. His own hand continued moving beneath the desk, his breathing getting heavier. “Just from sucking me off. Didn’t even need to touch her pussy the second time. Just filled her mouth with cum and she orgasmed from swallowing it.”

Derek’s hands shook at his sides. His cock throbbed against his zipper, hard as steel, even with the betrayal, the humiliation, the fact that everyone he knew was using his wife. He wanted to look away from the video, but he couldn’t. He watched Ted yank Carrie’s hair, watched her moans get desperate, her whole body shuddering as she got off on choking on another man’s cock.

The video-Ted groaned, his hips jerking, and Carrie’s eyes rolled back in her head. She held herself there, nose pressed against his pelvis, throat working as she swallowed, swallowed, swallowed. When she finally pulled back, gasping, a strand of cum and spit connected her lips to Ted’s cock. She licked it clean, her tongue tracing every inch, and then looked directly at the camera with a satisfied smile.

“Thank you, sir,” video-Carrie said, her voice hoarse and wrecked. “May I have more?”

Ted paused the video and set his phone down. He stood, his erection clearly visible now, tenting his slacks obscenely. “So you see, Derek, there’s no misconduct here. Your wife is a willing, enthusiastic participant. If anything, she’s improving office morale significantly.” He walked around his desk, getting close enough that Derek could smell his cologne mixed with the musk of arousal. “Maybe you should be proud. Maybe you should join us next time. Watch how a real man makes her gag. See what she’s like when she’s really being satisfied.”

The words cut through Derek like knives. Real man. Satisfied. Implications that he wasn’t enough, had never been enough, would never be enough for Carrie’s insatiable needs.

“This isn’t—” Derek started, but his voice broke. His cock throbbed in his pants, his body betraying him again, responding to the video, to Ted’s crude words, to the images burned into his brain of Carrie servicing everyone around him.

“Isn’t what?” Ted challenged, stepping closer. “Isn’t fair? Isn’t professional? Isn’t what you signed up for when you married a woman who needs cock like she needs oxygen?” He reached down and blatantly adjusted his erection. “Face it, Derek. Your wife is the office cumslut now. Everyone knows it. Everyone’s had a turn or will have a turn. And judging by that bulge in your pants, you’re getting off on it just as much as she is.”

Derek’s face was on fire. He wanted to scream, to punch Ted in his smug mouth, to do anything but stand there with his cock throbbing in his pants. But he couldn’t. Because Ted was right. His dick was hard, leaking, desperate for release, even as his brain screamed that this was all fucked.

“Get out of my office,” Ted said, returning to his desk and sitting down. “You’ve got a meeting to get to. And Derek?” He picked up his phone again, still displaying the paused video of Carrie’s cum-covered smile. “Don’t bother complaining to anyone else. They’ve all seen the photos. They’ve all seen the videos. And most of them have already added their names to the rotation schedule.”

Derek stumbled backward, fumbling for the door handle. His vision tunneled, his pulse roaring in his ears. He yanked the door open and practically fell into the hallway, gasping for air like he’d been underwater. Behind him, he heard Ted laugh, low and satisfied.

The walk back to his cubicle felt like wading through molasses. Everyone watched him—some with pity, some grinning, some just hungry. Jennifer from sales licked her lips. Marcus from accounting shot him a thumbs up. The intern’s eyes locked on his crotch, where his hard-on was still obvious through his pants.

He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t go to that meeting with the regional manager, couldn’t sit through another hour of knowing looks and whispered jokes. Derek grabbed his jacket from his chair and headed for the elevators, ignoring Sandra from HR calling his name, ignoring the email notifications still pinging on his computer.

The elevator doors slid open fast, thank God. Derek stepped in, stabbed the button for the ground floor, and slumped against the wall as the doors shut. Alone at last, just him, his rage, and his fucking hard-on that wouldn’t quit, no matter how humiliated he felt.

He’d limit Carrie’s outings, Derek decided, trying to formulate a plan through the chaos in his head. He’d set boundaries, real ones this time. No more office visits. No more “errands” that ended with his wife on her knees. No more—

His phone buzzed in his pocket, vibrating insistently. Derek pulled it out, expecting another work email, another humiliation. Instead, he saw a group text notification. The thread included Brody, Marcus, two other names he recognized from his old college crew, and Harlan.

The message was from Brody: “Boys’ night this Friday. Derek’s place. 8 PM. BYOB. Carrie’s providing entertainment. Don’t miss it.”

A series of replies followed immediately:

“Fuck yeah, been waiting for my turn.”

“Derek you’re the luckiest bastard alive.”

“Tell your wife to wear that blue dress.”

“Dibs on first.”

Derek’s stomach dropped through the floor. The elevator reached the ground level, doors opening onto the lobby, but he stood frozen, staring at his phone, at the casual way his friends—his fucking friends—were planning to use his wife. Planning an event at his house. With his implicit permission, apparently.

The doors started to close. Derek stumbled out at the last second, his phone still clutched in his hand, the group text still glowing on the screen. Around him, the lobby bustled with people coming and going, living their normal lives, while Derek’s world crumbled further with every passing second.

He should cancel it. Should tell them all to fuck off, that Carrie wasn’t available, that his marriage wasn’t a community resource for anyone who wanted their dick sucked.

But even as he tried to get angry, tried to find some backbone, Derek felt his cock twitch in his pants, that sick, hungry arousal curling in his gut. He pictured Friday night—his living room packed with men, all waiting their turn, while Carrie crawled between them like she was made for it.

His phone buzzed again. Another message in the group thread, this one from Harlan: “Derek, make sure you’ve got plenty of towels. Your slut makes quite the mess.”

The laughter that echoed in Derek’s head sounded suspiciously like his own.