Short Straw Wins
by Crankshaft Cafe
Copyright© 2026 by Crankshaft Cafe
Erotica Sex Story: Your wife is drunk and letting you into her most secret and forbidden place - which makes you wonder if she's using you as practice for a much bigger player.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion Reluctant Fiction Cuckold Anal Sex Oral Sex 2nd POV .
The night Marcie told you what it meant to draw the short straw at work she’d come through the door so unlike herself you thought she’d been fired. Not the usual hurricane in high heels.
She just stood there a long moment, exhaling as if she’d finally remembered how to breathe.
“Wild, wild day,” she said as she moved to drop her bag and coat on the side chair, not bothering to pick them up when they slid onto the floor. Instead, she headed for the liquor shelf, pulled down two glasses and poured whiskey in both. She sat in the big chair, putting one of the glasses on the end table. She nodded for you to have a seat on the couch. So you sat.
“Cheers,” she said, and took a slug. Again with the long exhale, her head back, she said, “Okay,” like she was bracing herself for a hard climb. Then, leaning forward, she said, “So. You trust me, right?”
“Yes,” which sounded less reassuring and more puzzled than you meant.
“And that we’re solid, right? As important as this job is to me. Right?” She rattled her nails against the side of her glass, sounding like Morse code for something’s off.
“Right.”
“Especially now, with you still looking for full-time work? Right?”
“Right—unfortunately.” Then, when she didn’t follow up with what she was trying to get at, you asked, “Are you okay?”
She nodded, took another sip, then set the glass down with exaggerated care. “You remember me talking about the Gladstone deal, right?”
“Constantly, yes.”
“The presentation was today. And it all started falling apart today. Like, completely. The numbers weren’t adding up, a zoning issue with the waterfront property surfaced that no one—I mean no one—anticipated. The client was ready to walk out, and Mr Becker, my boss’s boss? He’s literally hyperventilating in his office. Like full-on imposter syndrome meets midlife crisis. And if he blew the presentation, we lose the client. Poof. Gone. And we’re all looking for new jobs.”
She peered hard into the middle distance like she was seeing it all over again, her knees bouncing a mile a minute. “We all thought we’d end up having to break out the defibrillator for poor Mr Becker.” Again, she stared off into whatever it was she was seeing.
“So—Marcie—what happened?” You spoke slowly hoping to get her to focus.
“Right. Lillian—you remember Lillian?”
Of course you did. She was the brick shit house of an office manager.
“Lillian called me, Rachel, and Priya into the pantry, closed the door and told us there was one quick way to get him focused again. Settle him down. Salvage this. For all of us.” A laugh bubbled up from her throat, sharp and humorless. “Lillian was holding four coffee sip sticks and said we’d draw straws. Whoever drew the short straw had to—you know—help him relax. So he could think straight and not fuck this up. And I drew the short straw. Literally.”
“Who drew straws for what exactly?”
“It wasn’t just me. It could have been any one of us.” She laughed, dry and brittle.
“For what, Marcie?”
“It’s not like they asked for volunteers and I said, ‘pick me! pick me!’ We drew actual straws, and I lost. So—I helped him relax. The pitch went great, the deal is back on track now, and it’s all good.”
“Marcie—what did you do to help him relax?” You put your glass on the end table, and leaned toward Marcie, your hands clasped across your waist so you didn’t take her face and force her to zero in on you.
“I-sucked-him-off-right-there-in-his-office,” she said as quickly as her mouth could move. “And now everything is fine!” She knocked back the rest of her drink and then stood up. “Can I get you another?”
“Everything’s fine? Everything’s fine?” You stood up as well, doing a little circling dance, unable to decide where you thought you should go. “Holy shit, Marcie—” You stopped “Why didn’t you guys call his wife, for fuck’s sake? She’s the logical choice. Isn’t she?”
“Not this week.”
“Not this week?”
“When his wife’s doing a spa week, nobody even breathes near her phone. Not even her assistant. The last time someone ‘disturbed her during her spa week,’ Mr Becker made the entire compliance team redo their certifications. In Mandarin. In case we ever opened up an office in Beijing.”
“What’s HR have to say about you ‘drawing straws’?”
“HR? The same HR that approved his last three ‘team-building retreats’ at his Aspen timeshare? That HR?”
You collapsed back onto the couch, not sure what to say next.
“It wasn’t like I was giving him a lap dance.”
“How is that worse?”
“I mean it wasn’t about me being sexy. It was strictly clinical. Wham, bam—”
“—thank you, ma’am. I get the picture. So—you kept your clothes on.” Not sure why, but that was actually a relief.
“The guy’s breathing into a paper sack. I had to do something to get his attention.”
“What something did you have to do?”
“Took off my skirt. And my blouse.”
“Un-hunh?”
“Bra. Panties. Not the sexy ones.”
“So—completely naked.”
“Not if you count the jewelry.”
“I don’t.”
“You should! It was all very clinical like I said. Ten minutes, tops.”
“Ten minutes! I only ever get five!”
“Because you’re not in the middle of a panic attack.”
“You complain your jaw gets tired.”
“It does, but this was serious. Look, I know how this sounds. But we were just being practical. Like—changing his tire or—or—” she struggled for some exonerating analogy, then brightened, “or plunging a clogged toilet. Right?”
You could easily imagine her naked, working to suck out the blockage, and yes, your dick warmed up to that image. Then, more to yourself, “you fucking plunged your boss.”
Marcie barked a laugh, sharp and sudden, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry, I did not mean to laugh.”
Now you could see the looping images of him bucking into an orgasm.
“Did he—uh—did he—”
“Oh, boy did he, like he hadn’t in months. Just going and going and going.”
You pictured the look on Marci’s face. Surprise, renewed determination, and, you hope, at least obvious repugnance.
“And did you—uh—did you—?
“Oh yes, like, I was not about to walk around with that sticky shit on me the rest of the day.”
Now you could see Marcie choking down his jizz.
“Lillian told me to—uh, you know—clean him off.”
“Where was Lillian?”
“She was in the room with me. I said this was strictly practical. She had to be there. She had a clean shirt for him, but we didn’t want a big wet stain in his trousers—how do you think that would’ve looked?”
“That would’ve been a shame.”
“Yes,” she said, having missed your sarcasm. “He just sat there, saying ‘thank you’ over and over. All the tension just drained right out of him.” Which she emphasized with a swoop of her hands, then touched a hand to her mouth. “Okay, I shouldn’t have said drained.”
No, she shouldn’t have. You were drained, and definitely not the way she’d drained him.
“You know, the way it started off, it sounded like you were getting ready to say you’d been fired. Now? That would’ve been easier to handle.”
“No! I’m not getting fired.”
“Or quitting?”
“Why? There’s no reason to.”
“Having to blow your boss?”
“Not my boss—my boss’s boss. A big difference.”
You could see she was trying hard to tame absurdity and keep it penned up, non-threatening.
Marcie put on her practical, problem-solving voice and said, “I’ve got six months left on my contract. If I break it, they can take back the signing bonus plus damages. That’s fifteen thousand dollars. Liquidated.”
You were ready to be indignant, ready to storm around. But—right now? You’re stuck doing temp jobs—a week here, two weeks there. Nothing in the way of real prospects. Scores of resumés out the door so far. The way Marcie actually cried when they offered her the job because finally, finally you could breathe and she was doing something she loved.
But you had to ask—
“What if he goes into another meltdown?”
“Then we call his wife. Or—okay—or, maybe it’s Priya or Rachel or even Lillian who gets picked the next time. If there even is a next time. I told you. It’s not like I volunteered. But it’s not going to happen. You have to think of this as a one-off, okay?”
Just as jealousy was losing out to pragmatism, Marcie’s phone rang.
“Hold that thought, okay?” she said. “Let me get this while you pour us another drink.”
She swiped to answer it, then flinched. “Yes, it’s Marcie. No, no. You’re not interrupting anything.” She started to look over at you, but must’ve thought better of it.
Watching her listen to whoever it was on the other side of that call was like watching rigor mortis set in.
“No, no trouble at all,” she said, moving her mouth as little as possible. “Glad it worked out.” She moved away, trying to put distance between you and her without being obvious about it.
Then she suddenly went supple, doing a little spine dance of elation even as her voice remained cool, professional.
“Tonight?” A pause. “But—” Another pause, longer this time, her free arm raised, a fist of joy. “I wasn’t aware I was on the Denver—” She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Yes. Of course. Thirty minutes. Thank you. My pleasure.” She tapped the screen, closing the call and spun toward you, her face bright with delight.
“I’m on the Denver trip!” The words burst out of her, followed by that little-girl squeal of hers.
“It’s a huge account—biggest one the firm’s handling this quarter, bigger than Gladstone if you can believe it—and Becker wants me there!” She laughed, high and giddy, already reaching for her discarded coat, hefting her bag. “He says they need me to come back to the office—”
“Wait, bunny, wait.” You tried to get into her field of vision. “He’s not bringing you along for your spreadsheets.”
Her grin faltered. “What?” She cocked her head as if lining her ears up correctly would help make sense of what you were saying.
“He just had you—” you gestured vaguely at the space between you and her, unable to say it outright, so you didn’t, you skipped over it and said “Now, miraculously, you’re essential for Denver?”
“You’re jealous,” like your reaction was a total surprise.
“I’m not jealous,” you said, much too quickly.
Marcie’s laugh was sharp enough to cut glass.
“Bullshit. You’ve been out of work for eight months. I get tapped for something big, and suddenly it’s because I—what? Took one for the team? Like, maybe, that’s all I’m good for? Is that it?”
There was no way you could win. You were behind on points and had too much yardage to make up.
She waited, in that slight hunch of her back, narrowed eyes fixed on you, ready to spring as she listened for the next stupid thing out of your mouth.
The silence stretched. She straightened up, taking on that regal posture she used to demonstrate her satisfaction that your silence proved her point. Then she pronounced on you.
“You are an asshole.”
You tried to recover, saying that you weren’t judging her, but judging him.
“No, you’re judging me. Because if I go—if I take this opportunity—for us—you’ll always hold over me that question whether I earned it, or if I was only ever the right mouth at the right time.”
“That’s not—” you started, but had no idea how to finish to that sentence.
“Admit it. You don’t trust me to keep it professional. That they’re keeping me around to be the office skank.”
You swallowed. The money was sorely needed.
Marcie gathered up her coat and back, then opened the door.
“I will be back by midnight.”
“Wait—”
She paused, her back still turned. “What?”
The only positive thing you could think to say was the same thing your mom used to call out to you on the way to school.
“Make good choices?”
She groaned and dragged herself out the door.
You went to the window and saw the town car waiting for her downstairs. Becker must’ve sent it before he even called her, like he knew she’d say yes.
You watched as it pulled away. And just like that, she was gone.
The apartment settled around you, the silence thick enough to choke on.
Which probably wasn’t the best metaphor at that moment.
You tried reading, you tried watching television, you tried surfing the internet. Mostly what you did was imagine how many ways Becker would find to use every single one of Marcie’s holes.
Fully clothed, on her knees sucking his dick.
Naked from the waist down, bent over the guest chair, her legs spread as he bones her so hard she’s lifted off her feet, the semen squeezed out of her cooch, drizzling down her legs.
Completely naked, on her back on his desk as he rides her asshole, the look on her face a struggle between faking delight and holding back the discomfort and dismay that you’d been right about what they wanted out of her.
You jacked off to that last one, imagining her realizing it even as he worked her anus like a rented pony, that’d she’d never allowed you so much as a fingertip to touch that puckered mystery of hers.
Turned out, midnight was a wee bit optimistic.
You’d heard her struggling with the front door a little after dawn, and bounced out of bed to help her get in.
You pulled the door open, dragging her through, still holding onto her key in the door.
She gathered herself, stood upright, and ran her hand through her hair, attempting to restore her dignity. The smell of good liquor and stale cigarettes drifted in around her—odd, since she didn’t smoke, and the office had a no-alcohol policy in their lease. Her blouse was buttoned wrong, the collar twisted.
She didn’t look at you, just moved past you without a word, heading straight for the bedroom, a woman leaving the scene of a crime.
The click of the door shutting was followed by the tick of the knob-lock pressed in.
With a firm but non-judgmental tap on the door you called out, “Marcie?”
From behind the door she answered, “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work?” Her voice was sandpaper wrapped in barbed wire.
“Uh, yeah. I need to get dressed?”
Silence.
Then the sound of drawers yanked open, hangers scraping. The door opened half a crack and your shirt came flying out, followed by your khakis, then your sport coat. The door slammed again.
“Maybe some shoes?”
Another bit of silence, the door opened and she bowled your loafers out, skidding them across the floor.
“Marcie.”
“Just go away.” Each syllable a bullet. “I’m trying to sleep.”
You got dressed, loaded your backpack slowly, hoping she’d make some noise of contrition, give you a reason to call out sick from work.
But she didn’t, so you left.
The day dragged as you struggled to concentrate, another short-term temp gig, doing data entry this time.
You’d slip quick checks of your phone every ten minutes hoping for something from Marcie, some effort to reconnect with you.
The clock crawled toward five. Your supervisor—a woman with the perpetual expression of someone smelling spoiled milk—tossed another stack of files on your desk. “Overtime,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “At least you can bill for it.”
You texted Marcie, working late - u up for dinner out?
Three dots appeared, undulated, then disappeared. Then nothing.
You left around eight. The subway ride home took forever. Every stop on the local felt vindictive.
When you got back to your apartment, the bedroom door was open, Marcie had her suitcase and carry-on open on the bed. She was actually going to Denver.
She’d packed what she liked to call her play clothes. Sexy bras and panties, gossamer thin nighties and negligées. She folded a neon green sling bikini into the suitcase with exaggerated care, like she was handling a museum artifact. Which, given your sex life recently, it could have been.
“The place we’re staying has a new spa,” she said, not looking at me.
“Where’s that?”
“They’re keeping it hush-hush, so I can’t tell you—yet. When we get the business, it’ll be all over the news. They’ve booked some out-of-the-way steakhouse with private rooms to keep the dinners secret.”
“Must be serious. You packed your lucky g-string.”
She laughed—too high, too fast—while tucking another nightie between two blazers. At least she didn’t bite your head off.
Still focused on her packing, she mentioned there was talk of a contract extension for her if all goes well. Not to get hopes up, but at least they’re discussing it. Marcie was talking faster now, as if she lingered too long on the details the whole fantasy might collapse. “Becker said if we land this, there’d be a quarterly bonus. And the annual bonus on top of that. Can you imagine?”
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