5 comments/  7850 views/  1 favorites

America

By: adam applebiter



(Author's note. This is a puzzle. If you can't figure out who it's about it won't make a lot of sense. I'll post an explanation in feedback in a few days if nobody else does.)

April 3rd, 1968

The room is quite without character. It's clean, though not clinically so. It's tidy, but it's hard to arrange one table, one ashtray and two chairs in an untidy manner. The walls were painted recently and, except for a large mirror, they're quite bare. There is no window and the door is locked.

The room's occupant looks scared. He has neither the skill nor the will to hide his apprehension. He is a slight figure with shoulder length hair and fashionable attire. He looks like so many young Americans of the day, another anarchic, rebellious hippie.

For the third time, he checks that his cigarette packet is empty. With no clock in the room, the empty packet and the full ashtray are the only indications of how long he's been waiting. His nervous glances at the mirror are not vanity: He knows he's under surveillance.

Behind the mirror, two humourless men in suits are indeed watching him. "Now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face." 

"What?"

"I think its time for a little one on one with Mr. Landis. Better start the tape."

A key turns in the lock. The door opens to admit a severe looking man in a grey suit. As the door closes behind him he draws the vacant chair up to the table and sits down sliding an unopened packet of Marlboros toward the nervous young man. 

"Shouldn't there be two of you? I mean, you're the good cop, right? So where's the bad cop?" The young man's bravado does little to hide his disquiet and doesn't stop him reaching for the cigarettes.

"Firstly Mr. Landis, I'm not a cop. I represent the NSA, that's the National Security Agency –"

"I know what the NSA is. You still work for The Man." The venom in the young man's voice is palpable. He says "The Man" in much the same tone as Jews say "the holocaust"

"Secondly, I ask the questions here, not you. Shall we begin?"

"Where's Cathy?" The hippie's tone is petulant.

"Didn't I make it clear? I ask the questions, you give the answers and when - and only when - you've answered each and every one of my questions to my satisfaction, you may be reunited with your young lady. Again, shall we begin?" The man is polite but there is iron in his voice that velvet words can't hide.

"Ask your questions, G-man." The hippy tries for a defiant tone, but fails rather.

"You can start by telling me your real name. There is no Jerry Landis in Newark, New Jersey. We're running your fingerprints now, but that takes a while, days if we have to check them with Interpol. Do you really want to be here that long?"

"Paul Kane."

"That wasn't so difficult, was it? And your Date of Birth?"

"October 13th, 1941"

Behind the glass, the second grey suit picks up a telephone and passes on the new details to those charged with identifying the young man in the custody suite.

Back in the room, the Q&A continues. "While my colleagues are checking that, let's assume you're telling the truth and move on apace. Why did you compromise one of our operations this afternoon?"

"Do what? You're the first G-man I've ever met." Paul Kane is truly perplexed by this line of questioning.

"On the greyhound from Pittsburgh this afternoon, you were overheard by one of our agents, discussing another passenger: an elderly gentleman, wearing a gabardine suit. Remember?"

"Sure. Cathy said he was a spy. We were just playing parlour games. Passing the time. Is that what all this is about?"

"How did you know he was a spy?"

"I just told you. We were playing a game."

"How did you know he was a spy?"

"I didn't! It was a game!" Paul leans toward the interrogator, his voice raised in anger, born of frustration. Then it dawns on him. "You mean...? He really is a spy?" He slumps back in his chair... "Holy Shit."... And reaches for the cigarettes.

"A very dangerous game, Mr Kane."

"Are you threatening me?"

"On the contrary. It was you who threatened Dr. Roskow."

"I don't know a Dr. Roskow. All I know is my girlfriend and I were playing word games on the bus then we got grabbed by the cops at the terminus. No one would tell us why and they wouldn't give me my phone call. I know my rights. This is an illegal bust so, if you think you've got anything on me, you've blown your entire case." He smiles knowingly. It's the first time since he was picked up that he hasn't looked scared. "You screwed up, G-man." There is triumph in his tone.

"Mr Kane, you weren't arrested. NYPD have no record of you and won't have until someone reports you as a missing person. Our records show that Jerry Landis is voluntarily helping us with our enquiries and has waived the right of counsel. However, if we should find it necessary to arrest you later, someone will find the cannabis resin so carefully concealed in your bag. We missed it the first time but, when your friend started gabbling about 'real estate', we took another look and – transporting narcotics across a state line makes it a federal offence Mr. Kane."

Paul Kane visibly sags in his chair. There will be no more angry outbursts. The interrogator gives him a moment to digest this information before he continues. "Tell me about Pittsburgh."

"What's to tell? I just caught the Greyhound there."

"Why were you in Pittsburgh?"

"I told you. I was there to get the bus to New York."

"So you were just passing through?"

"Right! Just passing through."

"Where from?"

"I was visiting with friends in Saginaw."

"Names?"

"I don't know, Man, just friends. We met. We travelled awhile. We went our separate ways. You know how it is."

"No. I don't. When did you leave Saginaw?"

"Four, no five... five days ago." Paul puts a hand up to his eyes and massages his brow for a second. Fatigue is catching up with him.

"And yesterday, you were only catching a bus in Pittsburgh?"

"I hitched. It took me four days to get to Pittsburgh. I only had a couple of hours before the next bus east so I hung out at the terminus."

"So you hitchhiked from Saginaw. Hard to check that. Was Cathy with you?"

"Check what you want G-man. No, Cathy wasn't with me. I met her in Pittsburgh."

"Where you were just waiting 2 hours for a bus?"

"Shit, Man. Cathy's just a chick I hooked up with. We were just passing time." Paul's voice is clipped, even terse. Tiredness is really getting to him.

"So you've only just met her? Only, you seemed very concerned about her when I came in, considering she's such a recent acquaintance."

"Fuck you G-man! Last I heard it wasn't a crime to care about my friends."

Unfazed by Paul's outburst, the interrogator continues in his calm monotone. "How very altruistic of you. When you met, did you approach her or did she approach you?"

"It was kinda mutual, I guess. We just gravitated towards each other."

"Go on."

"Its not like there was anyone else around. 'Cept a few suits and some of those clean cut, All-American types. Look, we just hung out for a couple of hours, ate some pie – you know, the ones with the 5-cent deposit on the dish? – split a pack of cigarettes then caught a bus together."

"Tell me about the journey. Who started the game?" The interrogator takes the young man's assertions at face value and moves on.

"I don't know. Cathy I think. I really can't remember. I do remember saying something about this old guy's bow tie but... Look man, we were just passing time. I wasn't paying that much attention. Didn't expect to need an alibi for a parlour game."

"Tell me about the rest of the journey. Perhaps it'll jog your memory."

"We'd run out of cigarettes, I remember that much 'cos I asked Cathy for one and she reminded me that I'd smoked the last one already about an hour earlier. We got kinda bored – you know how it is when you get too bored even to hold a conversation? – Anyway, she started reading some magazine. I think it was on the seat when we got on. Dunno what it was about, just left her to it and watched the world go by. It was going dark. I dunno when Cathy fell asleep, I only noticed after the moon came up and I wanted to ask her if she knew where the hell we were. She was sleeping on my shoulder and it'd cramped up with being in one position so long. I was hungry too. That slice of pie had been too little too far back. Then we got to the turnpike and I knew where I was again so I just counted the cars until the bus stopped and we got off. You know the rest. Your goon squad grabbed us right there."

"How many?"

"How many what?"

"Cars. You said you counted them. How many were there?" It was the first hint that the interrogator had a sense of humour.

"I lost count." The young man is sarcastic. The interrogator's lighter tone as emboldened him.

"So who started the game?" 

"I've told you, I don't remember who started it." His voice is plaintive.

There's a discrete knock at the door. The interrogator leaves the room. He is gone only a minute but in that minute Paul's anxiety increases exponentially. They've got him for the drugs, which is bad enough, but this old man on the bus – what's he got himself into here?

The interrogator returns, sits down and steeples his fingers before him. He studies his fingertips for a few seconds before speaking. "Mr. Kane, you are a most fortunate young man. I am given to understand that Dr. Roskow is safe and well. We still have to check out your story and that of your... companion, so you'll be moving shortly to more comfortable quarters but, if you've been honest with me, you could be out of here in a day or two."

Relief washed over Paul like a breaking wave. His shoulders slumped, his head bowed and he drew a couple of deep breaths before replying. "Can I see Cathy?"

"Not at the moment. Later maybe."

"You're gonna hand me over to the Feds aren't you?"

"Why would you think we'd do that, Mr Kane?"

"Because you found my stash. You said it was a federal offence."

"As I said, you are a most fortunate young man. I've been apprised of your former convictions for possession of narcotics. All very minor but, nevertheless, you have a record. We shall red flag that record so that, should you ever decide to add to it, it will come immediately to my attention and two pounds of cannabis resin with your fingerprints on it will come to the attention of the police shortly thereafter. The same will happen if ever so much as a whisper about one Dr. Roskow passes your lips."

"I thought blackmail was supposed to be illegal too."

The interrogator shakes his head slowly, almost theatrically. "I regret the need for coercion Mr Kane. I'd like to believe we could rely on your patriotism, truly I would. However, my superiors require rather more substantial guarantees than my Panglossian opinion. You have a second chance, Mr Kane. I advise you to make good use of it."

With that, the interrogator stands and turns toward the door.

"Thank you." Paul's voice is small, barely audible.

"Goodbye Mr. Kane. Let us both hope our paths do not cross again." He taps the door, which opens in response and clicks smartly shut behind him.

Some time later, security officers transfer Paul to a cell with a cot in it. One of them returns half an hour later with a tray of food and some more cigarettes. Here he remains incommunicado throughout the next day. Food arrives at appropriate intervals but nobody speaks to him. 

Early on the morning of his third day in custody, before breakfast, his bag is returned to him a couple of pounds lighter and he is released from a building which, from the outside, looks completely undistinguished: Just a bland, nameless office block in a bland district of New York. He looks around him, trying to find some landmark to guide him away from there. The only recognisable thing in sight is Cathy, looking wan and more than a little shaken by her own ordeal. They embrace, holding each other rather too tight, like frightened children clinging to their parents. 

Eventually hand in white-knuckled hand they go off in search of somewhere to eat breakfast. Neither of them mentions the bus journey.

America 2028



Chapter One

"In this last waking morning I ask you, for the sake of my being, to be purely blunt. I do not want to wait around and waste some of the few minutes I have on intricate vocabulary and extensive detail. I do not need fancy explanations and step by step recollections; all I want is to hear you out precisely without a breath of unnecessary exertion. 

Simply tell me what you've come to say and I will answer you with the same efficiency that you have shown. My time is dwindling, so please speak fast and make haste; I can feel a wretched cold, for it lingers anxiously beside me," choked Ron in stammered spurts of breath from his ottoman. 

"Grandpa, I've taken many risks to come here today. I've been discrete in my travels just like you've always ordered and I'm almost certain no patrolmen have discovered me. I had to come; I needed to see you one last time. It breaks my heart that you aren't well.

But I must get to the point of this meeting. Soon you will no longer be here, and I need to know what actually happened to my parents," asked Jeremy, tears driving against his eyelid dams.

"There are a few things you need to know Jeremy. You have reached an age capable of understanding what it is I have been working on for the latter part of my life. I'm afraid I must begin with your parents, and the accident. Fifteen years ago, one year after they had sent you to live with your aunt Ellen, your parents had been investigating a rumor of corruption in the political system that if yielded true, would have changed the fate of our nation drastically.

They had thought that there were too many disappearances over the last ten years of major political figures and corporation leaders, and that it made no sense for all of these 'coincidences' to have never been reported to the public. There were no explanations, no obituaries, no graves.

As avid journalists they were intent on following this story no matter what they had to do. Mind that this was back when newspapers were allowed to be produced and the public had semi-insight into the happenings of the government. Then, after word had spread of their intentions, what seemed like random things started to change..." explained Ron as his voice trailed into an incoherent pitch.

"How do you mean, change?" asked Jeremy with a trembling voice.

"I'm not sure exactly; you're father was never one to confide in me much, and certainly not one to say anything that might trouble me in my old age. From what I could gather it seemed as if they both became very paranoid. They acted as if they were constantly under surveillance and they had to watch what they said, who they saw, where they were seen traveling.

They rarely talked to me in their last few months and I became very worried. Then one day I stumbled across your father at the supermarket and I was catapulted by shock. His face was sunken and his eyes were so distant; he had lost at least twenty pounds. He looked as if he hadn't slept in days and he was grumbling to himself as I approached. I called his name and he acted as if I hadn't even spoken. He then proceeded past me to the checkout as I repeatedly yelled after him. That was the last time I saw your father.

It wasn't until two weeks later that I noticed in the Obituaries a Rebecca and Paul Guthert whose life descriptions mimicked your parents own lives. I was confused, at first I thought it a coincidence, but then I realized it must have been a mistake. Paul and Rebecca's last names were Broderston like mine.

I called the paper, angry that they would have messed up their own employees' final memoriam. They told me in the nastiest tone that there was no mistake - it was just a mere concurrence. I accepted this, but as the years passed, with no word from either of your parents, I began to question the authenticity of that statement. 

The stories were just too similar and I realized then that Rebecca and Paul Guthert were undoubtedly your parents. I knew in that instant that the obituary's automobile caused death was complete bullshit. There was no way that was how they actually died. Why would they cover up their identities if something so simple had occurred?

From that moment on I have dedicated my time to two things: surviving, aka staying below the government's radar and uncovering the truth. I think I've come very close to that by this point, but I cannot explain it to you at this time. I am very ill as you have mentioned, and I just want you to know that I love you and I will always look after you.

Over there on that table I have a stack of papers for you. A collection of journal entries and essays I've written throughout my late life that I feel will reveal to you everything you need to understand the truth. There is an address written of someone I'd like for you to meet with within the next week. 

Now go, and show these documents to no one and if you have to, burn them after reading. If you were caught with them, I don't even want to think of what they might do to you. Leave now and be careful as you venture home; remain as discrete as possible. Use an alias if you get stopped. Goodbye and greatest luck with what you uncover," Ron wished his grandson a final goodbye.

"I love you too," cried Jeremy, unashamed by the tears streaming down his cheeks.

With that Jeremy left the ramshackle bi-level house with an aching heart that was soon joined by an overwhelming sense of trepidation. What could possibly be uncovered in his grandfather's essays? What secret was so massive that only a select few individuals were actually aware of it? And most of all, why had his grandfather picked him to continue his legacy?

Chapter 2

After thirty miles of hiking, buses and the subway, Jeremy finally reached his new age apartment complex. Ascending the stairs he arrived at a towering titanium doorway guarded by William, his friend from Ridgemont High. 

"Hey Will, how are you tonight?" Jeremy casually asked.

"I'm good, just the same old shit standing here for hours on end," Will responded.

"Yeah it must be real tough being a watchman freezing your nuts off all night," Jeremy joked.

"Hey, not as tough as changing diapers! And at least you still have your nuts. You must've forgot, I haven't gotten mine back from Celia since the day we said 'I do'," chimed Jeremy.

They both laughed, amused with each other's company. Just as he was stepping through the door, Will began to eye his bag. Jeremy's body almost collapsed; his organs stopped functioning for an instant. 

"So what do you got there in the bag? You know its procedure I ask," commented Will.

"Oh, just some paperwork from the office. You know, and a few bills I've been reviewing," lied Jeremy, fear seizing him. How would Will believe him if he barely believed the words that had just leapt from his mouth. "Need to take a look?" he asked, almost shaking.

"Oh come on Jeremy, like I'd waste my time checking your shit. All I have to do is ask, it's not in the fine print that I actually have to search, though they seem to imply it pretty strongly. Get on inside you goof, I'll see you later." 

"Yeah, hah I'll see you then." Jeremy entered his building relieved and finally breathing at a normal rate. That had been as close as he ever wanted to come to being discovered. Yet, he thought as he entered the elevator and hit the 6th floor button, I'm being ridiculous; I don't even know what those papers say and I'm already freaking out. They could be random love letters to my grandma and I'm acting as if they're stolen Top Secret documents.

At last the elevator came to a halt and released him into the familiar hallway outside his apartment. He proceeded towards door 624 and unlocked it slowly, slightly hesitant that someone might be waiting to arrest him inside. Get over yourself, he thought, and forcefully opened the door content in discovering that everything was as he had left it.

"I guess I'm going to have to get this over with eventually. Might as well be sooner than later," he spoke as he slumped onto his plush couch and tossed his bag beside him. He lifted out the stack of papers and scattered them across the oak coffee table. Where to begin he wondered. One of the less aged documents stood out to him and he instinctively grabbed it and began to read:

"It's an hour since dawn and there's a chill in the air. The year is 2028 and only silence remains throughout this small, suburban town. The wind creeps over slanted rooftops and jetting chimneys with an eerie fondness. What were at a time busy streets stand still as the empty silence echoes down their curved paths. 

Houses that were once considered homes lay rotting in small clusters, left abandoned to decay. Buildings with no purpose, lights that will never be used. Scattered in garbage piles and hidden in this mess live the town's only inhabitants. Rejects of the modern world, maggots and beetles that thrive from this waste; feeding off what once was and will never be again.

How could this town, Sayerville, that had stood for so many years past become this useless, this forgotten? It seems so recent that people were bustling about and nature was booming in terracotta.

It's hard to believe that it has come to this. It's harder to accept that there's no going back to how things were. Just a few short years have changed so much of our world. Whoever knew America would give in to this new era fascism. 

Things weren't always this way though. Many a person had worked endless hours building this place from the ground up. Happiness wasn't uncommon and family was actually a priority. None of this industrialistic greed was around to poison the heart of man. 

All these so called people can think about now is work, technology and promotion. The wealthier and more knowledgeable one is the safer they are. The time has arrived where man has turned against himself and compassion is a thing of the past. 

It's amazing how ten miles outside this rundown Jersey town you'll find the fifth largest city on the east coast. Skyscrapers as they were once known cannot even begin to describe the buildings we occupy today. With a 100 stories considered short, and 500 of these massive lumps of metal in each major city, towns like Sayerville seem ridiculous to waste time on. 

Anyone living in places like that are considered 'old school' and are always the first picked to go. And why shouldn't they be? In a living situation like that it's impossible to get anything accomplished, and if you're not producing enough you shouldn't be allowed to waste such precious space.

Its 2028, a mere three decades since the new millennium and the population has already doubled to twelve billion. With a depleting water and food supply along with global warming, it's practically impossible to support this much life. After much debate, this 'new era fascism' as I referred to it has come up with what is really a simple solution: if you don't give back enough to this world that has supported you with the gift of life, you haven't earned your stay. 

Basically, the weak, the elderly, the lazy, the challenged and the misfortunate are slowly being killed off as a result of this new governmental tactic to bring the world back to a comfortable state. They claim that it is in the interest of mankind, that it will trigger advancement and make us powerful. The Alma Heiner, our new government, tries so hard to progress but how can these improvements, such as longer life spans, be appreciated if we're being killed off before we're even sixty?

Poverty strikes the misfortunate ones usually just before they go. The only way to stand a chance is to do better than fifty-five percent of the people around you. It's really quite sad; a man can invent a new crayon color and his life will be prolonged, at least temporarily. When did life's objective change from passion and satisfaction to greed and destruction? 

Driven by fear, all we are is the government's unknowing slaves working constantly towards some goal we'll never meet. We'll never be good enough; we'll never be exactly what they want and it's this imperfection that drives them mad.

They're constantly striving for their perfect prototype that's really unobtainable -a false reality. To them, all we are is an easily manipulated private workforce. We're at the point where we don't even know who we are anymore. We're not real people, only impressions of those who lived in a time long ago.

They abuse us and use us as if we were dispensable; if one breaks there are plenty more to choose from. Unsatisfied? Move on to better qualified people. What's worst of all is the fact that the civilians we are just stood by as the world mutated into this ruthless monster with no justice or reasoning.

We brought this upon ourselves, and now it's too late to do anything. We created this disaster and now we must deal with the torment of our own stupidity. They say it's for the best, that technological progress and environmental advancements are worth the lives some must sacrifice. But what happens when there's nobody left to indulge in all this good were creating? What will happen when everyone is dead and all that is left is them? 

Maybe that's what they want; maybe that's what this is really about. Run the world like a concentration camp and once you have what you want from it get rid of everyone that is now useless. All that will be left is what they wanted and they'll finally have their perfect society, their own private luxury world, their precious utopia. 

All the good we could have had, all the love we could have known, all the peace we could have made. All of that is gone now and the only ones smiling are the ones who began this fiasco, the ones who have been silently running the past two decades. 

They got what they truly desired and what do we have? Nothing. Nothing to show for all the work we did. No memories of meaning from the lives we lived. That's all we are, all we ever have been and all we ever will be to them. Nothing.

Where did the love go; what happened to compassion? There's not a good thing left anymore, but in a world like ours there isn't much of anything left anyways. Those selfish leaders drove man to competition against himself where none was needed. 

It shouldn't be this way and there are very few that can remember how things once were; how things are supposed to be. It's all one big lie, one big secret they think they can hide from us.

But some know. There are still some who can remember, some who understand. No matter how much you try to make them forget, no matter how much of the past you try to destroy, it will always be there and there are some who know that. 

Those are the people in rotting houses only a story or two high struggling through life with no resources and no 'modern technology'. These are the people who know how beautiful life can be, how soft a birds chirp can sound, just how green Spring grass is and how aromatic budding flowers are. 

None of this matters now, does it? We've destroyed any future we could have had. Give it a few more years like this and even those who know of the past will die away with their memories. The only people who could save us from ourselves are the ones no one will give a chance to speak up. The ones who won't be here ten years from now; the last of that special generation that holds within them the very key to life.

In the end, all that matters is that from the stupidity of what was considered the greatest species alive, the only one with the ability to feel emotion, to build and discover, came the very destruction of their population.

Man, so great in all his glory and intelligence was too ignorant to take notice of the end he was heading for. He set himself up and the fool he was went along with it blindly. Human beings, given so many luxuries, so many chances, would ironically be the ones to sit back and take this great gift they received for granted. 

And that's why small towns like Sayerville are rotting away while the rest of the world collapses in on itself."

"Wait, what?" he asked aloud to no one in particular.



America Rocks & Canada Sucks



The name is Simon Jean-Pierre. A big and tall young Black man of Haitian descent currently living in the city of Boston, Massachusetts. I was born in Orleans, a suburb of Ottawa in the Confederation of Canada. I always wanted to live in America, ever since I visited many years ago. At the age of twenty six, I decided to take the plunge. What did I have to lose? I have my Master's degree in Business Administration from the University of Ottawa. And the best job I was able to find is an entry-level position at the Canadian Revenue Agency. Thanks but no thanks. I have far more ambition than that.

A lot of people describe Canada as a land that welcomes immigrants but they're the most xenophobic nation on the planet. Try being a Black man walking around the city of Calgary in the Province of Alberta for a day or two. You'll see the real Canadians. A nation of bigots. And they fear the college-educated, ambitious person of color most of all. That's why I decided to leave Canada after getting my MBA from the University of Ottawa. I know things won't be easy in the U.S. but at least over there, I'll stand a snowball's chance in hell of being successful.

So I moved to Boston, the city of my dreams. I was hired by this think thank, the Foundation for International Development or F.I.D. They are a non-government agency that deals with the governments of rising super powers like Brazil, the Republic of South Africa and China. Just so you know, the G-20 was sort of their idea. They're all about bringing the nations of the world together, and since they've got billions of dollars at their disposal, they can actually get things done. Working for the F.I.D. is kind of interesting. Never a dull moment there, folks.

No Canadian company of this size and magnitude ( if there were any ) would give an executive position to a young Black man who just recently earned his MBA. They simply aren't that progressive. They don't see people of color as worthy of doing anything positive with their lives. The Canadian seemingly welcomes hundreds of thousands of Africans, Chinese, East Indians and Hispanics into his Confederation but mostly because he wants us to work menial jobs. The kind of jobs that ordinary Canadians are loathe to do. That's the only reason Canada seems to be so friendly to immigrants. If you look deeper, you'll their motives are completely selfish and not all motivated by humanitarianism or anything of the sort.

I know this all too well. In cities like Ottawa, Toronto and others, you'll see extremely bright young Black men and Black women with University degrees working lousy jobs because the big Canadian companies simply won't hire them. In Canada, they have discrimination to a science. It's more subtle and more refined than in America. The American corporate big-shot doesn't like Blacks, Asians, Hispanics and other so-called minorities but he'll give the more talented among them decent jobs in order to keep company profits up. The Canadian corporate big-shot is the exact opposite. He'll give the CEO position to a White guy with only a High School diploma who will definitely take the company downwards and won't hire the brightest University graduates because they're not White. The Canadian would rather lose money than give a decent job to a highly educated and competent person of color. That's why Canada is stale, small and boring and will never rival America in power, size or opulence.

I left Canada, folks, and I honestly don't want to come back. I've become a permanent resident of America now. I've got a U.S. driver's license, a social security number and all that good stuff. The Foundation for International Development helped me a great deal. They've got a diverse staff. I met a beautiful Black lady from the University of Johannesburg in South Africa, a Mexican oil company executive and a Japanese techie, all working for the company. How about that? One of the many things I like about Americans is how they don't just claim to be diverse, they simply are. Just look at their political parties, their schools and their big cities. In Canada, they talk a good game about multiculturalism, diversity and inclusion but it's all talk. Don't believe me? Take a look at their schools, political parties and cities. That's all the answer you'll ever need on the bloody subject.

I really wish more University graduates from Canada, especially the ones who aren't White, would come to America in search of better lives. Sadly, most of them are indoctrinated to see Canada as a land of perfection. They don't seem to mind that their (often less gifted academically ) White classmates will get the better jobs after graduating with less than stellar grades from the local colleges and universities. That's pretty much a given in the Confederation of Canada. And it sucks. That's why Canada can't advance as a nation. Not that it wants to. 

Over there, they're happy with their hockey obsession, their maple syrup and their endless Gretzky versus Crosby discussions. They don't aspire to be more than what they are. The American is relentless with his drive and ambition. He ruthlessly seeks more and more, in every domain. It's his drive for self-improvement at work. The naturally lazy Canadian is quite content with the little he has. And he doesn't want more. Such a difference in viewpoints. On the same bloody continent. It's amazing. Americans and Canadians are like two different species, man. It's kind of eerie. 

The African-Americans I've met in the city of Boston are so different from the Black Canadians I've known my entire life. The African-American men and women are strong, proud and resilient. They're very proud of their community. And they contribute to it energetically. They face racism and discrimination head-on. And they fear no one. Bigoted Whites think twice before confronting an irate African-American person of either sex. In Canada, Black Canadians walk around with their heads down. Half of them are happy-go-lucky idiots who think of Canada as a land of perfection. They see nothing with the systemic discrimination that people of color face in supposedly liberal and multicultural Canadian society. The other half sees the ugly truth and is clinically depressed because of it. Either way, no one is doing anything about it.

Upon moving to Boston, I learned that Deval Patrick, the current Governor of Massachusetts, is a Black man. Unlike Michaelle Jean, the former Governor General of Canada, he wasn't appointed by some old White person, he was actually collectively elected by the people of Massachusetts. They had a choice between him and some White lady from the Republican Party, and they chose him. Massachusetts is a progressive State. They don't just say it, they practice it and live it. In Canada, we say it and do nothing to back it up. That's why I couldn't wait to leave Canada. Lately, I've been giving serious thought to becoming a United States Citizen. 

There is a reason why. And it's not just the endless opportunities I've found in Boston. I've fallen in love with a tall, beautiful young Black woman named Mollena Winston. She's a lawyer working in the city. Mollena is a graduate of Howard University Law School. The world-famous, historically Black Law School located in Washington D.C. We met while I was walking around Copley Mall, my favourite shopping center in Boston. It is big and diverse, and kind of reminds me of Saint Laurent Mall in Ottawa. Anyhow, I was walking around and this six-foot-tall, curvy and big-bottomed, absolutely stunning Black woman in a business suit caught my eye. I worked up the nerve to go talk to her. She smiled at me and introduced herself. We ended up grabbing lunch, and I took her business card. That's how it all began.

Thanks to the lovely Mollena, my life has changed, folks. She has shown me a side of America I never would have discovered. Canadian media has done a fine job of isolating and misinforming Black Canadians from our African-American brothers and sisters in the United States. Mollena told me a lot of things about Black culture, and I became fascinated. This lady spoke fervently about the deeds of Martin Luther King, Deval Patrick, Eric Holder, Oprah Winfrey and Barack Obama. The African-American struggle for social and economic viability, and achievement. She took me to the Black History Museum in New York City. We walked through the town of Harlem together. Though it had a bit more Hispanics, Whites and Asians than I expected, Harlem is still the center of Black American Culture it has always been. 

Folks, I've fallen in love with this beautiful African-American woman. When my parents came to visit Boston in December, I introduced them to her. My parents aren't thrilled with my move to America. My father Jerome works for the Ontario Ministry of Corrections. He's in charge of the largest facility in all of Ontario at the moment. My mother Adrienne is a retired schoolteacher. She taught in Orleans public schools for twenty years. I love my parents but they have been brainwashed by Canada. They can't see America for the beautiful land of racial diversity and economic opportunity it really is. I'm staying in America with my Mollena. She is the woman I will marry. End of story. 



American Apparel



I moved back in with my parents after graduating from university. I'm not proud of that, but I certainly wasn't the only one in my graduating class who did that. And at least I have a job. It's in retail, but a job is a job.

While I was at school, I worked my way up to be an assistant manager at American Apparel, and when I moved back home, they let me transfer to a store near my parents' house. It worked out pretty well, actually. In fact, in the fall, they announced that they'd be opening a new store closer to my home, in the college town one town over. I applied to be the new manager and got the job, which was a great boost.

I wasn't the only kid from my town to move back home after school. We all sort of started hanging out together again as though the four years after high school just didn't happen. I spent a lot of time with my friend Macallister. Mac and I went way back. We played doctor together as kids and were friends throughout high school. I'd maybe made out with him a couple of times, but we'd never been on a date or hooked up or anything.

But he had grown into himself while we were at university. He came back tall, handsome, and built really nicely. I found myself looking at him in a new way. Or if I'm being honest, I found myself looking at him with lust, while in high school he'd just been cute.

Don't tell my boyfriend, though. I left him back at university, where he got a job. I haven't told him about Mac. And Mac had a girlfriend, too. She was grad student at the college in the town over.

I also filled out while away. I was a gangly teen, but I grew into my tall frame and got just the right curves, if I do say so myself. My perky breasts stand up on their own and make great cleavage when pressed together by a bra or a lover's hands, and I'm still slim and in great shape from the running I took up in school.

I'm Emily, by the way, but people call me Em.

In any case, I got the manager job at the new American Apparel and told Mac that he should apply for one of the other new jobs, since he was having a hard time finding work. He landed an assistant manager position, which was great - we'd be working together!

It turns out that when they open a new store, they fly the new managers to LA to do some training and so that we learn the brand (or something like that), so Mac and I were on a business trip in LA in October, which seemed like a sweet deal for broke 22-year-olds.

We arrived Monday afternoon and had a midday flight home on Thursday. We were picked up by a car service from LAX (which was sweet - never had that service before!) and led on a tour of three American Apparel stores that each had made different decisions - decisions about layout and so on that we were in LA to be looped in on as HQ made them about our store.

We shopped a bit in each (I came home with a cute dress and a bikini) and were driven back to our hotel by ten in the evening with instructions to be ready to go at seven the next morning. We said our goodnights and retired to our rooms.

The next day - Tuesday - was a busy day at HQ, looking at designs of the store and being trained on all the company's systems. Mac and I learned the registers, the return rules, and how to keep garbage invisible and stock on the shelves. At seven pm, we were deposited back at the hotel. We went to the bar after quickly going to our rooms. I wanted to change into something cute and splash some water on my face.

I came down to the bar in a short, flirty, floral print halter top dress - the one I'd picked up the day before. Mac was waiting at the bar, and we ordered two beers before moving to the patio, where we stood at a small table, watching the pool.

"I haven't seen this much of you since chemistry class, Em," Mac said.

"Is that a complaint?"

"Oh, no," he said, "I really like working with you. And seeing you so much."

"We do make a good team," I confirmed.

"Here's to a new chapter of working together!" We touched our glasses and drank.

The first beer was nice. We caught up about our studies in university and our families.

The second beer was fun. Mac told me about his college girlfriends. I told him about the time my sophomore roommate had brought home a guy with a cock so enormous that she insisted on showing it to me. We didn't talk about our current significant others.

The third beer was flirtatious.

"Do you remember Jason's graduation party?" Mac asked. "I've been thinking about it every time I look at you this week."

Jason's party was the last of the graduation parties of our friends and a group of maybe six of us stayed late into the night on Jason's porch.

"Yeah? What do you think about?"

"Well," Mac began, "it got to be late and a handful of us were sticking around. You were wearing a dress that I couldn't take my eyes off of. It was red, short, and showed your cleavage. The dress didn't have a back, either, and I spent the afternoon thinking about you without a bra and wondering what it would be like if you untied the straps around your neck holding the dress on."

"Mac!" I slapped his arm playfully.

"You were sexy that night."

"It was a cute dress," I admitted.

"So we were sitting around late into the night and someone - I forget who - asked what our biggest regrets from high school were. Someone said something about not taking enough AP classes."

"I remember what you said," I interrupted. "You said you regretted not asking me out. And I blushed so hard."

"I don't remember your blush, but I do remember what you did next."

"What did I do?" I asked, remembering and feeling a sexual charge in the air.

"You stood up and walked over to me," Mac started, taking my hand. "And then you pushed me so that I laid on my back." He moved my hand to his chest.

"What next?" I breathed.

Mac took my hand and led me to a patio recliner by the pool. He laid down. "You straddled me."

I knelt on the recliner, one knee on either side of Mac's waist. "And?"

"And you pressed yourself into me."

I pushed my panty-clad pussy onto his jeans-encased cock and found it pleasantly hard. "Like this?"

As Mac mumbled yes, I changed the angle of my hips to grind my clit against his hard cock. I moaned. Mac thrust his hips.

I kept my hands on his chest to steady myself as my pussy got wetter and wetter. 

"Then what?" I asked.

"Then you rubbed your tits."

I moved my hands from his chest to mine and started to massage my breasts. His hard cock rubbing against my clit - even through our clothes - was getting to me. I was on fire and remembering how hot I felt at eighteen doing this to Mac in Jason's back yard.

I moaned.

"And pinched your nipples."

Pinching my nipples was the final straw for me four years earlier. I remembered how powerful I felt, using Mac's body to make myself cum in front of our friends. I pinched my nipples through the thin fabric of my dress as Mac described the earlier night.

"And then I came," I hissed. "Right there in Jason's back yard with our friends all watching."

Mac moaned and pushed his cock harder against me.

"Then you stood up," he said, "and pulled your panties down."

Oh God, I remembered, I had done that. I flushed with embarrassment and arousal as I stood up to recreate that night. I faced Mac from the foot of the pool lounger he still laid on, his hard-on pressing against his pants. And I looped my thumbs into the hips of my very wet panties and dragged them down my thighs and past my knees. As my panties fell to the ground, I kicked them towards Mac.

"And then I said goodnight and went home," I said, turning around and heading to my room. "See you in the morning, Mac."

I stayed up for another hour, bringing myself to climax after climax and wondering why I left, both that night in the hotel and the night of the party. I like control, I think. And teasing. And I liked knowing that Mac would be thinking of me that night, too. And I felt a twinge of guilt - what would my boyfriend think?

Wednesday morning, I met Mac in the hotel lobby for breakfast.

"Sleep well, Mac?" I asked with a wink. He smiled and got more coffee.

The day was packed with meetings - we'd be leaving straight from the hotel on Thursday, so this was our last day in HQ. Mac and I caught glimpses of each other, but didn't get to talk about anything other than business until that evening.

When the car dropped us off at the hotel, I had an idea. "How about a soak in the hot tub and a bottle of champagne?"

I went to my room to put on the new bikini I'd gotten while Mac got the champagne. He didn't have a suit, so he said he'd strip to his boxers.

When I came down in my bikini (with a white t-shirt on top to keep me decent), Mac was already in the hot tub and had the champagne waiting in an ice bucket.

I peeled off my shirt and threw it on the pile of Mac's clothes and stuck my toe in the hot tub before easing myself all the way in.

I sat close to Mac, our bare thighs touching and our bare ribs touching and his arm around my shoulder. Only his thigh was as bare as mine was in a string bikini. Where were the boxers he said he'd be wearing? Was Mac naked?

My mind rushed as we opened the champagne and talked about the day, about our plans for the store, and about the busy next few weeks preparing for opening. What would my boyfriend think about me in a tub with a naked man? What would Mac's girlfriend think?

After a flute of champagne, I pushed my worries out of my mind. Mac and I were colleagues now, and besides, we weren't both naked. And Mac was covered by the water, so I couldn't really know.

After our third flutes, we maybe got a little silly.

"You know what your new job means, Mac?" I asked, putting my hand on his thigh.

"What, Em?"

"It means you're going to be selling sexy clothes to college hotties."

"I'm ready for that," he said, his hand starting to play with the strap of my bikini top.

"I'm not so sure," I said, standing up in the hot tub to face him. "How would you sell me this bikini?"

"You want to roleplay?" he asked.

"Consider it part of your job interview, Mr. Assistant Manager."

"Well, miss," Mac started his pitch, "this bikini is sure to turn heads at the beach. It's flirtatious and fun."

"What do you think about the fit?"

"You look great in this, miss. You've chosen the right size - see how your chest fills out the top and how the bottom is snug but not too tight."

"You're doing great, Mac," I said, finishing my glass of champagne, "but you can't have a hard-on on the sales floor."

"How do you know I have a hard-on?"

I stepped forward, putting Mac's knees between my legs, and straddled him the way I had the night before, only this time there was only my bikini bottom between us.

I pressed myself into him, rubbing his hard cock along my pussy lips. I shuddered with the sensation. Was this going too far?

"It's in your eyes," I whispered into his ear, leaning forward and putting my bikini-covered breasts just an inch from his mouth.

His cock twitched. "I guess we'll have to practice."

I was turned on again. Something about the flirting, the warm jets of water, and the champagne. I wanted Mac. But I had that boyfriend. Long distance was hard, I thought. Like Mac's cock, I thought. Teasing was ok, I decided. Innocent fun, I decided.

Mac's hands moved up my sides to my ribs, and then, slowly, he reached for the bikini tie on my back.

"Don't," I hissed. "This is just innocent fun."

Mac's hands went back to my hips and he pulled me firmly into his lap, pulled my pussy harder against his cock.

"Innocent fun," he said.

I stood up again.

"Mac," I said, moving the sit on the edge of the hot tub, "can you tell me about the material of this bikini?"

I spread my legs and leaned back on my elbows.

Mac waded over to me and kneeled between my legs, his face eight inches from my bikini bottoms. He leaned his arms on my thighs, and then extended a hand to my hip.

"Well," he said, running his finger along the edge of my bikini bottom, starting at my hip and slowly moving toward my pussy, "you can see the seam is expertly crafted."

His touch was electric and my hips involuntarily rose as his finger traced my most intimate area.

I moved his thumb to my clit. "Tell me how this fabric feels."

Mac massaged my clit through the bikini bottoms. "Well, the fabric is synthetic, which means that..."

"Oh!" I moaned. "Just taste it already."

Mac's tongue explored my pussy through the bikini bottom and teased the bare skin around it while his nose pressed into me.

Mac slipped his tongue under the fabric. While his hot lips on my pussy were a delightful shock, I suddenly realized (again, I guess) what we were doing.

"We can't, Mac," I said, moving his face away from me.

I went to bed and furiously fingered myself.

Mac and I didn't talk about those nights, but we did continue to flirt.

We got home on Thursday afternoon and I didn't see Mac for a week or so after that.

I did, however, get a surprise visit from my boyfriend.

I was coming home from spending Saturday afternoon at the pool with some girlfriends, and found my boyfriend sitting at the kitchen table. Matt took the weekend away to see me.

Like I said, I was coming home from the pool, wearing my new bikini with a short red tennis skirt and a white button-down on top. The shirt was unbuttoned to my navel and tucked in to show off my bikini top.

Matt whistled at me.

"Matt!" I called, and took his hand, dragging him to my bedroom.

I didn't let him talk, just pushed him down onto my bed, where he laid on his back while I straddled him. I undid his jeans while rubbing his hardening cock.

"I'm so glad to see you," I mumbled into his mouth.

"I've been needing this," I whispered as I pulled off his pants and boxers and stood to move them to the floor.

Still standing, I reached under my skirt and pulled down my bikini bottom.

This, I thought, is how I should have done this for Mac. But Matt, my Matt, was here and his cock was rock hard and staring at me the way a particularly nice cock does.

My pussy had been wet and ready to be fucked for days. I resumed my position straddling Matt and slowly lowered my pussy to his cock.

I ran my slit along the length of his cock, getting him wet with my juices. I slid my pussy along his cock until the tip was at my entrance. And then I shifted my hips to let him in.

"Oh God, Mac," I said involuntarily and froze, willing Matt not to notice what I'd called him.

He kept thrusting. And I kept screaming Mac's name.

We didn't last much longer as a couple, but I sure did have a good time fucking him that weekend.

As soon as Matt left town, I was busy busy busy with the new store opening. Mac, the team, and I got the whole thing put together in time for our opening, which was lively.

Mac and I, as the ones in charge, took turns supervising different parts of the store on opening day. We'd had to make regular schedules that meant our time in the store didn't overlap too much - one of us needed to be there at all times, at least to start, so we couldn't be there together much.

But opening day, we were both there. He started watching supervising the back of the store and the changing rooms, while I started at the cashiers and keeping an eye of the front of the store. Then we'd swap every couple of hours.

While I was in the back, watching the changing rooms and the lingerie and underwear displays, three young women came in, giggling with each other. Now, I'm not a lesbian or anything, but I can recognize a sexy woman when I see one. And these were sexy women. Not in a Playboy-centerfold way, but in a normal sexy way.

Anyway, the three of them were holding up shirts and skirts and bras and panties and thongs and bodysuits to themselves, choosing a couple each to try on. And I found myself getting a little excited. These sexy women were going to strip in my store, separated from the 19-year-old boy we'd had staff the changing rooms that day by only a curtain.

The young women brought their selections to the changing rooms and Jimmy - the 19-year-old at the desk - counted the items and handed them the customary plastic discs and showed them to changing rooms.

Then Jimmy watched them go into the stalls. And kept watching. I was rooting for him to catch a peek, honestly. And maybe I wanted a peek myself.

The women didn't offer a peek.

Instead, they all three came out of their stalls in the lingerie they'd tried on and showed it off to each other.

The first was wearing a lace bra-and-panty set. As she modeled it for her friends, she spun around and tugged at the elastic to demonstrate the fit. Jimmy couldn't keep his eyes off of her, and neither could I. I imagined myself in her shoes. She must know that she's got the eye of every man nearby. I was getting a thrill of imagining doing what she was. Feeling myself barely clothed for a store full of strangers.

And then she pushed her breasts together, showing her cleavage to her friends and also to Jimmy and to me. Jimmy's mouth hung open.

The other two women were wearing bodysuits - what we used to call leotards. As they modeled for each other, I left the show to relieve Mac. I knew he'd want to see whatever they tried on next.

"Mac," I said, finding him at his station watching the cashiers and the front of the store.

"Yes, Em?"

"You should go watch the back of the store."

"Why's that?"

I stood closer to him to whisper what I'd seen in his ear, and he hurried away with a quick thanks.

The rest of the afternoon sped by and before I knew it, Mac and I were alone in the store doing the last of the tidying and locking up.

"You missed a great show," Mac said as we folded panties.

"I saw a pretty good show."

"It got better," he insisted. "I got there as the girls came out of their changing stalls - I guess for round two of trying on outfits."

"What were they wearing?"

"Two of them were in the usual outfits we see in here - jean shorts and a black bra under a thin, white, see-through shirt. But the other one was in jean shorts over a backless bodysuit that showed off a lot of sideboob and cleavage. It was sexy as hell - like she was just innocently wearing her outfit and it just happened to show off her breasts and bare back."

"Was that it? That got you all excited?"

"Well, yeah," Mac answered, "that did get me all excited, but it got better. They came out again. Two in like graphic tees or something, but the third - the same one - in white panties and -" Mac went to a display of lace shirts - "this shirt."

He held up a black lace shirt that was basically entirely see-through and handed it to me.

"And her friends shrieked. 'I can see your nipple!' one of them said loudly. And she just stood there. And then pinched her nipples through the shirt."

"Did you get a good look?"

"I was too far away to see her tits, but it was so hot knowing that she was exposing herself to the store. Who knew that people wore this stuff? I guess that's why we sell it!"

I smiled, still holding the shirt up to myself. Did I dare wear something like this? Thinking about being that woman showing off to Jimmy, to Mac, and to me was getting me turned on.

Mac was still talking.

"What?" I asked.

"I asked if you wanted to try on that shirt."

I swatted Mac playfully. He probably knew how much I wanted to try that shirt on for him. And part of me really wanted to.

"You wish," I answered.

Mac grumped about it for a second and then kept telling me about what he'd seen.

After the three young women left, apparently there had been another exciting adventure in the changing rooms.

"So this woman comes in - maybe a college senior - with two young men who must be freshmen or sophomores. And they're clearly in love and she loves how much they adore her. She's got a couple of things to try on.




American Apparel



"She goes into the changing booth while the boys stand outside. And a minute or two later she comes out in - let me find it - this."

Mac led me to the dresses section and pulled up a little black dress with black polka dots in a different fabric.

"Try it on," Mac suggested.

A dress? That I was willing to try on for Mac. So we walked back to the changing rooms and I slipped into one of the stalls, and stripped to my bra and panties. I held up the dress, noticed how low the back was cut, and shed my bra, too.

What the hell, I thought to myself, might as well have some fun, so I slipped my panties off, too. Mac would never know, I thought to myself. Just a thrill for me. Naked in my store on opening day.

I pulled the dress on over my head and opened the curtain to see Mac waiting for me. 

"Did the boys like this dress?" I asked, turning around for Mac.

"They did."

The dress came to not quite halfway down my thighs. The low back showed off my back, and a high collar covered up my cleavage. It was sleeveless, and the arm holes almost came down to my waist, exposing not only my lack of a bra, but also the side of my breasts.

"The boys especially liked the sideboob," Mac noted helpfully.

"What about you?"

"I like the dress better on you," Mac said, stepping close.

My breathing quickened as he put his hands on my waist and brought me closer. "She was wearing panties, though," he whispered in my ear.

I blushed. "How did you know?"

"She flipped up the skirt as she went back into the changing stall. Drove the boys wild."

"And you?"

"Drove me wild, too. But not as wild as when you'll do it."

He knew that I'd flash him my bum. And I knew it, too. So I did it as I went back into the stall.

I closed the curtain after me and stripped the dress off. I threw it over the curtain rod and Mac took it from the other side.

"What did she try on next?" I asked, naked in the changing stall just inches from Mac and separated only by the curtain.

"Stay put a sec," Mac instructed, and he came back a moment later and tossed a bodysuit over the curtain.

This was a full-coverage bodysuit except for a mesh V panel in the front that ran from shoulders to crotch.

I was getting turned on enough to try it on for Mac, so I pulled it on and checked myself out in the mirror.

I gaped at my reflection. The mesh V down the front of the bodysuit showed a lot of cleavage, which was fun. The bodysuit squeezed my breasts together and my cleavage was stunning. But the V kept going down, showing off my flat belly, barely concealed behind the mesh panel. And further south, the mesh hardly covered my neatly trimmed pubes. The mesh ended just at my vagina, where the crotch of the bodysuit was solid fabric.

I opened the curtain, drunk on opening day jitters and turned on by showing myself off to Mac. When I opened the curtain, I showed Mac my cleavage, my belly, and my pubes. And Mac looked at me, carefully taking it all in.

"You pig," I said after I couldn't bear the silence any more.

"You're gorgeous." Mac answered, and I just melted. I was his, girlfriend be damned.

"What did she try on next?" I asked, wanting to prolong the show.

"Well, it was pretty risque."

"Yeah?" I wanted risque.

"I'll go and get it for you."

While Mac went to get whatever the woman had tried on earlier, I stepped into a changing stall and stripped off the bodysuit. And then I got antsy, so I threw it over the curtain, leaving me nude with nothing to wear, having left my clothes in another stall.

As I waited, my hand found its way to my pussy. I wondered what was in store for me. What he going to bring a bikini? Maybe he would bring a string bikini and tell me that she couldn't figure out how to tie it herself, so she came out clutching the scraps of fabric to herself and the boys, with their wandering hands and eyes, had to dress her in the skimpy suit.

My finger had found my clit and I moaned - softly - imagining what Mac would have me do.

Maybe the woman had tried on just a thong and come out into the store topless. Maybe she showed her bare breasts to her puppy-dog boys and Mac and the whole store. I thought about how brave she was and imagined opening the curtain to show Mac my bare tits. 

I was getting even more turned on.

Maybe she tried on that mesh bodysuit - the one with the big holes in it that seemed to only serve to show what you had on (or didn't have on!) underneath. Maybe she came out wearing only that, showing her tits and pussy to the boys and Mac and everyone.

Mac returned as I imagined putting that bodysuit on and bending over, showing a store of strangers my wet pussy.

He didn't hand me that bodysuit. He didn't hand me a thong. He didn't hand me a bikini. He handed me a tank top.

"She wore her panties," Mac said as he passed the tank over the curtain, "but you can go without if you want."

I didn't see that I had a choice - the tank was all I had to put on!

This was hardly risque, I thought, holding the pale green tank top.

And then I read the tag: Unisex See Thru Tank.

I pulled it over my head and looked at myself in the stall mirror. The tank clung to me, since he'd brought an extra small. And my tits were definitely on display. Was I brave enough to wear this in front of Mac? I felt my wetness start to run down my thighs. I was definitely horny enough to wear this in front of Mac.

I looked at my thighs to see if Mac would be able to tell how turned on I was, and realized that the tank came to just below my hips, putting my pussy on display. I tugged the bottom hem down to cover - as well as a see-through tank could - my pussy.

Here goes, I thought, noticing how pulling down on the bottom hem made my breasts even more obvious.

I stepped through the curtain with one hand holding the tank in front of my crotch.

Mac whistled. "I didn't think you'd do it," he said.

I smiled, gamely.

"What did the boys think of their friend in this tank?"

"Oh, they loved it. They loved her. And she played it up for them, posing in different ways, pressing her breasts together, lifting the tank to show her belly, you know, flirty stuff."

"I'm not lifting this tank up for you," I said.

I stepped closer to him. "But I will let you look at my ass."

Mac walked around me to get a good look at my ass. The tank was short enough that, even pulling the front down, my whole ass was on display.

Mac stared. I could feel his eyes boring into my ass.

I inched my feet apart, slowly, until they were shoulder distance and then I bent forward slightly, giving Mac a tour of my ass while holding onto a shred of my modesty.

His breathing was getting quicker.

I snuck a look over my shoulder and gasped at the obvious bulge in Mac's pants.

And that's when I got daring.

Still holding the hem of the tank in front, I inched it up, exposing my pussy to the store. But we were closed and Mac was behind me - no one would see. So I kept lifting the tank up until it sat just below the swell of my breasts.

As I bared myself, I felt myself getting ever wetter. My thighs must be glistening. Could Mac tell? Did he know how wet I was? How I'd fuck him if he so much as touched me?

I ached for Mac to take a step forward and press his bulging jeans to my ass. I ached for Mac to put his strong hand on my neck and bend me forward until I showed him my pussy from behind. I ached for Mac to free his cock and slide it into me.

"Take it off," was all Mac said.

I did it. I lifted the tank up, releasing my breasts to the cold air of the store and dragging the tank over my head. I tossed the tank over my shoulder in Mac's direction.

And then it hit me. I was naked in the store I managed. With Mac, my friend, crush, and employee. On opening day. With my own pussy juices coating my inner thighs.

I panicked.

My arms snapped to cover my pussy and breasts and I asked, meekly, for Mac to get me my dress.

He brought me the dress and turned around while I shimmied back into it.

"We still need to fold those panties," I said, knowing we still had work left before we left. No matter how much I blushed or how turned on I was or how uncomfortable Mac's pants had become, we couldn't just leave.

While we finished tidying the store, I snuck into the changing stall where I'd left my panties and bra. I stuffed the bra into my bag - there was no way I was going to take this dress off again until I was home and alone.

I considered the panties, though. I could put them in my bag, too, and get home without any panties on under my - I suddenly realized - pretty short dress. A familiar tingling deep in my pussy suggested that I liked the idea. So I balled the panties in my hand and went to reach into my bag, but stopped short.

Maybe I'd put them in Mac's bag instead. Hope his girlfriend didn't find them. Maybe he'd think about how much I turned him on that night. Maybe he'd masturbate into them. I put them in Mac's bag.

We went our separate ways that night without much more said between us. But I sure as hell was thinking about things between us when I laid on my bed late that night, exploring my pussy with my fingers, wishing they were Mac's.

Things were uneventful after that for a bit. Mac and I didn't see much of each other alone, so all we did was talk business, maybe joke around some. But we didn't flirt a whole lot.

Company rules were that employees had to wear American Apparel gear on the sales floor at all times, so I was updating my wardrobe. I took cues from Mac's descriptions of the women he saw, but kept it safe for work.

I wore that bodysuit with the mesh V from shoulder to pussy, but I paired it with a black skirt, so it just showed some killer cleavage. Mac couldn't keep his eyes off of me that day. Neither could any of the men in the store.

And I wore the skater dress with the deep armholes. I thought about it, and decided not to wear panties with it. Bold and daring, that was me that day. I don't think anyone knew for sure, but Mac's eyes betrayed how much he hoped I was panty-less.

I also wore the lace top and the see-through tank, but with nude bras. And then a white lace top and a white see-through tank with my black wonderbra. Those were popular days for me.

I was getting a lot of attention as I spiced up my wardrobe, I guess, because one day I got a call from LA: headquarters wanted me in a photo shoot. So they flew a brand manager and photographer out to our little town and we set aside a whole day for taking pictures.

They asked me to bring a male store employee, too, so I took Mac. We went to the hotel suite where they'd set up.

"You know American Apparel ads," they said by way of introduction. "They're racy. We shoot raw, sexy, ads. You know what you're in for?"

I nodded, and Mac grinned.

"You done this before?"

We shook our heads.

"Ok, so here's what we're gonna do. You're going to be uncomfortable getting all sexed up for the camera, so we're going to do what we call exposure therapy. Know what that is?"

We didn't.

"It's where you treat a phobia by exposing the patient to it. If you're afraid of spiders, the shrink'll put a thousand on your skin. Water, throw you in a lake. In your case, we're gonna treat your discomfort with exposing yourselves to the camera by starting with the raciest poses."

I blushed. "Ok," I croaked.

The brand manager handed me a thong.

I blushed even more.

"Go to the bedroom, strip, and put the thong on. We'll be in there shooting film in five minutes. Make sure you're on the bed."

I followed his instructions. I went into the bedroom, stripped naked, and pulled on the thong. I lay face down on the bed and hardly caught my breath before the door opened.

"Great," the brand manager said. The photographer just snapped shot after shot.

"Now sit up with a hand over your tits."

I followed his instructions.

"Push them together."

"Spread your legs."

"Lean back on the bed."

"Now cover your tits with one arm."

"And move the other hand - slowly - to your panties."

"Nice. Just finger the waist for a second."

"Now touch your pussy on the outside of the thong."

"And spread your fingers so that we see your thong between them."

"Now slide your fingers inside the waistband of your panties."

"Just touch your clit with the middle finger."

"Ok, Mac, join her."

I was practically panting from putting on the show for the photographer. I was so turned on from the moment I got on the bed that I didn't even notice Mac in the room. Or that he was wearing only a pair of briefs. With an unmistakable bulge.

Mac laid on the bed next to me.

"Put your arm around her neck, Mac."

"Yeah, just leave your fingers on her breast."

"Scoot closer, you two."

"Now put your other hand on her belly."

"Spread your legs more - put your leg over his."

"Mac, move the belly hand lower."

"That's it, just go until you feel pubes."

"Arch your back, sweetheart."

"You two are great. Relax."

Mac's hand left my pubes. I pulled my fingers away from my clit - any more and I'd be moaning loudly. I hardly had a chance to breathe before the brand manager wanted us to change positions.

"Mac, stay where you are. Em, straddle him, facing us."

I moved on top of Mac, keeping an arm over my tits the whole time. In a minute, my knees were on either side of his thighs, my hot and aching pussy three inches and a thong from his bulging briefs.

"Mac, adjust your cock so it points to your chin."

I looked down as Mac adjusted himself, and found myself facing the tip of his cock poking out from his briefs.

"Great. Take one breast in each hand, Em."

I squeezed my breasts for the camera.

"Now lower yourself slowly."

My pussy inched towards Mac's cock. I felt the heat emanating off of him until it was right there and I felt the spark of our connection.

"Throw your head back."

"Pinch your nipples."

"Rock your hips."

"Now lift your hair above your head with both hands."

Before I knew it, I was doing it, exposing my breasts to the camera while grinding into Mac's cock.

I was going to cum from the attention and from how Mac's cock felt against my pussy. But they interrupted our dry humping.

"Costume change, Em. Lose the thong and put this on."

The brand manager tossed me a red see-through tank top. I put it on, slid the thong down my legs, and resumed my position on top of Mac. This time with just his briefs separating us. Unless I scooted back an inch. If I scooted back an inch, the tip of his cock would be right at my entrance with nothing between us.

So I scooted back an inch, getting the tip of Mac's cock wet, but not putting it inside me. We were friends, and that would cross a line. Even as turned on as I was, I still had limits.

But boy did I want to cross those limits.

I was gently rocking my hips, dragging my pussy along the length of Mac's cock when I felt a spray of water.

"We want you to look sweaty," the brand manager said by way of explanation as he sprayed me with a mist of water, dampening my already transparent tank.

"And keep a hand between your pussy and the camera - this isn't porn."

I complied.

"Hands on her hips, Mac."

Mac pulled me onto him and eased me further back, aligning his cock and my entrance. Just a thrust would impale me on his cock. I ached for him to thrust into me at the same time as I struggled to control myself.

"Ok guys, we need another costume change. Mac, try this on."

I rolled onto my back on the bed while Mac pulled on the tank top they gave him.

"And lose the briefs."

Mac's cock was totally exposed now, and I knew what was coming. They'd put me next to it. They'd put my pussy on it. Nothing between us. And they'd take pictures of me fucking Mac.

"Stand up, Mac. Against this wall."

"And Em, kneel in front of him."

I knelt, my face an inch from Mac's twitching cock.

"Hands on his hips, Em."

"And hands on her head, Mac."

They were having us simulate fellatio, I guess.

Mac's hands on the back of my head gently pulled me forward. I looked up at him and smiled, my nose almost touching his cock. I eased my tongue out. Maybe just a taste would be ok. He looked delicious.

"On the bed, you two," I was interrupted.

Mac laid back on the bed and the brand manager directed me to kneel between his legs.

In this position I was showing the photographer and brand manager my wet, gaping pussy.

"We'll take these from the side, but you've got to hide that cock."

Mac held his piece between his legs.

"Not you, Mac. Your hands behind your head. Lift your knee a bit, though."

"Em, get your face in his pubes. Look at the camera. Hold his cock down."

I held Mac's cock down, hiding it from the camera behind his leg.

"Now get on top of him."

I straddled Mac, my wet pussy against his hard cock, both of us wearing only increasingly sweaty tank tops.

"Are you gonna let them fuck already?" the photographer asked.

"First I need a couple of shots. Em, cover your pussy with your hands. And hide that cock between your ass cheeks."

I slid Mac's cock across my pussy lips and behind me, then put my hands at my pussy so that the brand manager would have his shot.

"Slide back; I want to see his pubes and a hint of cock."

I inched back, running my pussy along the length of Mac's cock, but keeping my hand in front to keep the photos decent enough.

"Great." 

I kept sliding my pussy further back until I felt the tip of Mac's cock back at my entrance. I needed him, these pictures be damned.

"Em," Mac said as his cock found my entrance.

"Lift your ass up some," the brand manager directed.

I lifted my ass, but kept Mac's cock ready to enter my pussy. Mac's length was on full display for the camera. I wasn't going to pretend any more.

I pinched my nipples and moaned.

"Lift your hips an inch, Mac," the brand manager whispered.

Mac's cock slid into me. Finally.

I impaled myself on him as he thrust deeper into me.

I was vaguely aware of the photographer still taking pictures, but the brand manager stopped directing. He was just watching. And rubbing his bulging package.

My hands fell to Mac's chest as his found my tits.

"Em," he croaked, "I've been wanting you for years."

His admission and his hands on my breasts pushed me over the edge. I came and came, gushing my juices onto Mac and the hotel bed.

Mac was fast on my heels. As I started to come down from my orgasm, I felt his jet of hot spunk rush into me.

I collapsed onto Mac, and the brand manager and photographer let themselves out.

"What's your girlfriend going to think of the ad campaign?" I asked. 



American Beauty



When I pulled open the door to the tavern, the sound that came pouring out was like a crowd at a sporting event. "And I bet I know the name of the game that's being played," I thought wryly.

As I walked in, the noise level dropped noticeably, but I ignored the attention I'd drawn and scanned the room until I spotted Marge waving at me from the table she'd commandeered. As I walked over to sit with her, the noise gradually resumed its previous level.

She stood up as I approached. Uncertain how to greet her, I awkwardly reached out to shake her hand, but she ignored it to give me a welcoming hug the way women do. That simple gesture gave me a warm feeling; the other secretaries in the executive suite had pretty much given me the cold shoulder. As secretary to the president of Magnetadyne, Marge was pretty much the queen bee among the other ladies, so to have her ask me out for a drink was a big deal.

"I'm glad you could come, Jessica," she said as we both sat down. "I wanted to get to know you a little better."

"I really appreciate the invitation, Marge," I said, "and my friends call me Jess."

Just then a perky waitress appeared to take our orders. Marge asked for a beer, then raised her eyebrows slightly when I asked for a wine spritzer, but she didn't make a comment.

"I really appreciate your invitation, Marge," I told her sincerely. "It hasn't been easy getting settled at Magnetadyne, so it means a lot that you'd reach out to me. Some of the other ladies don't seem to like me all that much."

She reached over and patted my hand. "It's not that they don't like you, Jess, it's just that you're the newcomer and Mary, the woman you replaced, had been with us for years before she retired."

"I guess I can understand that," I said.

"And to be honest," Marge went on, "there's also your appearance. I guess some of the others are a little intimidated because you're so beau..."

"Please don't use that word, Marge!" I interrupted. "I'm not trying to be falsely modest," I said hastily as she raised her eyebrows again, "but I'm not truly beautiful. I could never land a job as a top model."

She looked at me skeptically. "I'm not so sure about that," she said. "But no matter what, most of us would kill to have your looks, and that inevitably generates a little envy."

I shook my head. "They wouldn't be so envious if they knew how my looks have affected my life. In many ways, beauty is a curse, not an advantage."

Now she clearly didn't believe me. "Every one of those gals spends a small fortune on clothes, hair dressers and make-up trying to look the way you do naturally. We're the ones who're cursed!"

I shook my head again. "You might think so, but you'd be wrong. For example, I go through life with my eyes focused on the ground, like one of the untouchables in India. I don't dare look up for fear of making eye contact with a man, because if I do the odds are he's going to hit on me."

"Is that such a bad thing?" Marge asked in amusement.

"Yes," I said emphatically, "when it happens almost constantly and when the men who approach me are so creepy or obnoxious."

"Oh come on," Marge said, "surely some of them are nice guys."

"You'd be surprised," I told her. "In my experience, the nice guys are either too polite or tend to think I'm out of their league and don't even try. It's mostly the horn dogs and creeps who make the moves."

"I can't believe a woman who looks like you doesn't get approached by handsome guys. What about them?"

"In some ways, Marge, they're as bad or worse. The ones I've met think they're God's gift to women - that I should be grateful just to be seen with them. What's worse, they'll toss you aside in a heartbeat for the next pretty face that comes along."

At that moment, our waitress reappeared and set another wine spritzer in front of me. "I didn't order that," I said in confusion.

"I know," the waitress said. "That guy asked me to bring it over," she said, gesturing back over my shoulder.

I should have known better but I glanced in that direction only to see a heavy-set businessman bearing down on me. He grabbed an empty chair from a nearby table and, after giving Marge a cursory nod, sat down facing me. "Hey, my name is Al," he said, "you look like you could use some company."

I heaved a sigh. "I'm sorry, Al," I said politely, "but I already have company. My girlfriend and I just want to relax and talk in private."

He didn't even turn his florid face in Marge's direction. "Aw, that doesn't sound like much fun. Listen, let's have a couple of drinks together and then we'll go some place where we can find a little more action."

"No," I said firmly, "I'm not interested."

"Come on, baby," he said, grabbing my hand in his sweaty palm, "you could have a lot more fun with me than with her."

I glanced over at Marge with an "I told you so" expression, then turned back to the creep. "How long ago did you move to this country?" I asked him blandly.

He looked at me in confusion. "Hunh? What? I never moved here - I was born in America."

"And yet you never learned the meaning of the word "no," I said in mock disbelief.

Marge laughed out loud, and the guy's face turned even redder. He stood up so quickly that he knocked the chair over. Picking it up hastily, he turned and stalked away. As he left, we could hear him mutter, "Damned dyke!"

I turned back to Marge. "Now do you believe me?"

"Wow, that was pretty ugly," she said, still snickering at the guy's hasty retreat.

"And that was with zero encouragement on my part," I went on. "You can just imagine what would happen if I'd given out any positive signals. And it's not just making eye contact, I have to be careful about what I wear too. If I don't want that kind of attention I have to pick what I wear carefully so I don't inadvertently expose too much skin."

Marge started to respond, but I was on a roll and pressed on. "Here's another thing: I saw you react when I ordered the wine spritzer, but I always have to be careful about how much I drink. I can't afford to relax in social situations, I have to be constantly on my guard to make sure I don't attract unwanted attention. It's like I told you, looking like I do is like being on probation - one little mistake and I'm in trouble again."

Suddenly a thought came to Marge and her eyes widened. "Wait a minute, do you get hit on at the office too."

I gave her a wry smile. "Frequently," I said.

She looked aghast, "Not Tom Moffatt?" she asked anxiously. 

"Oh, no," I said hastily. "My boss is a real sweetheart. He treats me more like a granddaughter than an employee. I've never had any problems with him."

She looked relieved for a moment; then her eyes narrowed. "What about the silver-bearded wonder?"

I laughed. As the VP of Sales and Marketing, my boss had two direct reports. Scott Benson, the Director of Sales, was a divorced man in his late thirties with a goatee and mustache that were prematurely grey. People in the office said he was a genius; they also said he was a real ladies' man.

I laughed. "He hit on me my first day."

Marge smirked.

"And every day after that," I went on, and she burst into laughter.

"What about Peter?" she asked curiously.

Peter Hammil, the Director of Marketing, was Mr. Moffatt's other direct report. 

"He hasn't come on to me directly," I admitted, "but he looks me over when he thinks I'm not aware of it."

She nodded. "Well he'd better not - he's married." Then she asked, "Any others?"

I nodded my head. "Except for my boss, pretty much all of them."

That drew another snicker from her. Then she went on. "So is there a man in your life right now?" 

"No, I'm pretty much out of the dating game," I told her.

"That's pretty hard to believe," Marge asked incredulously. Then her eyes narrowed slightly. "Has there ever been a serious man in your life?"

The pain in my palms made me realize how tightly my fists were clenched. "There was one, but it's a pretty painful story. Let's just save that for another time, shall we?"

Marge nodded sympathetically and we switched to other, less sensitive issues. By the time we left the tavern and I headed for home, I felt like I had made a friend. I hoped so - I didn't have very many.

As I drove I was glad Marge hadn't asked me about the women in the office. I'd been hit on by a couple of them too. The thing is, men can be hard to handle, but at least they're predictable. The women are worse: they pretend to like you and then cut you to ribbons behind your back out of jealousy or envy. They can be incredibly catty, and I've been scratched, emotionally speaking, more than once.

The next week I was working on some correspondence Mr. Moffatt had left me when Peter Hammill came up to my desk. He waited till I had finished typing a sentence and then asked if he could interrupt me for a few minutes. "I have a really big favor to ask," he said.

I was on my guard instantly, wondering if this was when Peter would make his move. But when he pulled up a chair beside my desk and began to talk, he surprised me.

"Do you know Karen, Scott's secretary?" he asked.

"I've met her," I told him, "but I can't say I know her well." She was young and pretty in a girl-next-door way, and she seemed reasonably intelligent, as best I could tell. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, Scott's really down on her because she was a little late with a report he wanted, and I'm afraid he's going to let her go."

That certainly wouldn't surprise me. In the short time I'd been at Magnetadyne, there was probably more turnover in Scott's department than any other in the company. He was a perfectionist, and when any of his people failed to meet his impossible standards, he seemed to take delight in pointing out their flaws, usually doing so in front of others. He'd fired more than a few people, and several others had either transferred or quit. Yet senior management seemed to turn a blind eye to his lack of people-management skills, probably because of his sales results, I guessed.

Peter went on, "I'm hoping you can do something to help her keep her job."

Suddenly a light bulb lit up in my head and I thought I understood what was happening. "Are you sleeping with her?" I demanded.

He recoiled in shock. "What? No, of course not! She's married - and so am I!"

I looked at him coldly. "Being married doesn't stop a lot of guys from messing around. But if you're not sleeping with her, why would you want to help Scott's secretary?"

Peter was wary, but he went on with his quest regardless. "I guess I feel responsible for her." When he saw my expression, he hastened to say, "No, not in that way. I was the one who hired her. She was bright and eager, and I thought she had a lot of potential - I still do. Anyway, when Scott got promoted to Sales Director, I recommended her for his secretary. It was a nice promotion for her and I thought she'd do well. I guess I didn't consider the way Scott is with people. The bottom line is I feel guilty for putting her into the line of fire and I'd like to save her if I can."

I watched him carefully as he told his story. He didn't seem to be hiding another motive, but some men can be very devious, especially when it comes to sex.

"So what exactly do you want me to do?" I asked.

He looked at me earnestly. "I was hoping there might be some work she could help you with while Scott is out of town this week. Then, if you could write him a memo saying complimentary things about her with a copy to Mr. Moffatt, it would be hard for Scott to fire her for incompetence."

From what I knew of Scott, Peter's plan would probably work. Scott was the type who never missed an opportunity to suck up to his superiors.

I focused on Peter again. I was still uncertain about his true motives so I decided on a temporizing move. "I'll tell you what, Peter, you suggest to Karen that she have lunch with me today. After I talk with her, I'll see if I think I can help her."

He stood up. "Okay, Jess, thanks" he said, "I'll go talk to her right away." He turned to go, then turned back. "I really hope you can help her; she's a good kid and deserves better."

Fifteen minutes later I got a call from Karen, and we agreed to go out for lunch. I knew that wouldn't be a problem since neither Scott nor Mr. Moffatt were in the office, and I hoped she'd feel more free to talk away from work.

When we got to the restaurant, I thought at first I might have made a mistake. The waiter hovered over us for what seemed like forever trying to chat me up, but finally he brought our order and left, giving Karen and me a chance to talk.

I looked at her sternly. "I want you to be honest with me, Karen. Are you and Peter having an affair?"

She gasped in surprise. "Oh, no! Whatever made you think that?"

I ignored her question. "Well, has he come on to you? Do you think he's trying to start something with you?"

Now she was indignant. "Certainly not! I don't think he's that kind of person, and even if he were, I'm happily married and Peter knows it. He's even met my husband."

Watching and listening to her, I really didn't think Karen was trying to hide anything. Still . . .

"Okay," I told her, "but I still can't understand why he'd go to so much trouble to try to protect you."

She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not really sure either - most bosses wouldn't. I guess Peter is just a nice guy. In any case, I'm really grateful."

Her answer didn't sound rehearsed to me. Maybe Peter's request was nothing more than it appeared. In any case, I didn't want the woman sitting across from me to suffer at the hands of a bully like Scott Benson.

"Okay, Karen, here's what we're going to do," I said, and her eyes shone with gratitude as I outlined the plan. 

A week later I had just gotten off the phone when I spotted Peter standing there. I could tell he'd been staring at me because he hastily shifted his glance away when I looked up. "What can I do for you, Peter?" I asked.

"I just wanted to stop by and thank you for helping Karen," he said. "I was in Scott's office talking about Expo and noticed your memo sitting on his desk. I really appreciate your giving her a little executive cover."

I smiled at him. "I'm glad I could help. Karen does seem to have a lot of potential, and it would be a shame for the company to lose her."

He nodded and started to leave, but I felt a little guilty about doubting him before so I spoke up quickly. "For what it's worth, I'm impressed that you went to so much trouble for someone who doesn't even work for you."

He actually blushed! "Well, it was no more than anyone else would have done."

I nodded, but in my experience people don't go out of their way to help others unless they want something in return. It was nice to learn there were exceptions. "I'm still impressed," I told him.

He started to leave again but then turned back. "Listen, I was just about to go down to the cafeteria to grab some lunch. Would you care to join me?"

Ordinarily I would have turned down an invitation like that, but Peter did seem to be a genuinely nice guy and I thought it couldn't hurt to have another friend. "Sure, that would be great."

Over lunch I learned a number of things about Peter Hammill. The first was that he was devoted to his wife Callie. "She's an interior designer, and a damned good one," he told me. He pulled out his cellphone and started showing me pictures of her (she was lovely) and of some rooms she had designed (they were impressive). "She's even done work for some of our executives," he told me proudly.

But before he could go on, we were interrupted by one of his people who needed a decision from Peter about some collateral material for Expo. While Peter was dealing with that issue, another member of his team came up with another work question. Before long, a team meeting had convened at our table.

Peter turned and pantomimed his apologies, but I waved them off and beckoned for him to go on. Then I sat quietly watching him in action with his people. When they would ask his opinion, he would take the time to listen and then ask his own questions, often eliciting the answers from them. I also found it revealing to see how comfortable his people were dealing with him. They deferred to his judgment but clearly weren't intimidated or obsequious. 

When I finally slipped away, I had a much clearer picture of Peter. "Very interesting," I thought. "It's nice to see someone in authority who doesn't act like a jerk."

That afternoon Marge stopped by my desk to ask me to join her at the tavern again. I was gratified to get a second invitation and gladly accepted.

Once her beer and my wine spritzer had been delivered, she leaned on the table and looked at me carefully. "I saw you eating lunch with Peter today. Anything going on between you two that I should know about?"

"Not at all," I said hastily. "He came by about some business just before lunch, so it was only natural that we'd wander down to the cafeteria together. I was glad because it gave me a chance to get to know him a little better."

Marge looked at me slyly. "So what did you learn?"

"Well, I learned that he seems like a genuinely nice guy. He also seems to be a good leader who's respected by the people who work for him."

When I saw Marge looking expectantly, I went on. "And I learned that he's a happily married man who loves and admires his wife," I said firmly.

Marge cocked her head and asked, "And that's all?"

I sighed. "Look, Marge, I told you I'm not in the market for male companionship right now. Even if I were, I'm not a homewrecker," I said forcefully.

She looked at me carefully, and her expression became more sympathetic. "Somebody really hurt you badly, didn't they? Want to talk about it?"

I was about to deny it, but suddenly something inside seemed to give way and, to my surprise, I heard the whole ugly story start to pour out of me.

"I found Mr. Right my senior year in college. Actually, I guess, he found me, but whatever the case, I knew he was the one right away. We got married soon after graduation and started our lives together, just like it's supposed to happen in the American Dream.

"He took a lot of pride in my appearance and loved for us to go out to places where he could show me off. At first I felt a little uncomfortable with that, but it made him so ,uh, 'enthusiastic' when we went home that I was happy to do it. Even when he began to ask me to wear more revealing clothes, I was willing to go along to please him."

My throat had gotten dry, so I paused to take a sip of my drink.

"Before I met him, I hadn't been very active sexually. I guess I didn't want to get a reputation. Anyway, once we were married, our sex life was really good, at least for me. But my dear husband wasn't satisfied. After a couple of years he introduced the idea of role playing. At first I was hurt because I thought that meant he was dissatisfied with me. But I soon learned that what he really wanted was for me to fantasize about other men when we were in bed together. I tried to explain that I couldn't separate love and sex, but he kept urging me, so finally I began to pretend he was Brad Pitt."

"Oooh, good choice!" Marge interjected. "He's a real hunk."

I looked at her in exasperation and she quieted down.

"That satisfied him for a little while, but soon movie stars weren't enough. Next he wanted me to talk about my old boyfriends and then other men we knew. I was really uncomfortable fantasizing about 'real people,' but he was persistent, so I went along for his sake. Then he started a new phase where he'd take me to nightclubs and bars and encourage me to interact with other men. He'd want me to let them buy drinks for me and dance with me. Afterwards he'd quiz me on which ones I thought were attractive and he'd want to know if I would have gone out with them if I were still single.




American Beauty



"When I finally admitted that some of them seemed pretty attractive, it was like I'd flipped his 'on' switch. He became very excited, and for a while I enjoyed all the extra attention I got from him in bed. But when he asked me if I'd consider going out with someone for real, I was hurt and confused. I told him he was the only man I wanted and that 'forsaking all others' was something that I really meant.

"He backed off for a while, but soon he was back at it, asking leading questions, making sly comments. Finally, he told me that if I truly loved him I would actually sleep with another man."

"Why would he do that?" Marge asked, shaking her head in puzzlement. "Was he looking for an excuse to see other women?

"I wondered the same thing," I told her, "but he swore he had no interest in anyone else. He said what he wanted was to see me in action, to watch what I did and how I acted in the throes of passion. He kept saying how much I'd love the experience of sex with other men, and how he wanted to make me happy. I told him the only thing that would make me happy would be for him to forget all this nonsense."

"But he didn't, did he?" Marge asked.

"No, he didn't," I said. "I came home from work one Friday to see a strange car parked in front of our house. When I went inside, my husband was talking with two very large men. He introduced them to me, and then dumbfounded me. 'These guys have the biggest cocks I've ever seen,' he blurted out. 'They're going to fuck you all night and give you a thrill like you've never felt in your life! You're going to love it.'"

I paused to blot the tears that were running down my cheeks. "Marge, I couldn't believe it. All my life men had treated me as though I were a piece of meat, and now my husband, the man I loved and trusted, was doing the same thing. He wanted to give me to two men I'd never even met, just for his selfish gratification. He didn't give a damn about my feelings, my wishes - all he wanted was to use my body for his pleasure, just like all the rest of them. It felt like the ultimate betrayal.

"Anyway, I made an excuse, slipped out of the house, drove straight to my parents' home and never went back. After I got my divorce, I decided to leave town so I wouldn't risk running into him again. That's how I wound up here."

Marge reached over to take my hand. "I'm so sorry, Jess. That must have been terrible for you."

"You know what, that wasn't even the worst thing about it," I went on. "While he was telling me what those men were going to do to me that evening, I glanced around the room and noticed boxes filled with lighting equipment and video cameras. That bastard was going to tape the whole thing. I'd have probably wound up on some porn site if I'd done what he wanted!"

Marge's face paled. "That's just unbelievable!"

I was crying now and couldn't seem to stop. "What gets to me the most is wondering what I did wrong. What did I do to make him want to see me that way? What could I have done differently to save my marriage? I just feel like such a failure."

She squeezed my hand gently. "Jess, you can't blame yourself. You didn't do anything to bring that on, and there was nothing you could have done to prevent it. It was your ex's problem, not yours."

"Maybe," I said, "but I can't help still feeling that way. In any case, you can understand why I'm not real interested in men right now."

As I sat there wiping my face, out of the corner of my eye I spotted a man approaching our table with two drinks in his hands. But when he caught sight of the tears running down my cheeks, he made an abrupt about-face and headed back toward the bar.

Marge must have seen him as well because she gave a little laugh. "Well, at least one good thing has come out of this: it looks like you've found an effective way to ward off unwanted advances!"

I had to smile at that through my tears.

When we left the tavern, Marge stayed at my side protectively until we reached my car. Then she gave me a big hug and told me, "Hang in there, Jess. It will get better."

I hoped she was right.

The next couple of weeks at work that spring were crazy as we got closer and closer to Expo. This was a critical event for Magnetadyne. The company would be launching its new line of components at the show, and it was counting on landing major orders. A successful show would set the tone for the whole year; a miscue could have serious consequences.

Compounding the frenzy was the rumor that blazed through the office: that my boss, Mr. Moffatt, was about to announce his retirement. I had my doubts. I'd neither heard nor seen anything from him to indicate that was true.

The second part of the rumor was that either Peter or Scott was going to be picked to succeed Mr. Moffatt as vice president. That really stirred the pot, dividing the office into three camps. There were those in the pro-Scott group who hoped to gain from his promotion. The second group, of course, consisted of those who were loyal to Peter and felt their leader should be picked. The third was the "anyone-but-Scott" group: those who were appalled at Scott's arrogance and fearful of what life might be like if he were in charge. The result was chaos, with lots of short tempers exacerbated by tight deadlines.

In the middle of all this ado, Mr. Moffatt called me into his office early one afternoon with an urgent request. Scott had given him some pricing information for the Expo to review, and now Mr. Moffatt wanted Scott to see his comments. But when I called Scott's cellphone I learned that Scott was working from home. He suggested that I bring the materials out to him.

I didn't particularly like the role of messenger, and the fact that Scott wanted me to come out to his home made me suspicious. But Mr. Moffatt needed a quick response, so I got my car out of the parking garage and set my GPS to Scott's home address.

Scott's house was located at the end of a cul-de-sac in the kind of neighborhood I would have expected for an up-and-coming executive. I parked out front and took the packet of materials to his front porch. But when I rang the doorbell there was no answer. 

That surprised me, and I tried to peer in the windows to see if anyone was home. Then I checked around the side of the house, but I still didn't see anyone. I pulled out my cellphone to try to call him, but before I could make the call I thought I heard voices coming from around back. I hesitated, but finally I started walking around toward the back of the house.

It quickly became clear that the voices were coming from a screened-in porch at the back of the house. As I got nearer my steps slowed because there was something odd about what I was hearing. Cautiously I peeked around the corner only to draw back in startled embarrassment. The sounds I'd heard were the sounds of Scott having sex with some woman!

I stood there paralyzed by uncertainty. Under the circumstances, I could hardly make my presence known, but I was still supposed to deliver the material for Scott to review. Then, as I hesitated, I heard the woman moaning, and I'm ashamed to admit that prurient interest took over. It had been so long since I'd had sex that the sight and sounds of this unexpected encounter totally overcame my good sense.

It was clear from the sounds she was making that the woman was thoroughly enjoying Scott's attention. As I peeked again, I could see her lying nude on a chaise-lounge, with Scott kneeling at her side. One of his hands was tweaking her nipple while the other was burrowing between her legs, causing her to arch her back in pleasure. 

As I watched I felt my breathing accelerate and my panties grow damp. Involuntarily I reached up and rubbed my breast through my blouse, trying to alleviate the need that had suddenly blossomed there. I'd never watched live sex before and I found it both fascinating and arousing.

I realized that I was still holding my cellphone in my hand and, without really thinking about what I was doing, I held it up and began shooting video of the erotic scene playing out before me. As I watched, Scott climbed up on the chaise and the brunette sat up and began worshipping his erect penis. Whatever else you might say about Scott, it was clear that he was physically well equipped for the challenge.

Apparently the woman could wait no longer and scrambled to impale herself on Scott. She straddled him and used her hand to position his penis so she could slip down on him. Even from that distance I could tell that she needed no extra lubrication, and a sudden breeze wafted the scent of her arousal to me. She groaned mightily and held still for a moment as he filled her; then she began to rock her hips back and forth, using him to stimulate her inner depths.

Every now and then she would bend down to kiss him passionately, and I thought to myself, "She is really into Scott." To be honest, it made me a little jealous: why couldn't I have someone to be crazy about in my life?

Apparently Scott was not content to maintain a passive role because he abruptly sat up and pushed the woman onto her back. In an instant he was driving himself into her, and she began to gasp and moan as he drove her to a frenzy. Her arms clasped him tightly as if trying to pull him even deeper into her, her hands clawed and tugged at his back and hips.

Scott had been largely quiet to this point, but suddenly he began to speak to the brunette, goading her with his words. "Do you like that, baby? Does that feel good? Have you ever had better?"

"No, Scott," she groaned, "you fuck me so good!"

"Better than your husband?" he taunted. "Am I better than Peter?"

A chill shot through me, but I told myself it might just be a coincidence.

"Oh, God, Scott," the woman replied fervently, "he can doesn't even come close. He's never made me feel the way you do!"

"Don't you feel guilty fucking me while he's slaving away at Magnetadyne?" Scott teased her, and I felt sick to my stomach. 

"I love it," she gasped. "It makes me feel so wicked being here, knowing he hasn't got a clue."

"And when I get promoted to VP," Scott went on, "I'm going to fuck him over just the way I fucked his wife!" he boasted. With that he accelerated his assault and the woman's words dissolved into groans that soon crested into screams.

She was making so much noise that I feared Scott's neighbors would hear her and spot me playing Peeping Tom, so I hurried back to the front of the house. I quickly stashed the papers inside Scott's screen door and then ran to my car. As I drove away, I was so shaken that my hands were trembling.

"Oh, God, what am I going to do?" I kept asking myself. "I can't tell Peter. It would kill him to discover that Callie is cheating on him. And with Scott, of all people! But I've got to tell him - I can't keep something like this from him."

When I got back to the office, I hurried to my desk and did my best to keep busy. But all I could think about was Scott and Peter's wife going at each other while mocking poor Peter. The memory made me sick at my stomach. "He's a good guy and good-looking too. Why would she cheat on him?" I kept asking myself.

Finally, as the afternoon wore on, I couldn't stand it any more. I picked up the phone and made the call I'd been dreading. "Peter? It's Jess. Are you going to be around the office for a while?"

He laughed, "Oh, yeah, I'm probably going to be working late every night till Expo."

"Can I come by and see you for a little while around 5:30?" I asked.

"Sure, come on by whenever you'd like," he said cheerfully. I grimaced; I knew he wouldn't be very cheerful after I talked with him.

Walking to Peter's office felt like walking into a hospital for surgery: you know you have to go, but every nerve in your body is screaming at you to run in the opposite direction. When I got there, Peter greeted me with a cheery wave, but when he saw my expression he sat up in his chair, a look of concern on his face. "What is it, Jess, what's happened?"

I sat down heavily in one of his desk chairs. "I have some bad news, Peter. I don't want to be the one to pass this on, but I just don't have a choice."

"It's alright," he said, "you can tell me."

I couldn't look him in the eye. "This afternoon, Mr. Moffatt asked me to take some documents out to Scott's home. When I got there, no one answered the doorbell, so I walked around outside his house and heard some noise. When I looked on his screened-in porch, this is what I saw." 

With that I turned on my cellphone to play back the video I'd taken, then handed it to Peter. When he saw Scott crouched beside the female figure lying on the chaise-lounge, he gave a harsh laugh. "So that's what Scott calls 'working from home,'" he said derisively. "I can't say I'm surprised."

He started to hand my phone back to me, but I pushed it back to him. "Keep watching," I said in a low, sick voice.

I could tell whenthe brunette sat up and began to give Scott head because Peter's face looked he'd been hit stabbed with a knife. I couldn't help it: I began to cry. It's a terrible thing to see a man's illusions shattered before your eyes. His face registered shock, pain and anger, all at the same moment.

As he sat there in anguish, I quickly reached over and tried to take my phone out of his hands because I didn't want him to hear what I knew was coming next. But he wouldn't let the phone go. "There's more, isn't there?" he asked in a strained voice. 

"You don't want to watch it, Peter," I said, but I knew that wouldn't stop him.

Then we heard Peter's wife gasping and moaning, and Scott's voice goading her. When she began to talk about how good Scott was and how much she enjoyed screwing behind her husband's back, Peter's face went pale. I silently prayed I might never see anyone humiliated like that again.

Finally the video shut off, and Peter slumped in his chair. After a few moments he raised his head to stare at me with haggard eyes. "You know what really got to me the most? It wasn't just that Callie cheated on me. That's bad enough. But the way she held him and kissed him and caressed him. They weren't just having sex, they were making love."

I groped desperately for something to say that might ease his pain, but nothing would come to me. All I could do was repeat, "I'm so sorry, Peter, I'm so sorry."

As he hung his head in despair, something that had been bothering me all afternoon suddenly came into focus, and I blurted out in a voice louder than I intended, "I just realized something, Peter. Scott must have wanted me to see him with Callie! He specifically asked Mr. Moffatt to have me deliver those papers. He wanted me to hear them and see them together, he wanted to embarrass me and to make me tell you!"

"That son-of-a-bitch," Peter swore. "He's always hated me and this is his way of getting back at me."

"But why?" I asked. "I can understand that the two of you are rivals, but why would he be so vindictive?"

Peter sighed. "Back before you joined Magnetadyne, Scott used to report to me. I thought he was brilliant but somewhat impulsive. I even saved his job one time when he became hyper-defensive about an expense account he'd submitted. Audit asked a routine question about it and Scott flew off the handle. He wrote the head of Audit a snarky memo that essentially said 'How dare you question me - go to hell!' Scott copied me on the memo and I was able to stop it before it was delivered to the VP of Auditing. Then I calmed Scott down, got him to delete the memo and the whole thing went away as far as I was concerned. Sometime later the sales director job opened up, and I recommended Scott for the position."

I shook my head in confusion. "Wait a minute, are you saying that Scott hates you because you recommended him for a promotion? I'd have thought he'd be eternally grateful."

Peter shook his head. "In your world and mine, that would be true. But in Scott's world, no one is as smart as he, and the idea that he owes anything to anyone is anathema to him. You might say he's never forgiven me for putting him in my debt."

Now it was my turn to shake my head. "But I still don't understand why he'd take the risk of revealing his affair. Wouldn't that get him in trouble with Magnetadyne?"

Peter's voice was cold and bitter. "Not really. The company would see it as a personal matter between Callie and Scott; they wouldn't want to get involved. No, I think the reason Scott wanted me to find out is to provoke me into doing something foolish that will get me fired. Even if I don't, he's probably hoping that I'll be so humiliated here in the office that my work will suffer while I'm caught up in a messy divorce."

He looked at me carefully. "And I think he decided to use you as the messenger as payback for resisting his advances."

My cheeks flushed, first in embarrassment and then in anger. But although I resented being used by Scott, I was more concerned about Peter. The tone of his voice worried me. "What are you going to do now?" I asked.

He clenched his fists tightly for a moment, then relaxed. "For the time being, I'm not going to do anything except concentrate on getting ready for Expo. I damned sure can't afford to lose my job now. But once it's over, you can be sure that I'm going to divorce Callie and find a way to even the score with Scott."

"Peter, I've experienced betrayal in my life, so I can understand some of what you're feeling right now. If there's anything I can do to help, please let me know. But whatever you decide, don't do anything that will wind up hurting yourself."

"Thanks, Jess," he said quietly. "I appreciate that. I also appreciate the courage it must have taken for you to bring this to me. The only thing I'd ask for now would be for you not to let anyone else know what you've found out. As for me, I'm just going to bury myself in work; that's the only thing I know to do to help with the pain." He looked at me wryly. "It will also give me an excuse to stay away from Callie."

I glanced back at him as I turned to leave and I felt like my heart would break. It was devastating seeing a good, decent man whose whole life had suddenly collapsed on top of him.

There were only a few work days left before Expo, and the tension seemed to ratchet up every day. Part of that tension, of course, was simply a reaction to the deadlines connected with such a high-stakes event, but this time there was an added animosity between Marketing and Sales that seemed to infect almost everyone on the two teams.

Pouring fuel on the fire were the rumors about Mr. Moffatt. Not only did the water-cooler conversation hint that his retirement was imminent, but now the story was circulating that Scott Benson would be succeeding him. The result was that the people on Scott's team became more obsequious than ever trying to curry Scott's favor, while the people who worked with Peter were upset and anxious at the prospect of corporate life under Scott's rule.

I became a sort of de facto member of Peter's group and regularly offered them help wherever I could. The first few times I sat down at the lunch table with them I drew a few questioning looks, but with Peter's obvious approval they accepted me. As a result, they made no effort to hide from me their reactions to all that was going on.

The fervor of their attitudes toward Scott was almost shocking. "If he gets the VP slot, it will be a disaster for the company" was a common theme. "Why would senior management even consider promoting such a terrible boss?" was another. It was disturbing to hear qualified, capable people considering leaving the company if Scott got the VP job.

On the other hand, their regard for Peter was as high as their opinion of Scott was low. Several times when Peter wasn't around, one of his people volunteered a story about how Peter had helped solve a problem. He had a way of offering constructive suggestions that encouraged the person to go back and do a better job. It seemed obvious to me what the company should do, but I knew that executives all too often focus totally on the short-term bottom line and are oblivious to what would be best for the long term.




American Beauty



If the stress on his group was high, it was painfully obvious to me that Peter was nearing the breaking point. The combination of a critical deadline, his rivalry with Scott and the revelations about Callie were almost unbearable - I was afraid something was going to give.

I was so worried about him that two days before the start of Expo I went to Peter's office. Even though it was well after normal work hours, I felt certain I would find him there, and I wasn't disappointed. He was surrounded by a small group of his key people staring at something on his computer screen.

I didn't want to interrupt him so I paused at his door to watch him carefully. I knew he was tired from the long hours he'd been keeping, but the lines and dark shadows I saw on his face revealed an additional burden, one only I knew about. It disturbed me, yet I could think of nothing I could do to help.

Just then, he looked up and spotted me. "Hey, Jess," he said, "come in and have a look at this," indicating what was on his monitor. When I went around and looked over his shoulder, all I saw was what appeared to be a view of an empty room hung with curtains around the walls. 

"Um, that's nice," I said uncertainly. "What am I looking at?"

"This is a new set-up we're testing. What you're seeing is a live feed from our hospitality suite at the MGM Grand in Vegas!" Peter said proudly. "Now watch this," he went on, pecking at the keyboard. The view switched to a large hall. As Peter zoomed in, the view narrowed to a major exhibit that was under construction. "That's the Magnatadyne booth at Expo, or it will be as soon as the display people get everything set up," he said. 

I looked at him in confusion. "Why exactly do you need a live feed from Expo?" I asked.

Instead of answering, Peter motioned to a woman in the group. "Debby, you came up with the idea, tell Jess what you've got in mind." 

Immediately she began babbling like an excited kid at show-and-tell. "It'll be great," she enthused. "It'll give us a chance to watch the booth set-up in real time and make adjustments if needed. Once a show starts, it could give us a feel for what our customers react to, positive or negative. It could also give employees here at headquarters a chance to see for themselves what goes on at a show like this, to see how their efforts make a difference."

While she was talking, several other team members began pointing out additional applications and possible refinements. As they continued to talk animatedly, Peter turned to me. "We've never done anything like this before, Jess. We'll test it out for Expo; then, if it works the way we hope, it will give us a new way to make our marketing efforts at the next big show."

"That's really something," I said sincerely. "I'll bet Mr. Moffatt will be impressed when he sees it."

At the mention of Mr. Moffatt's name, Debby jerked her head up with a sour look on her face. "I wish he'd be impressed enough to recommend Peter, not Scott Benson!" she blurted out. Then she clapped her hand over her mouth in embarrassment when she remembered that I worked for Mr. Moffatt. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded," she said defensively, but it was clear to me that she had meant every word. And while I didn't say anything, I wholeheartedly agreed with her.

But Debby's comment seemed to set off a storm of emotions, and others began to chip in with their own thoughts. Peter quickly spoke up in an effort to diffuse the situation. "We're all a little tense about what may happen, but it's out of our control. Let's just concentrate on the things that are our responsibility and let senior management do whatever it's going to do."

One of the others piped up, "Yeah, but if Scott winds up with the VP job, life here is going to be a living hell!"

"That's right," another said. "Why can't they see what a terrible leader Scott would make?"

I was watching Peter and I saw his head snap up at that last comment. "What if they could see?" he said. "What if they had a chance to see the real Peter in action?"

"That would be perfect," someone said, "but how could we make that happen?"

Peter explained his idea and the office became a Babel of excited voices asking questions and tossing out ideas. I leaned back against a wall and watched the interplay. After a while the objections coalesced into a plan and their excitement transformed into purpose. When the hubbub had pretty well subsided, Peter held up his hand to get everyone's attention. "Listen, people, there's something all of us need to understand. What we're talking about here might open some eyes in the executive suite, but it might also backfire horribly. So let's agree right now that if anything happens, I'm the one who'll take the fall. We need to set this up so no one else's role in this is visible."

Immediately there was a storm of protest, but Peter held firm and finally the rest grudgingly agreed. I think that while they were loyal to Peter and wanted to back him, at heart none of them could afford to lose their jobs if their little ploy went sour. But from my perspective, I thought it was admirable that Peter wanted to protect his team, even at the risk of putting his own job on the line.

Shortly after that Peter ended the meeting and sent everyone home, but he asked me to stay behind. When everyone else had gone, he looked at me carefully. "Jess, if this crazy scheme has any real chance of working, you're going to have a critical role. We can try to hide your involvement, but there's a good chance that someone could figure it out. Are you sure you want to take that risk?"

I thought about it, asking myself how I really felt. I knew that Scott would make a terrible VP and that working as his executive assistant would be intolerable. I also hated what Scott had done to Peter, and it made it even worse that Scott had used me to deliver his message. Those thoughts mixed with memories of my own failed marriage, and they only increased my sympathy for Peter and my determination to help him.

"Count me in,' I told Peter firmly. "I want to help you any way I can."

"Thanks, Jess," he said. "That really means a lot to me."

The day before Expo officially opened, Peter and others of his team flew out to Vegas to make the final preparations. Once the show officially opened, it would be non-stop demonstrations, customer meetings and a never-ending flow of visitors milling through Magnetadyne's massive exhibit.

After Expo launched, whenever I had a lull in my work I'd wander down to the control room of the trial Peter's team had set up at headquarters to get an update on what was happening. I could sit in front of an extra-large monitor and watch a live feed from the Expo floor. I frequently spotted Peter working with our product demonstrators or consulting with some of the display people. The only time I saw Scott was when the monitor was switched to the hospitality suite. There you could often catch him schmoozing with a purchasing executive or senior researcher from one of our customers. From what I could see, I had to admit that Scott seemed to be doing a good job.

Peter's plan wasn't scheduled to go into motion until the evening of the last day of Expo. He wanted to make sure that nothing would interfere with the company's sales efforts; he also wanted to catch Scott when the pressure was off and his guard might be down.

But for the small group of us aware of the scheme, the tension kept mounting as the deadline approached. Everything had been carefully scripted and timed to the minute. It was nerve-wracking to wait, but there was nothing more we could do.

On the last day of Expo I had stayed at my desk, not wanting to get in the way. When my phone finally rang late that afternoon, I almost jumped out of my seat. When I answered, no one was on the line, and I knew that was my signal to start. I quickly entered Mr. Moffatt's office to retrieve his smartphone. My boss had many strengths but communications technology wasn't one of them. He seldom used his smartphone and usually left it at the office when he went out of town. I had already checked to be sure he'd done so this time; now I picked it up and quickly thumbed in a text message. Once I had everything keyed in, I hurried down to the control center Peter's team had established. There were still several steps before I did my thing.

The big monitor was displaying the view from the hospitality suite. Scott and the people from his team were milling around, most with a drink in their hands, enjoying the successful completion of another major show. Peter was there too, but only a few of his team members were present.

We could see Peter check his watch; then he looked up to where he knew the cameras were located and gave a small nod. The game was afoot!

Debby, the woman I'd met earlier in Peter's office, bent over the microphone in front of the monitor and responded, "Roger that, we are go for launch." It was obvious that Peter had heard her through the small microphone in his ear because he nodded again. She flipped a switch and spoke quietly, "Commence stage one." One of Peter's people in the room responded with a surreptitious nod, then went over to one of Scott's salesman. He stuck out his hand to the salesman and began offering his congratulations. Even at a distance we could see the smile break out on the salesman's face. 

Debby toggled the speaker switch to a different setting and repeated the same instructions. As we watched, one of Peter's product demonstrators strolled over to another of Scott's people and began talking to him. The man's face took on a look of surprise, and although we couldn't hear anything, it appeared obvious that he was asking for confirmation.

Several other members' of Peter's team repeated the process, and we could see the excitement starting to build among Scott's team.

Debby glanced over her shoulder at me, her mouth taut. "The word is starting to spread," she said. "Get ready."

As I watched the screen closely, Peter made a slight adjustment to something under his jacket and suddenly we could hear the rustle of material as he walked over to his adversary. "Well, Scott," he said, extending his hand, "it looks like you've won. Congratulations."

"What are you talking about, Peter?" Scott snarled suspiciously, refusing to take the proffered hand.

"I just heard that Mr. Moffatt announced his retirement at the Executive Committee meeting this afternoon. I also heard that the Committee elected you to be his successor," Peter said.

On the screen, we could see Scott looking at Peter warily. "I haven't heard any such thing. What kind of game are you trying to play, Hammill?"

Just then, one of Scott's people came over and began clapping him on the back. "Way to go, boss! We just heard the news."

"What news? What are you talking about?"

The salesman was undaunted. "It's all over the show, Scott. You're going to be the new VP of Sales and Marketing!"

As Scott looked at him uncertainly, another one of his people came up to offer congratulations. Debby zoomed the camera in on Scott's face, and we could clearly see exultation warring with hesitation. Scott gave a little hand gesture.

Debby looked back at me. "That's your cue," she said. I held up Mr. Moffatt's smartphone and clicked SEND on the text message I'd prepared. I noticed that my hands were slightly sweaty.

It was easy to tell when the text went through because Scott jumped as though he'd been shocked. Quickly he grabbed the smartphone out of his pocket and checked the text he'd just received. I knew what he was reading because Peter and I had carefully composed it:





American Beauty



Mr. Moffatt looked at him with astonishment. "I never sent you any such text," he said flatly.

"Sure you did," Scott said, activating his phone, "I'll show you." Holding the phone in one hand he used the other to call up the list of his text messages. Then he cursed and began to scroll frantically through the list. Finally he stopped and looked up. "It's been erased!" he said angrily. "Someone must have deliberately erased it."

I thought I spotted a faint smile on Peter's lips, but when Scott turned to confront him, Peter's face was a blank.

But Scott wasn't through. To everyone's astonishment he reached across Mr. Moffatt's desk and boldly snatched up his phone. "Not even password protected!" I heard him mutter as he proceeded to call up Mr. Moffatt's text message function. There was nothing listed. "Where are all your texts?" Scott demanded loudly.

I'd worked with Mr. Moffatt long enough to know that he was growing angrier by the second. "I don't send text messages. If I want to communicate with someone, I call them."

Scott looked around accusingly. "Somebody sent me a text message announcing my promotion, and now they've erased the evidence on my phone and on yours!" He stared at Peter, then turned his head in my direction. I quickly ducked back behind the door.

"Young man," Mr. Moffatt thundered, "none of this is important. We're having this meeting because I want to know what went on in the hospitality suite last night. Would you care to explain?"

"There's really nothing to explain," Scott said hastily. "After somebody misled me into believing I had been promoted, my team and I had a little celebration, that's all. It wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been the victim of a malicious prank."

"I see," Mr. Moffatt said somewhat ominously. Then he looked up. "Ms. Martin, would you come help me, please?"

When I hurried to his side, he pointed at his computer. "Can you set this damned thing up so we can look at some pictures I got by email?"

I quickly went to his keyboard and expanded the window to full-screen mode. "It's all set," I assured him.

"Good," he said. "Now, please check my email for one from Lucas Masterson." As I did so, he looked at Scott and Peter. "Does the name Lucas Masterson mean anything to either of you?"

Scott quickly piped up, "Of course. Lucas Masterson is president of Masterson Industries, our biggest single customer."

"Very good, Scott," Mr. Moffatt said patronizingly. "And would you agree that we would always want to impress Mr. Masterson with our professionalism and competence?"

"Of course," Scott said with a puzzled look on his face.

Now Mr. Moffatt's tone was low and menacing. "Late last night I received a call from Lucas, who's an old friend of mine. He wanted to know if this Expo was typical of the type of behavior we condone at Magnetadyne. When I professed my ignorance, he sent me an email with some photographs he took when he went looking for someone from Magnetadyne who could answer a question. Ms. Martin, would you display those photos for us?"

Hesitantly I clicked to start the slide show in motion. The first picture showed a group of people from our Sales department milling around the bar at the hospitality suite. It appeared that people were helping themselves to the liquor there.

The next slide showed Scott standing on a small stage that had been erected next to the bar. He was drinking from a bottle and leading the people below him in a cheer. I noted that there was a banner with the Magnetadyne name and logo directly behind the stage. The story was that Mr. Moffatt had personally designed the company's logo: an upright hand with the index finger making the number one sign. I knew Mr. Moffatt wouldn't be happy to see that included in the picture.

But the next photo was worse. Now in addition to Scott there were two young women standing on either side of him, and he had his arms around both. I glanced over at Peter and mouthed, "Who are they?" He shrugged his shoulders in ignorance.

The next picture showed Scott dancing with the two women on the stage. Looking at them, my impression was that all three of them were quite drunk. That impression was reinforced by the fact that the two women appeared to be performing a striptease, to Scott's obvious delight.

When the next photograph flashed onscreen, a collective gasp filled the room. One of the nymphets had lost all of her clothes, and Scott was fondling her to the cheers of the audience.

Before I could stop it, the next shot came onscreen revealing Scott using a three-dimensional model of the company logo like a dildo on the complaisant young woman.

"Turn it off!" Mr. Moffatt shouted, and I quickly shut off the monitor to hide the offending image.

"Mr. Benson, not only did you disgrace yourself last night, but you brought disgrace on Magnetadyne Industries as well," he thundered.

Scott's face was red, and he angrily shouted, "Wait a minute, I'm the victim here. None of this would have happened if I hadn't been tricked into believing I'd been promoted."

"Thank God you weren't promoted!" Mr. Moffatt roared. Then he regained his composure somewhat. "It doesn't make the slightest difference to me why you acted the way you did. The fact remains that your behavior was totally outrageous and completely unacceptable. Even if the head of our best customer hadn't walked in and seen the debauchery, you would still have been setting a terrible example for your own people."

He turned abruptly to me. "Ms. Martin, get HR and Security up here right away. Have them escort Mr. Benson back to his office and tell them he has fifteen minutes to remove any personal items from his desk. Effective immediately, Mr. Benson's employment with Magnetadyne is terminated for cause."

"Yessir," I squeaked, and hastened to make the calls.

Behind me, I heard Scott yelling. "This is all your fault, Hammill. You set me up!" But before he could do or say anything more, one of our Security personnel arrived and began to escort Scott away. As they waited for the elevator, Peter came out of Mr. Moffatt's office and walked up beside Scott. I was out in the hallway looking for the HR representative so I was just able to hear what Peter whispered to Scott: "You fucked my wife, now you're the one who's fucked."

Scott snarled like an animal, but the Security man quickly stepped between them. The elevator arrived just then with the head of HR, so the three of them got on and rode down, leaving Peter and me behind. As I turned to go back to the office, Peter said quietly, "When you get a chance, please come see me. I need to talk to you about all this."

I assured him I would and then hastened back to Mr. Moffatt's door. "Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Moffatt?" I asked.

He looked up at me with weary eyes, and I could tell that all this had taken a toll on him. "Yes, actually there are three things I need, Ms. Martin. First and foremost, please accept my apologies for making you view those lewd photographs. At least I managed to stop them before the shot that showed Scott, um, having sex with that little tramp, but I had forgotten what he'd done in the way of foreplay."

I smiled and nodded my appreciation for his gentlemanly sensitivity. 

"The second thing you could do would be to try to get Lucas Masterson on the phone so I can apologize to him again and let him know what steps I've taken this morning to ensure this debacle will not be repeated."

I started to go back to my desk, but he stopped me. "And once you've reached Lucas, could you please get those damned photographs off my computer and phone? I don't ever want to see them again."

I nodded and picked up his phone to take it back at my desk. As I did so he gave me a shrewd look. "I don't know who led Scott to believe he'd been promoted," he said and my heart leapt into my throat. "But I think I owe him - or her - a debt of gratitude for helping reveal Scott's true nature." I couldn't tell for sure, but I think I saw the slightest of grins on his face before he resumed his normal manner. "Now about that phone call to Lucas . . .," he said, and I scurried off to my desk.

By the time lunch rolled around, the news of Scott's dismissal was all over the building, and stories about what had caused it were rampant. I did my best to avoid any conversations about the subject; I figured that I had been way too close for comfort and didn't want any more conjecture about my role than there already might be.

But I did make it a point to go by Peter's office. I wanted to let him know what Mr. Moffatt had said to me because I thought it might reassure Peter that there was no other shoe about to drop.

I expected that he would be greatly relieved, but after I'd finished I still saw the weariness etched on his face and that bothered me. Nevertheless, I asked him the question that had bothered me ever since I saw the incriminating slide show this morning: "Peter, who were those two women with Scott?" 

He gave me a little smile. "I don't know for sure, but I suspect they were 'freebirds,'" he said. When he saw my confusion, he went on, "We get them at almost every trade show. They're people who sneak into the show looking for free food, free booze and a free party in the hospitality suites. And if the conditions are just right, they also might be up for a little free sex."

"You've never . . ." I started, but he waved me off immediately. "Never," he said firmly. "In the first place, only a fool would risk exposure to whatever diseases they might have. Second, I'm a faithful husband and . . ." He stopped abruptly and his face grew bitter. My heart went out to him. 

"So when do you plan to confront her?" I asked gently.

"When I get home from work today," he said wearily. "I've been working with an attorney and I'm going to give Callie the papers in person tonight."

"I'm so sorry, Peter," I said softly. "I've been so focused on this mess with Scott that I almost forgot about her."

Then a thought came to mind. "Peter, I don't know if it would help, but I haven't yet deleted those photos that Lucas Masterson took. Would you like me to print out a copy for you?"

He thought about it and then nodded. "Yes, please. I'd like to show Callie just what kind of man she chose over me," he said grimly.

When I returned to his office to give him the prints I'd made, he was already preparing to leave. "I want to be waiting for her when she gets home," he told me. "Besides, I might as well get out of here - I won't be worth a damn until I get this over with."

"I understand," I told him. "But if you'd like to talk about it afterwards, I'll be here."

"Thanks," he said, "I'd like that. You're really the only one who knows what's going on."

That evening Marge invited me to go out for a drink but I declined. I was exhausted from the drama that had played out that morning, and now I was concerned about Peter. I couldn't seem to get my mind off the confrontation he was facing, and I knew I would be lousy company for Marge.

For the second night in a row I had trouble sleeping, and once again I wound up going in to the office early in hopes of seeing Peter. I was waiting outside his office when he arrived, and he thanked me for the cup of coffee I'd brought for him.

When we were seated on the sofa and arm chair in his office, I couldn't wait any longer and asked him how things went with Callie. "About like you'd expect," he said, and proceeded to tell me the whole story.





American Beauty



The celebration took place in the private room of a bar that many of the Marketing people frequented. When I got there the room was festooned with silly banners sporting messages like "Free at Last," "Peter is Available" and "Look out Ladies." I thought it was all pretty juvenile and in bad taste, but apparently everyone else felt differently.

The noise level was high, thanks in part to several kegs of beer that were quickly being drained by the crowd. I thought it was nice that his team held Peter in such high regard, but when I saw him in the crowd, it looked to me like he wasn't enjoying the celebration as much as the rest of them.

Someone tried to get him to make a speech, and after futile attempts to resist he clambered up on a table. But instead of making humorous remarks, he kept things short and to the point. After thanking everyone for the party and paying tribute to their efforts again at Expo, he invited them all to carry on enjoying themselves. Then he quickly jumped back down into the crowd.

As the revelry resumed, I quickly made my way over to him, and we grabbed an unoccupied table and sat down. "Thanks for coming, Jess," he said. "How do you like the party?"

I looked carefully at his face and saw the lines were still there around his eyes. "More to the point, how do you like it, Peter?" I asked.

The jovial expression that he'd been trying to maintain slipped away, and I could clearly see how unhappy he was. "I know I'm supposed to be all fired up and excited about being a bachelor again, but honestly, what I feel right now is depressed, and I'm not even sure why."

"I think I can tell you, because that's exactly the way I felt after divorcing my husband. My guess is that you're down because you're mourning the loss of your marriage."

"But that doesn't make sense, Jess. I don't want to be married to Callie any more, not after the things she did and the way she treated me. There's no way I could ever trust her again," he said fiercely.

"Of course not," I said soothingly. "But what you're mourning is something different. You probably always pictured yourself in a committed relationship. Maybe you wanted to start a family at some point. Callie destroyed all that. It's no wonder you feel depressed: you've lost the picture of how your life would be."

He looked at me closely for a moment, then nodded slowly. "There's a lot of truth in that, Jess." He looked at me again. "Thanks for being such a good friend."

Just then, some of his workmates came over and grabbed him by the arm. "This won't do: too much solemnity, too much sobriety. Come on, Peter!" With that they pulled him away, but as he left he smiled and waved at me.

I soon slipped out the door and headed home. Parties like that aren't my style, but I felt good about being helpful to Peter, and I found myself smiling all the way home.

Now that his divorce was behind him, I kept waiting for Peter to brighten up and come out of his depression. In some ways it was clear that he was on the mend, but that didn't seem to translate into any change in the way he acted, at least toward me. He'd wave and smile when he saw me, and we still seemed to be on the same wavelength whenever we talked. But I kept looking for something more that I never seemed to find.

A week or two later, Mr. Moffatt called me into his office. After asking me to close the door, he gestured to me to have a seat. "Please keep what I'm about to tell you in confidence, Ms. Martin" he said. "You remember that Executive Committee meeting that took place during Expo? Well, I actually did tell the Committee that I was planning to retire. But once I found about the debacle with Scott Benson the Committee asked me to stick around and try to clean up the mess he had made.

"But now everything seems to be running pretty smoothly, and I'm going to go ahead with my plans to step down. I'll be making the announcement after lunch today, but I wanted to give you advance notice so you wouldn't be caught by surprise."

I was shocked at his news but grateful for his courtesy to me.

"The other thing you need to know," he said, "is that you'll be getting a new boss: Peter Hammill. I hope you'll be pleased at that news."

"Oh, Mr. Moffatt, I'm delighted for Peter, but you've been so wonderful to work for I'm really going to miss you." With that I stood up and stepped around his desk to gave him a big hug. He beamed at me and gave me some very nice compliments. Then he asked me to call Peter and have him come up.

When the two of them finished their meeting and Peter came out, I made a point of congratulating him on his well-deserved promotion. "Thanks, Jess," he said warmly, "that really means a lot to me."

As he left the office, his warmth lingered with me for a while but then the feeling began to fade as I gave the whole situation more thought. By the afternoon I was in a blue funk.

At the end of the day Marge popped her head around the corner and asked me to come with her to the tavern after work. "Marge, I've got some things I need to do at home," I told her, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. I guess part of what makes her so valuable to the CEO is that when she pursues something she is absolutely dogged about it. Ultimately, I gave in.

Once we were seated in the tavern, she leaned over the table and fixed me with an intense stare. "Alright, Jess, let's have it: what's eating at you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Marge," I protested.

"Bullshit!" she said, which shocked me because Marge almost never curses. "You've been moping around for the last few weeks like a little kid with a sick dog, and today you're acting like your dog died. I would have thought you'd be happy about working for Peter. Tell me what's wrong."

I tried to resist but suddenly something gave way inside and I found myself wiping away my tears while trying to put my feelings into words. "Peter's promotion is the last straw, Marge. I just don't think I can bear to see him and be so near him every day."

"I don't understand, Jess, why not?"

I sniffled. "I know that his wife's affair and their divorce were rough on him, but once the divorce was final, I thought he'd relax around me, maybe want to get together or go out with me. But whenever I see him he still treats me like a friend, like one of the gang. It's killing me."

She looked at me sympathetically. "You really have it bad for him, don't you? You've always felt that way about him."

"No," I protested, "I didn't have feelings for him when he was married. I mean, I admired him and enjoyed working with him, but it was strictly professional. I'd never let myself get interested like that in a married man."

"For someone who wasn't interested 'like that,' you sure managed to spend a lot of time with him," she remarked dryly.

"But I had to," I said. "He was a key part of Mr. Moffatt's team."

"Uh-huh, sure," Marge said patronizingly. "But after you saw his wife with Scott, the way you thought about him started to change."

"How did you know that?" I gasped.

Marge just grinned at me. Then her face grew serious again. "So you thought you had a relationship with Peter, and you hoped it would grow into something special, is that right?"

"I guess so," I admitted quietly.

She looked at me in silence for a minute. Then she said, "You know, you really are a dumb blonde!"

"Now wait just a minute, Marge," I said angrily, "you may be a friend but you have no right to speak to me like that!"

She folded her arms and leaned across the table. "I stand by what I said: you're acting like a dumb blonde. Now be quiet and listen to me for a minute. I think half the people at Magnetadyne know you have a major crush on Peter Hammill. But what have you ever done to let him know that?"

"I've done lots of things," I said indignantly. "I go by to see him every chance I get. I make it a point to have lunch with his team when he eats in the cafeteria. I . . ."

"Isn't that what you did back when he was married?" Marge asked.

"Well, yes," I admitted, "but not so often," I added weakly.

"So how would he know that your feelings have changed if your actions don't show it?" she asked.

Before I could answer, she demanded, "Have you ever even touched him?"

"No," I gasped, "I would never do that!"

"I mean touched him on the arm or the hand - anything to make a physical connection with him?"

"I'm sure I have," I temporized, but for the life of me I couldn't recall ever having done so. 

"You're afraid to touch men for fear they'll take it the wrong way, aren't you?"

"Maybe a little," I admitted.

She continued to gaze at me. Suddenly she asked rhetorically,"You know what's wrong with you, Jess? The problem is that you're too beautiful."

I opened my mouth to speak, but Marge cut me off. "All your life you've been able to rely on your looks. You didn't have to worry about finding men, they kept coming out of the woodwork for you. I'll bet your first husband found you, not the other way around."

I looked down at the table. "Well, maybe. The first time we met he came up to me at a party in college."

"And that's my point: you've gotten used to being passive, waiting for the guy to make the first move. If he doesn't pass the test, you wave him away, then sit back and wait for the next one to show up."

"But . . ."

"And that's not all. The fact is you use your beauty as a shield to keep men away, even ones you might actually be interested in."

"But . . ." 

"And the reason you do that is not because you're arrogant or egotistical but because you're scared. You're afraid to take a risk, afraid to put yourself out there because you might make a bad choice. So you wind up hiding behind your beauty, hoping that Mr. Right will eventually find you and break through your defenses."

I was speechless.

But Marge wasn't finished. "And I'll bet the reason you're so scared is because the one man you did choose, the one you thought was Mr. Right, turned out to be the biggest mistake of your life. Ever since you've been afraid to venture out and take a risk again. So even though a part of you is desperate to try to build a relationship with Peter, another part of you says to stay back and wait. All you do is hang around and hope he'll break through your barriers to pursue you."

I couldn't look at her.

She came across the table, gave me a hug and kissed me on the cheek. "Think about what I've been saying, Jess. Just see if there isn't some truth there." Then she left.

That night I tossed and turned in bed thinking about what Marge had said. Some of it had been painful and not all of it was true, but I had to admit that she'd been right about a lot of things. Finally, sometime in the early morning hours I came to a decision. Even then, I slept only fitfully.

As soon as I got to work, I made a phone call and then went off to put my plan in action. I didn't know if I was doing the right thing, but at least I wasn't being passive.

Shortly after I got back to my desk, Peter came up to meet with Mr. Moffatt again. They spent a long time going over marketing plans together, but finally the session broke up. As he was leaving, Peter stopped by my desk and said, "I'm really looking forward to working more closely with you, Jess."

I took a deep breath and stood up. "Peter, earlier this morning I met with HR and made arrangements for a transfer. In two weeks I'm going to start working in another department."

He took a step backward as though I'd slapped him in the face. "But why, Jess? Have I done something to offend you?"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Moffatt standing in the doorway to his office with a look of concern on his face. I focused on Peter.

"No, Peter, you haven't done a thing, it's me. Over the last few months I've developed strong feelings for you. But the company strictly prohibits relationships between employees and their bosses, and since I intend to pursue those feelings, I can't work for you."

Over Peter's shoulder I spotted Marge peeking around the corner, but I kept my eyes on Peter, holding my breath to see how he would respond. He stared at me in surprise. "But you never said or did anything," he said.

I glanced at Marge. "I know," I said, "but I am now."

Peter said nothing, and time seemed to slow down. Then, as I stood there with my heart in my throat, he suddenly stepped forward and grabbed my shoulders in his hands. "Under the circumstances, I think we can dispense with the customary two-weeks' notice," he said, and kissed me with such passion and promise that I could scarcely hear the applause coming from Marge and Mr. Moffatt.



American Bukkake



When I got home from work I found my wife, Kelly, sitting on the couch. Man, was she pissed! "I found the pictures on the computer," she growled.

"What?"

"Don't 'what' me. You know which pictures I mean. Does it turn you on? Do you like seeing little Asian women tied up with cum all over their faces?"

"No."

"You're lying."

"Yes," I whimpered.

"You like it don't you." I nodded. "Get in the bedroom, take off you clothes, and don't come out until I tell you to." I went. After about twenty minutes, she entered the room. She took off her clothes. She wasn't wearing any underwear. I could smell her quim. It had been excited recently. "Just shut up and fuck me. I don't want to hear a word out of you. Don't even moan." I was hard instantly.

She positioned herself on her stomach on the edge of the bed. I got on top of her and eased my hard-on between her legs, gently but steadily pushing it into her cunt. It was in, and I started mechanically humping her from behind. Suddenly, she raised her hips and thrust backward. The pain in my balls was excruciating! She repeated the blow and clenched her pussy lips together so I couldn't move. Minutes seemed to pass before she pushed back again and released my cock. I was outside of her. She wheeled on me quickly and grabbed me by the scrotum. I could feel her nails digging into my choad. She forced me onto my back. She sat on my chest and took one arm, and then the other and shackled them to the headboard. She tied my feet and legs as well.

She climbed off me. She left the room briefly and returned with a jalapeño pepper cut in half. She took the pepper and rubbed its juice over my cockhead and down my ass crack inserting it into my asshole just for a few seconds. Then she left.

The next morning, after an agonizing two hours of burning pain, my wife unshackled me and told me to shower and get dressed for work. When I was dressed and ready, she handed me my briefcase and six hand-addressed envelopes. There were five with names of friends from work, and one with my name on it. I began to open it, but she slapped my hand and told me to wait until I was alone at work. She also told me to pass the envelopes out to the other men first.

I was dying to know what was in the envelope and why my wife was sending mail to my co-workers. When I got to work, I opened the envelope. The card inside read:

Come to my Bukake Party!

Fulfill my wildest fantasy:

Having men cover me in cum…

Where: Tom's house.

When: Saturday night 8 to?

Don't tell your wife or girlfriend.

And don't orgasm before the party,

because I'll take all the cum you can

give me.

Kelly Jackson

So that's what my wife had in mind. I couldn't wait.

Saturday finally came, and my wife hadn't said anything all week. Saturday afternoon, my wife told me to leave for a few hours so she could get ready. I got in my car and drove around, but I couldn't get the raging hard-on to go away. Earlier that day, I had changed my underwear four times because of the wet spots that kept drenching them.

I came back around 7.30, and shaved. There was a note on the bedroom door that read "Do not Enter." My wife must have been getting ready still. Soon, my friends from work came over. There was John a tall, muscular guy with blond hair; Bob, a shorter man with dark blue eyes and a tan; Steve, with a medium build and curly black hair that drove the secretaries at work wild; and Rick who was tall and thin, and as it turned out had an eleven inch dick.

We all had a seat in the living room. The coffee table had been moved away, and there were just enough seats for the six of us. On a side table there was a large bowl and a champagne flute. A voice spoke to us through an intercom box on one of the end tables. "Strip. … Do it NOW." We all stood up and took off our clothes. We tossed them in a heap in the corner. Suddenly, music started playing in the background. It was arousing, insistent dance music like strippers dance to—nothing cheesy, just a loud, hard rhythm. From around the corner I could see my wife slink into the center of the room. She was dressed in a leather corset with black silk stockings and no underwear. Her long blonde hair hung down her back. Her firm, round tits were bolstered by the top of the corset which accentuated not only her breasts but her already tightly sinewed abdomen. Her snowy white ass was a delicious contrast to the black leather. Only after taking in all of my wife's beauties did I notice that she had shaven her thatch completely bare. There was a drop of golden cum starting to form on the dark inner lips that peeped out from behind the outer labia. My mouth watered, and my dick hardened. All of the other men noticed, too. A couple of them had their dicks in their hands. The others tried to get up from their seats. My wife cracked a small black crop down on a tabletop. She approached John and smacked his hand away from his cock. She walked slowly around the semi-circle, brushing me across the cheek with the crop. When she came to Rick, she picked the tip of his mighty prick, still lying flaccid on his lap, with her whip and gave it a flick.

The music became even more suggestive, and her body started swaying in time to the beat. She danced like a whore until the music quieted down. The room was silent. Kelly walked slowly, hips swaying, over to Rick. She knelt down and took his member in her hand. She flipped her long blonde hair so that we could all see her eyes as she went down on him. She cupped his balls as she sucked and licked and nibbled his long shaft. Slowly, gradually, it became the size of her forearm. She could only manage to get the head in her mouth, so she pumped the long, thick vein-covered shaft with both hands. She slowed briefly to grab the champagne flute. She brought the glass to the tip of his cock. The head would not have fit inside the glass, it was so big. She pumped hard on the shaft as she waited for his release. Suddenly, a thick stream of white jizz hit the bottom of the flute and coated the sides as it splashed. Then another and another. Rick's huge balls rose and fell as he filled her glass.

Turning so we could all see her better, she inserted a fingertip into her glass. She licked the white cum off her painted nail. She took a large sip from the glass; when she lowered it, there was a white rim around her upper lip. She licked it seductively with her tongue. She had our undivided attention, all six of us. She slowly sunk back down to the floor and kept sipping her glass of Rick's sperm. She started to rub her thigh, then she slowly advanced toward her now bare muff. Her finger slid deftly over her wet lips and onto her clit. She shuddered and put down the empty glass. Now she started to finger herself in earnest. Her other hand slid up her torso to her nipples. It took turns pulling on one and then the other. By this time, all five of my friends had their glistening pre-cum covered cocks in their hands and they were beating their meat for all they were worth. I slowly caressed my own, knowing this would be a long night.

As Kelly masturbated herself to orgasm after orgasm, screaming and moaning louder and louder, Bob cried out, "I'm gonna come!" Instinctively, I handed him the large bowl. No sooner did he have it in his hand than he spurted a large load into the bowl. The rest of the guys couldn't take it any longer, and they did too. Load after load of white cum jetted into the vessel. Watching this circle jerk, I couldn't help myself. I plunged my pulsating cock into my wife's cunt. Two strokes was all it took. She shouted, "In my mouth!" I pulled out and unloaded into her mouth. She let it all ooze out over her lips. She grabbed the bowl and poured it over her head.

Seeing I didn't mind it when she sucked off Rick, my wife sucked us all to another hard on and then permitted us to fuck her in her pussy and ass so long as we came on her body. At the end o f the night my wife was covered in over forty loads of cum, and she loved every minute of it.



American Deepthroat in London



Sharon sighed in discomfort as she made her way down the overcrowded aisle. It was the typical flight you always hear about; crying babies, a boring movie and never enough leg room. She could already tell that the next seven-and-a-half hours were going to be a nightmare.

When she finally made it to the back of the plane she realized she had the worst seat in the house. On her right was what looked to be a four-hundred pound ninety-year-old man who'd probably been asleep for the last two hours. And on her right, the most talkative New Yorker ever to fly the friendly skies. He's not even that cute, she thought to herself as he introduced himself and began the never-ending onslaught of small talk that would comprise the duration of their flight.

She didn't blame him for turning on the charm, though. Even she knew she looked amazing that day. Her long blonde hair was sporting a fresh pink highlight on the left side. And to say that her outfit was "eye-catching" would be an understatement. She was wearing a pair of tight, black capri pants that fit around her shapely ass and thighs perfectly. And her 36C breasts were fully on display through a white halter top that barely held them inside.

She tried to take a nap the whole time, but the typical interruptions kept her awake. As the hours went by, she became more and more frustrated. Everything about that flight, since the minute she left her house, had gone wrong. And to top that, she hadn't had sex in three months. All she wanted to do was take a quick nap, but for some reason the Gods had conspired against her and caused every cliché distraction that had ever stepped onto an airplane to converge on one flight. Suddenly, a baby in front of her vomited and started crying. It felt like a foghorn had been blown an inch from her ear and she couldn't take it any more. The cramped quarters. The rude flight attendants. The screaming baby. She snapped.

She looked over at Tom, the New Yorker she had despised for the last four hours, and decided to do something crazy. She leaned in, took off his earphones, and slid her tongue into his mouth, pressing her lips against his. He wore a look of surprise and then enjoyment as he slid his tongue into hers, returning the favor.

They continued to explore eachother's mouths as she felt her pussy getting wetter and wetter, the moisture soaking through her light blue cotton thong. She opened up her eyes as Tom pulled away abruptly. A flight attendant had seen the whole thing.

"What is going on here?" said the haggard middle-aged throwaway that probably hadn't kissed a man in twenty years.

Sharon was at a loss for words. Luckily, Tom did all the talking. "Nothing," he said cracking a smile. "Nothing at all."

"Well, don't let 'nothing' happen again," snapped the attendant. "There are children on this flight."

"Absolutely," he said in discomfort. "I apologize."

She glared at Sharon next and in a tone that hinted at frustration and jealousy said, "Understood?"

"Yes," she said, sinking into her seat. She sat there, breathing heavy, as the attendant walked away. Then, she leaned in towards Tom and whispered in his ear. "Bathroom. Five minutes."

She slid her hand down the front of her pants and rubbed a finger in the fresh juices that had dampened her panties. As she got up and shuffled past him she dragged a finger under his nose letting him smell the fresh aroma. She casually made her way down the hall into the vacant men's room, making sure to slide in quickly before anyone noticed her.

It was certainly more claustrophobic than in the cabin, but she didn't care. She sat on the toilet waiting for her newly-acquainted fuck-buddy to show up as a thousand thoughts ran through her head. I can't believe I'm doing this. Is this right? Is this wrong? What if he doesn't show up? What if he doesn't have any condoms?!

She made it about thirty seconds before she started rubbing her pussy through her pants. Her nipples got harder and harder as they began to poke through her strapless white bra and eventually through the halter top. She hadn't been this horny in a long time. She'd played with herself at home every now and then and even got out the vibrator once or twice. But she hadn't had a good hard fucking in a long time. She began to rub faster and faster as she became more anxious.

She took off her shoes, pants and underwear in an aroused panic and suddenly heard a subtle knock on the door. Nervousness overtook her as she tried to figure out just who it was. She tried to listen to see if Tom was saying anything but she couldn't hear. Another knock, only a little louder. It must be him, she thought to herself. Just open the fucking door!

"Fuck it," she said to herself, unlatching the door and cracking it open. She saw him peering through with a nervous look on his face. Are you gonna let me in or what?! She quickly pulled him in and shut the door behind him, locking it. She looked at him with the most vibrant "fuck me" eyes anyone's ever seen and took off the last article of clothing, her bra.

She pressed him against the wall and began to kiss him again, this time undoing his belt and unzipping his blue jeans. She fell to her knees, sliding them down to his feet and staring at the huge bulge that occupied his white boxer-briefs. She pulled them down too and a thick, erect, seven-and-a-half inch cock sprung out desperate to be fucked.

She shot a devious look up at him as she began to slowly stroke it up and down, starting at the head, making her way down the shaft until her clinched hand was pressing against his balls and making her way back up. She stroked it up and down, fast enough to send shivers through his body but slowly enough to leave him begging for more. He felt like he was gasping for air. All he wanted to do was grab her head and shove his cock down her throat as hard as he could. But he knew that was already what she had in mind.

"You want me to suck your cock, don't you?" she said in a sexy little voice, looking up at him.

"Yeah, I do," he said as he closed his eyes and leaned back. She continued to stroke it up and down. She made her way up to the head and began to make circles around it with her thumb. He gasped and moaned quietly as she continued to toy with him. His dick had grown to a full eight inches in the meantime.

"Only if you promise to fuck the living shit out of me afterwards," she said, pulling it up to her mouth and slowly blowing on it.

He fell back against the wall and moaned louder. "Uhhh," he squeaked out. "Of course."

"Okay, then." She started by licking his balls, putting the left one into her mouth. She sucked on it, caressing it with her tongue as she continued to slowly stroke his shaft. Then, she made her way to the right one, giving it the same special attention as the first. Finally, she placed both in her mouth, sucking and licking them back and fourth, all the while continuing to stroke. She licked from the bottom of the shaft all the way up to the top, slowly making a little circle around the head with her tongue and eventually placing her lips around it.

She sucked on it like it was a little lollipop; making circles around it, still stroking it up and down. Then, she slowly began to take his shaft into her mouth inch by inch. She moved it in and out, up and down, taking a little bit more each time. First two inches, then two-and-a-half, then three. She moved her mouth up and down his hard shaft, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Pleasure shot through his body as her wet little whore mouth engulfed his cock further and further. She sucked it faster and faster until he finally grabbed onto the back of her head and began to guide his cock in and out of her mouth. In and out, over and over. She kept taking it faster and faster and deeper and deeper until he was practically throat fucking her.

He fucked her sweet little mouth faster and faster and harder and harder until finally he pushed it all the way in, balls deep, holding it in her mouth. All eight inches, all the way down her throat. She began to gag and gasp for air, but he wouldn't let up. He just held it in the back of her throat as he looked her in her sexy little eyes. She was gasping for air, but she loved it and he knew it.

"You want Daddy to let you breathe?" he asked.

She choked out a little groan, her tongue poking its way out of her mouth under his shaft.

"I can't hear you," he said as he laughed.

Tears started running down her cheeks as his huge cock continued to invade her throat without letting up. He pulled it out quickly and she gasped for air, coughing up mucus. But as soon as she could take a single breath he shoved it back in, fucking her throat harder and faster than before. The mixture of pain and pleasure overtook her and she had to have him. She pushed him back against the wall and stood up, stroking his cock.

"You wanna fuck me?" she asked, staring him in the eyes as she handfucked his cock.

"Yeah, I wanna fuck you hard," he replied.

"You wanna fuck my tight, wet, little pussy?"

"I'm gonna fuck the shit out of you." He pulled out a condom and fumbled with it for a moment, finally unwrapping it and placing it over his cock.

She turned around and leaned over the sink, staring at herself in the mirror as he grabbed his shaft and guided it into her pussy from behind. He slowly slid it all the way in and heard a quiet moan come out of his little airport slut. He pulled it out and pushed it back in again. Her pussy felt tight around his cock as he continued to fuck her from behind, going a little bit faster and a little bit harder each time. She felt shots of pleasure dart around her body as he fucked her, not deviating from his rhythm or pacing for even a moment.

He grabbed her by the hips and began to go faster, fucking the shit out of her as she continued to stare at herself in the mirror. She began to moan even louder as he pounded her little clit faster and faster. He stretched her sweet little pussy out a little bit more each time he pumped her full of dick. She loved it. She remembered why she used to be such a little slut in high school, toying with all the boys in those little miniskirts of hers. She closed her eyes as the pounding got more and more intense.

He continued to pound her swollen little pussy until he decided to mix things up. He pulled his cock all the way out, waited a moment, and pounded it back in. All the way out and back in. All the way out and back in.

"Mmmm," she said in frustration. "Don't play around with me. Just fuck me!" She pushed him back against the wall with her ass and began to pound back at him. He leaned back and enjoyed himself as she continued to pound her little ass against him, sliding her wet pussy over his cock.

She was getting closer and closer to orgasm as he began to pull her hair, using it to pull her back onto his cock faster and faster. She felt an orgasm coming closer and closer as she moaned a little louder.

"Uhhh. Oh, yeah. Fuck that pussy. Fuck that pussy! Ohhh!" She leaned forward on the sink. "Fuck it. Do it. Make me cum!" she yelled as he pushed her forward and began to fuck her from behind again. He fucked her as fast and as hard as he could while she reached down and rubbed her clit. Her knees gave in as an intense rush of pleasure overtook her body. She leaned on the sink as he held her up by her thighs and pounded the shit out of her. She just sat there and came for three minutes as he fucked and fucked and fucked that pussy.

Finally, the orgasm subsided. She turned around, pulled his condom off and looked him in the eye, stroking his cock once again. "Let's see what my pussy tastes like."

She got on her knees again and began to facefuck his cock as fast and as hard as she could until finally he erupted with an explosion of cum in her mouth. Bursts and bursts of hot, fresh semen were unloaded into her dirty little mouth until she had licked up every last drop.

He leaned back and breathed hard, resting for a moment as she got dressed. She was silent as they put their clothes back on. She motioned for him to leave first and she followed him back a few minutes later. They were uncertain if anyone had heard them, but they didn't really care. What were they gonna do? Throw them overboard?

She made her way back to their row and sat down next to him. He looked over at her, still in shock, and said, "Listen. That was really great. I've never done anything like that before."

She was still silent, just staring at him.

"And listen," he said. "This doesn't have to mean anything. I'm not looking for a phone number or anything."

She smiled, opening her mouth and revealing that the huge load of cum was still in there. She hadn't even swallowed it yet! She spit it out into her empty whiskey glass, slowly drizzling a seemingly neverending flow of semen until the small glass was full. She licked her lips and looked at him. "Neither am I."

Then, she picked up the glass and said, "Cheers," slowly drinking his still hot cum like it was Jack Daniel's. She slid the hot cum into her mouth until it was finally gone; opening her mouth, sticking out her tongue and saying, "Ahhh," to prove it was all gone.

"Thanks for the drink," she said with a sick grin on her face. She laid back, closed her eyes, and fell right to sleep. It turns out that all she needed was a little stress relief to help her relax, and the flight went from horrible to amazing. The plane hadn't even touched down yet and already she'd had some of the best sex of her life. Maybe this trip is going to be good after all, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.



American Dream



I smiled. "Why don't you turn around?" I suggested.

Her brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

I chuckled. "You ever hear of a sixty-nine?"

Her frown disappeared, replaced by a little smile. "Oh . . . yeah, sure. I thought . . . I thought you meant something else."

Gabi didn't give me a chance to ask her to clarify as she got up on all fours and swung her lithe young body around me. I stared up at her heavenly ass, noting the obvious virginity of her sphincter. Her pubic hair was soft, and in the dim pale light streaming through my windows, I realized that her pubic hair – only barely trimmed but naturally sparse to begin with – was actually a light brown in color, rather than the jet-black tone of the hair on her head.

The girl had very pink labia, and as I said, her lips flared out like butterfly wings that overlapped her slightly puffy vulvae. Her clitoris was thick and round, about the size of a peanut. Gabi tensed as I touched her lips with my fingers, prying open her moist pink. Then she hissed with pleasure as I began licking up and down her slit. The natural, tangy flavor of her, the fresh smell of her young pussy mingled with soap, turned me on immensely. My dick hardened quickly in her grasp.

"Oh . . . ohhhh, god . . . that feels so good," she moaned. Her hand pumped up and down my dick. I felt strands of damp hair hanging down from her head, gracing my cock as she stroked it.

"Yes, it does," I agreed, kissing and licking and sucking her dewy lips. I couldn't remember tasting a pussy as fine and sweet as little Gabi's. I wanted to eat her all night.

She let out a little yelp as I slipped my tongue inside her tunnel, finding her spicy and hot. She seemed pretty tight for a prostitute. Maybe she was one of those with a 'no fuck' policy. A lot of girls were like that, wanting to minimize the risk of getting an STD.

Fine with me. I didn't mind not being inside her, especially with the way her soft lips were once again caressing the head of my dick, her tongue swirling around it. She kept masturbating me, whimpering with pleasure, her breath warm and moist on my cock. Her body vibrated, especially when my tongue finally found her clit. I lapped at it with firm passes of my tongue, making Gabi moan around my dick. The muffled sounds were erotic and encouraging.

I kept it up, sucking, licking, fingering her pussy. I eased one, then two fingers inside her, slowly sliding them in and out. She was, indeed, very tight, and I wondered about the unlikely possibility that she could be a virgin. A virgin streetwalker?

"Huhn! Huhn! Hhaahhhh . . . ."

Gabi bucked and writhed atop me as she climaxed. Her clit stiffened, then shrank, her tunnel tightened considerably around my fingers. I eased them out, then latched onto her trickling hole and sucking greedily. Her cum was uncommonly sweet. I licked deep inside her to get it all, and Gabi moaned in approval all the while, grinding her sopping snatch against my chin.

"Oh, Mary, Mother of God," she giggled, basking in her afterglow, cooing and sighing as I ran my hands up and down her muscular back. I kissed and licked her inner thighs, her flushed pussy. Gabi made no move to get off me.

"I'm glad you liked that," I said, gently licking her fur-lined vulvae.

"Oh, God, that was so good . . . so fucking good . . . mmmm . . . ." I let out a small gasp as her mouth descended upon me once again, sucking hard and yearningly. Her orgasm had refueled, inspired her, and she sucked me like an animal, all but desperate to make me cum.

I held out as long as I could, wanting to savor the sensation of her incomparable mouth gliding like a warm wet sheath along my cock. But when she eased my cock head into her throat, and bobbed up and down like that, my resolve vanished. I arched my back and cried out in ecstasy, ejaculating right down her throat. The rippling tightness of her esophagus was like a pussy as it drained my cock.

I panted into her pussy as I recovered. Gabi licked and tenderly sucked on my penis as it softened, making little girlish giggling noises and moans of satisfaction. Finally, she turned back around and curled up in my arms, her back to me. She took my hands, cupped one of them over her right breast, settled the other on her soft pubic mound. We both quickly fell asleep.

***

I have a strange internal clock that, for some reason, always gets me up at 6:58 in the morning. It doesn't matter how much I've had to drink, or what I've done the night before – such as, for instance, enjoying incredible oral sex with a teenaged prostitute – but I am always awake at two minutes before seven.

Gabi, I realized, was a hard sleeper. I tried to wake her, but she groaned and murmured in her sleep. I chuckled, let her be, then got up. I drank some milk from the fridge, popped a few vitamins. My usual breakfast. Then I headed into the bathroom, started the shower, brushed my teeth before getting in under the warm spray.

I didn't hear the door open, or the curtain being pulled back. I stiffened a little as I felt the cool air outside the shower. Then came a soft, feminine giggle.

I opened my eyes to see that Gabi had joined me. Jesus Christ, she looked even better in the morning than she had the night before. Without the shadows and darkness, I could see Gabi in all her glory; long, lean torso, very high-set breasts with dark pink nipples, practically no areolas. Her hair was a little longer than shoulder-length and naturally lustrous. For an Hispanic girl, she was very pale-skinned.

"Morning," she whispered, and gave me a little kiss as she grabbed the soap.

I smiled. "Good morning."

Gabi didn't say anything else. She had a cute little smile on her face, her lips curled just a little at the corners. Her eyes were so wide and round and dark, with a slight little slant to them. I wondered if she had some Asian heritage. The soft, almost straight pubic hair on her mound certainly suggested she did.

We soaped each other up, our hands leaving no body part untouched. Gabi sighed, leaning her back against my chest as I thoroughly washed her young genitals. My penis was hard as a rock by the time her hands had massaged soap into it.

We rinsed off, and I turned off the shower. Just as I was about to step out, however, Gabi eased down on her knees as if she had expected me to do so. I certainly did not stop the girl as she once more took my cock in her mouth and sucked hungrily. I held onto her damp head, loving the feel of it bobbing back and forth as she serviced me.

All too soon, I fed little Gabi her breakfast, which she gulped down with enthusiasm. She tenderly sucked every little drop out of me, then got up and gave me a little kiss.

Half an hour later, we left my little apartment. Gabi had a somewhat forlorn look on her face as I locked the door behind us. She looked up and down the street. I lived just a few blocks south of Central Avenue. There were students walking toward school, many of them giving us looks. Some, I was sure, recognized me as a member of the faculty. I wondered if they could tell what little Gabi was by her tiny shorts and snug-fitting sweatsuit top.

"Can I drop you off somewhere?" I asked.

"Um . . . no," she said, her eyes darting to mine for a moment before looking away. "I know my way around."

I nodded, took my hand out of my pocket. "Look, um . . . why don't you take this?"

Gabi looked down at the two twenties I offered her. She hesitated, then nodded, and took the money. "Thanks, Devon," she whispered, then gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. With no further hesitation, she started up the street. She didn't look back.

I thought about calling after her, to get her number, or at least suggest she come back. But that would have been awkward. Like every prostitute I had known, I figured I would never see Gabi again.

***

Beingan anthropologist, I naturally wondered about Gabi's life. What turned such a pretty young woman into a cheap prostitute? I did not get the impression she was a drug user. She had no track marks on her arms or thighs, and her behavior certainly did not suggest she had any of the usual cravings for crack or speed.

So why give head for money? Kids? Nah, that seemed unlikely. She had very narrow hips and no stretch marks, no scar from a C-section. So she had no mouths to feed other than her own.

My only conclusion was that Gabi came from a poor home, was probably a high-school dropout, and had no good job prospects other than working at one of the many fast-food joints in the area for six bucks an hour. Hmm . . . six dollars an hour versus forty dollars for a blow job . . . Gabi could do five guys in a night and make what she would in one week at Burger King. I didn't have to be a fiscal genius to understand why Gabi did what she did.

Being a Friday, I didn't have any of my classes to attend, just the two classes I taught. Looking out at my students as I lectured on social mores and patterns of behavior, I could almost see Gabi's face amongst them. Almost half my class was composed of Hispanics and Chicanos. Gabi would have fit right in . . . and at the same time, she would have been out of place.

I spent the afternoon doing some on-line research in the office I shared with four other graduate students. I was alone, the others -–years younger than I – having started their weekend early. I envied their youth.

Dr. Kandath, one of the tenured members of the department, came in to drop off a couple books I had requested from his collection. Kandath was Indian, with a noticeable accent and a very chauvinistic look on life. He held to Indian tradition, and his wife, wed to him by arrangement, was a docile creature who always wore the brightly-colored sarongs and bindis that were traditional to their people. Kandath had a hard time taking any of the female grad students seriously, but he liked me.

"Hey, Candy," I said to him, using the nickname that he allowed only a few to address him by. He gave me an expectant look.

"You, uh . . . you prepared a thesis on prostitution, didn't you?"

"Yes, I certainly did," he said in that lilting tone of his. "My second master's thesis, in fact. You have an interest in such things?"

I felt a little awkward. "Well . . . in a clinical way."

He suddenly grinned, showing uncommonly white teeth. They were a stark contrast to his dark skin. "The best way to study such phenomena is to experience it first-hand," he said.

I chuckled. "Where did you study?"

"Brooklyn," he said, sounding almost proud. "The whores there were very eager."

His casual bluntness did not surprise me, or shock me as it did many of the grads. I had gotten used to the way he spoke. No sugar-coating for Kandath.

I thought over my words, picking diplomatic ones. "What, um, what did you find as reasons for the girls doing what they did?"

Kandath shrugged, crossing his arms and leaning against the edge of my cubicle. "There were several," he said. "Drugs, desperation, a dominant male partner or pimp who forced them into it. Very few were whores because they enjoyed it. Why are you interested, Devon? Do you know a whore?"

I considered lying, but figured Kandath, of all people, would not think less of me for divulging the truth. "Yes," I said. "In fact, I do."

He smiled. "Is she eager?"

Strange question, I thought. "Actually, she was."

He winked. "Then keep her around," he said. "But do not try to get too close. You will scare her off."

I chuckled. "I doubt I'll see her again," I said.

"Oh? Why is that? Were you rough with her?"

I frowned, shaking my head. "Just . . . it's just a hunch."

Kandath mused quietly a moment. "In my country, whores are an accepted part of life. They do things a wife will not. I certainly would not want my wife performing oral sex on me. But such . . . delicious perversions are ingrained in the male. That is what whores are for. They are necessary."

I smiled wanly. Sometimes, Kandath's views bothered even me. "Well, I'm not sure if I agree with everything you just said, but thanks for your input."

Kandath grinned again. "My advice? Find your whore, take advantage of her. Enjoy her. If you do not, she will find another."

Kandath turned and left. I sat in my chair, thinking over Kandath's words.

He's wrong, I thought. Gabi isn't there for me to use her . . . not that she's ever coming back, of course . . . .

***

I didn't feel much like research after that, so I headed down to a popular diner across the street from the university, treated myself to a half-pound burger with cheese, grilled onions, and green chili. I went back for my car, drove to a music store and picked out a couple of CDs I had been wanting. It was a little after six when I got home.

I watched TV for a while, then had an inspiration for my thesis and got on the computer. Time flew, and before I knew it, the news was over and the Tonight Show was coming on. I sighed, leaning back in my desk chair, stretching. I cracked my neck, rolled my shoulders, switched off the monitor.

Enough work for one night, I thought. I retrieved a bottle of Southern Comfort from the cabinet under the kitchen sink, mixed it with some Diet Coke in a glass.

Knock, knock.

I looked toward the door, wondering who it could be. Ten-thirty, on a Friday night? Could it be her?

I set down my glass on the little coffee table, answered the door.

Gabi looked up at me, her eyes swollen and red from crying. She wore a frilly white half-top, one of those that just covered her breasts and left her shoulders bare, but included full sleeves that ended in bell-shaped cuffs. Denim cutoffs and the same dirty white sneakers completed her outfit.

My heart sank as I saw the bruise on her left cheek. "Gabi, what happened?"

She sniffled, rubbed her little red nose. "Can I stay with you again?" she asked, timid, afraid, desperate.

"Come on," I said, stepping back and opening the door for her. She picked up a well-worn denim bag and came inside. I closed the door, locked the deadbolt. I came around, gingerly touched her shoulders, looked into her beautiful dark eyes.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

She stared back, her jaw working a little, her lips twitching. "Can I have a beer?"

I sighed, and suddenly remembered Kandath's words: don't get too close, or you will scare her off. "Sure," I said, and let go of her shoulders. I headed to the fridge, grabbed one of the last two beers I had. When I turned back around, Gabi had plunked herself down on my little loveseat. She took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up.

"Rough night, huh?" I said as I set the beer down on the coffee table before her.

She shot me an intense glare, then immediately softened. "Yeah," she confirmed, her voice barely a whisper.

I sat down next to her, slipped my arm around her shoulders. She stiffened at first, then slowly leaned against me, her tight, tense body starting to relax. For many moments, we just sat like that. I could feel her trembling, then her sighs. She curled her arms around me and hugged me close, crying softly. I did not say anything, I just let her pour out her emotions.

She finally pulled back, sniffling again. "After I left this morning, I . . . I got something to eat, just hung out for a while. I, uh . . . got picked up, and, um, well, you know . . . ."

"Yeah, I know," I said.

Gabi leaned out, picked up her beer, took a long, deep drink, swallowing several times. Cold amber liquid trickled down her chin to her neck. She gave me a sheepish look as she wiped her face. "God, you probably think I'm a lush or something."

I massaged her back, smiling. "I think you need a friend," I said.

She smiled sweetly, and her eyes smoldered a little. "What I need is a shower. Wanna join me?"

Oh, how quick a man's libido takes control! Just like that, and suddenly, all I wanted was to see her naked and feel that wonderful mouth again. Gabi gave me a knowing smile and stood before me. her crotch was level with my face. Slowly, deliberately, she unbuttoned and unzipped her shorts, then pushed them down. Her pussy was inches from my face, fragrant with her natural aroma and the smell of sweat. Her pink clit was stiff and swollen, jutting through the soft brunette hair that surrounded it.

"Come on," she whispered, and pulled me to my feet. Like an automaton, I followed the sexy little teen into the bathroom. She gave me sexy little smiles as she disrobed me. Once I was naked, she bent over and kissed the head of my cock. I was half-erect, and quickly responded to her warm, soft lips.

In the shower, Gabi took up the soap and rubbed it all over my body, from my chest to my feet, building up a good lather. Then she pressed herself to me, stiff nipples stabbing into my abdomen, one of her legs lifted and wrapped around my hip. Her steamy, wet pussy rubbed against the top of my erection.

She kissed me deeply, hungrily, moaning softly into my mouth. Her body moved up and down, smearing the soap from my body into her skin. She used me like a human washcloth. Once her breasts and belly were dripping with suds, she turned around and rubbed her back against me. She lifted up, slipping my cock between her legs, and reached down to press it against her young cunt. The feeling was exquisite. With the soapy water making her inner thighs slick, I was able to move back and forth, like I was fucking her. But the angle did not allow my cock to penetrate her.

Gabi rolled her body, her sighs becoming louder and more passionate. She pushed the head of my dick against her clit, bucked back against me. She made sexy little high-pitched noises, her body shaking. She gripped my thighs, lay her head back against my shoulder. I cupped her firm tits, pinched and rolled her nipples. Gabi cried out as she came. I felt the flood of her juices on my prick.

She stayed like that for a while, and I held her close, feeling strangely more intimate with her than I thought I should have. After a minute, she eased forward, then turned around and dropped to a squat. She grabbed my cock and started jerking on it, squeezing it tightly. Her pink tongue stretched out, flicking the tip of my oozing dick, lapping up pre-cum.

I braced my hands against the shower wall as Gabi masturbated me furiously, occasionally taking the head of my cock in her mouth. She winced when she did that, and I assumed the bruise on her pretty face was causing discomfort whenever she opened her mouth too wide. I told myself that if I ever found the asshole who hit her, I would give him ten times as many bruises.

"Oh, Gabi . . . Gabi!" I moaned, feeling my orgasm build.

"Come on, baby, cum on me! Do it on me!" she said in a heated voice, stroking, pulling, jacking me. She parted her lips, brushing them against the head of my dick . . . .

I groaned with release, thick spurts of semen gushing out, splashing on her lips and chin, streaking across her cheeks. Gabi smiled, giggled as my cum jetted onto her face. A couple of shots streaked across her nose and forehead, into her hair. Gabi sighed, then rubbed my oozing cock all around her mouth, licking up traces of semen here and there.

Her eyes glowed up at me as she kissed my cock with sperm-glazed lips. "I like you, Devon," she whispered.

I petted her wet hair. "I like you, too," I said.

***

Gabi seemed pretty comfortable with her nudity, and as she sat naked on the love seat, drinking her beer and smoking, I thought how casually sexy she was. No makeup, hair wet and sticking to her back, beads of water dripping down over her pert breasts . . . not even the bruise on her face could mar her simple beauty.

I sat down beside her, half-turned on the couch to face her. I didn't bother with clothes, either. "What happened, Gabi?"

She looked away from the TV, her eyes studying mine. She drew off her cigarette, ground it out, then sat up straight. She cradled the beer in her lap, resting to cool metal can against her pussy.




American Dream



"It just happens, sometimes," she said. She shrugged casually. "You know, sometimes a guy gets rough, or he doesn't want to pay . . . least I've never gotten cut, or shot. I Know this one girl, after she did a guy and his friend, they stabbed her in the stomach and took her money. She was in the hospital for, like, a week."

"I'd hate for something like that to happen to you," I said earnestly.

She took a deep breath, let it out while watching the TV. She sipped her beer. "You're nice to me, Devon," she said, then gave me a little smile. "That's why I came back. You don't make me feel . . . you know."

I nodded. "Hey, a beautiful young woman wants to spend time with an old guy like me? I'm not gonna say no."

Gabi laughed softly. "You're not old," she said. "What are you, like, twenty-eight?"

I pursed my lips. "More like thirty-five."

She reared back, giving me an 'I don't believe you' look.

I just laughed. "I'm serious. Wanna see my license?"

Gabi laughed. "Well, for an old guy, you look pretty good."

I lit a cigarette. "Clean living," I joked.

Gabi watched me a moment, her eyes wandering over my body. She drained her beer, set the empty can on the table. "Can I have another one?"

"What, you wanna get drunk?" I asked.

"Maybe a little, if that's okay. You doing anything tomorrow?"

I shook my head. "Not really."

She curled up against me, suddenly affectionate, and lowered her head to plant an affectionate kiss on my cock. "Good," she said, easing up. "I wanna see how many times an old guy like you can get it up."

I watched her with interested and aroused eyes as Gabi swayed her tight little butt to my refrigerator and helped herself to my last beer. She gave me a wicked smile as she came back. She straddled my lap, lightly rubbing her pussy against my slowly-growing erection.

"I got an idea," she said. "Why don't we grab a couple of six-packs and order a pizza, then . . . give each other lots and lots of head."

I ran my hands up and down her back, watching her as she popped open the beer and drank. "Just head?" I asked.

"Just head. Is that okay? I like doing it."

I smiled. How could I possibly refuse?

***

I awoke the following morning with a pair of serious hangovers. One was from the beer, the other from the sex. Gabi lay next to me, deep in never-never land. Her mouth and chin were flaky with dried semen. More was on her neck and breasts. The pungent aroma of pussy lingered in my mouth.

I was conscious of the fact that, while Gabi seemed to enjoy our antics, she had used sex as a diversion to keep me from asking too much about her. Whenever I would try to pry some information out of her about her life, where she had been, how she got the bruise, or whatever, she would reach for my dick and straddle my lap, and that would be it. She couldn't very well answer my questions when her mouth was full, after all.

I had finally given up, and figured Kandath's advice about not getting to close was on the money. Gabi wanted the security of being with someone she felt she could trust, and rewarded that feeling in the sweetest way possible. I felt a strange sense of pride. After all, she charged other men for her services. If she charged me for every orgasm she had thus far coaxed from me, I would be out at least three hundred dollars.

Even though it was Saturday, I was still up at 6:58, and there wasn't a damn thing I could to go back to sleep. I got up, started some coffee, stumbled to the bathroom. Gabi was still in dreamland, muttering in her sleep when I came back after showering and brushing my teeth. She didn't wake up until I had drunk a pot of coffee and the eleven a.m. news came on.

"Devon?"

I turned away from the TV, looking at Gabi as she sat up, touching her face. She absently scratched away flakes of cum from her chin. Her eeys were wide, round, still a little sleepy.

"Good morning," I said.

She smiled, crawled from the futon and over the back of the love seat, curling up in my lap. She nuzzled her nose against my chest, wrapped her arms around my neck. Her affection was a little surprising.

"Mmm, you smell good, baby," she said. She kissed my chest.

I chuckled. "You don't."

She lifted her head, her face blank. Then she suddenly laughed. "I'll be right back," she said, and got up. She grabbed her little denim bag and headed into the shower, giving me a sexy look as she did so.

I suddenly wondered if I had a girlfriend. And if so, would that be the smartest move? This girl was half my age. What could we have in common? And did I want a prostitute for a girlfriend?

Oh, snap out of it, Dev. Don't flatter yourself.

***

Still, all day long, Gabi and I were like a couple. We went to lunch, saw a movie, did some window shopping at the mall. Gabi held my hand the whole time, gave me little kisses now and then, and occasionally groped my crotch. She modeled some lingerie for me at Victoria's Secret, and I bought her a pair of see-through panties and a matching teddy after she promised she would wear them for me that night.

And she did. After turning down the lights once we got back to my place, she danced for me, clad in her new lingerie, and rubbed herself all over me. After slowly peeling off my clothes, she urged me to masturbate while she fingered herself on my coffee table. And when I was ready to cum, she opened her mouth wide and gave me the extra thrill of watching her firm little tongue become slathered with semen. She swallowed it all with a smile and sucked my cock until I was soft.

We sixty-nined in bed until we were both satisfied, then fell asleep like that, her little body rest atop mine, her mouth gently sucking me as she drifted off.

It seemed pretty obvious to me that Gabi was there to stay. I started thinking about moving us into a large apartment.

***

In the shower the following morning, I made plans for the day. Head out to the zoo or the park, I figured, make a day of it. Maybe Gabi would be into a little outdoor sex. The zoo had lots of little hidden benches and nooks we could sneak into.

But when I came out of the bathroom, intending to surprise Gabi by licking her awake, I found that she had left. Her clothes, her new lingerie, her bag, it was all gone. I felt a little anxiety, checked my pants for my wallet. But it was there, as well as all my money.

Okay, maybe she had to go out for a while, I thought.

I stayed in, getting a little work done on my thesis, but I was having a hard time concentrating. I could still taste her, smell her, hear the echoes of her sighs and moans. Everything in my little apartment reminded me of her.

By six o'clock, I began to realize she was not coming back. By ten, I started worrying. Finally, around midnight, I got in my car and started driving.

I drove up and down Central, looking for Gabi. A few times, I thought I saw her, but in the shadows, one slender body looked like another. Girls looked me over, sometimes with interest, other times with resignation and disdain. Any one of them would have gotten in my car, I knew. But none of them were Gabi.

I thought about stopping some of the girls to see if they knew her, of where she could be found. But that might have caused some problems, or roused the interest of the police.

By two in the morning, I gave up and headed back home.

I didn't get any sleep.

***

"Perhaps she got a better offer," suggested Kandath after I gave him a recount of the weekend. We were in his office, the door closed. I didn't want anyone to know I was infatuated with a teenaged prostitute.

"What do you mean?" I asked him.

Kandath scratched his chin. "A girl with few prospects like that, she was obviously searching for someone to take her in."

"But that's what I did," I said, frowning. "I took her in."

"Well, perhaps you did, and perhaps you did not. And perhaps she found someone with more money who did the same."

I frowned. Leave it to Kandath to burst my bubble. Why did I even talk to that jerk about it, anyway?

***

Over the following weeks, as the end of the spring semester loomed closer, I gradually put Gabi out of my mind. I could never forget the incredible sex, her exuberance, her eagerness, but I told myself I would just have to be happy with the memories. Gabi wasn't coming back. Period.

"Hi, Devon."

I was startled by the sound of her voice as I sat at an outdoor table before a little bistro on the edge of the campus. I was doing some grading, musing to myself how some of these stupid kids ever got accepted into college in the first place.

The last thing I expected was to see Gabi again. Yet there she was, in a loose yellow skirt and a white tank top, and those same little white sneakers. She had cleaned them up a little.

For a long moment, I just stared at her. I wasn't sure if I should be mad at her for her abrupt departure, or relieved to see her again. Nor was I sure if I should be aroused or not.

"Can we talk?" she asked at last, looking nervous.

I took a breath. "Sure."

Gabi looked around, noting all the people at other tables, those passing by on the street. I noticed as well, especially the way some of the guys around us were ogling Gabi's tight little body. I wondered if any of them knew her the same way I did.

"Um . . . can we go somewhere else?" she asked timidly.

I thought a moment, then nodded. "Sure. But not my place."

She blinked, cast her eyes down. She seemed a little hurt that I did not want to take her home. But she nodded nonetheless. "Okay."

***

Gabi was silent throughout the entire drive. She barely even looked at me, except to give me a strange, reluctant smile now and then as I drove. I stopped for a couple of sodas and a six-pack, bought a pack of cigarettes, then drove to a little spot just outside the city, on a bluff overlooking the flat plains of the High Desert. It was a breezy, warm day.

Gabi and I found a couple of large rocks to sit on, and cracked open the beer. I lit her cigarette, then lit my own. I was patient as I waited for her to begin.

"You know, that first night I met you, I felt like I could tell you anything," she said, breaking the silence.

I looked to her, saw the way the late afternoon sun glowed on her face. The bruise was pretty much gone, with just a tiny welt on her cheekbone remaining. "Why didn't you?"

She shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "I didn't think . . . I mean, you picked me up, remember? You wanted to get laid, not hear my sob story."

"Maybe I wanted both."

She turned her face toward me. "Yeah, I get that about you. I saw all those books you got. Are you a teacher, I mean, a professor?"

I nodded. "I'm working on my PhD, but I teach a couple classes."

She nodded. "Cool."

"What's going on, Gabi?"

She shuddered with a deep breath. "I grew up on that street," she said. "I've almost never left Central, never been out of the city. My whole fucking life has been that street. It's funny. You go to where I live, and you get gangs and drugs and hookers and skanks . . . but you go right down the street and there's the college, and all the clean people, and –"

I chuckled. "I wouldn't say they're all clean."

Gabi managed a smile. "I always liked hanging around there. I'd talk to some of the students, learn some things. This one guy, he met me every day after his last class and we'd sit on the grass, just talking. 'Course, we didn't just talk. Had to pay for my lessons, you know."

I smiled, knowing what she meant.

"I dropped out of high school in tenth grade," she said. "My mom . . . she was pretty sick, and we owed a lot of back rent. She couldn't work that much, and it was just me and her. So, soon as I could, I started working. It wasn't much, but . . . at least we had a place to live. I don't hate her 'cause she got sick, but . . . sometimes I just wish she could have waited until I graduated."

"You can get a GED," I said. "I, uh . . . I could help you study for it."

Gabi smiled warmly, her eyes betraying emotion. "Thanks," she whispered. She looked down, regarding her beer, then took a healthy swig. "I wish it was that simple."

"Why isn't it?" I asked.

Gabi looked to me, saying nothing, even though her eyes told me she really wanted to come out with it . . . whatever it was.

I scooted a little closer, and touched her shoulder. "Gabi, look. If you want me to help you, I will. But you have to let me in. Tell me what's going on. It might not be as bad as you think it is."

Her nostrils flared, and her eyes watered. She struggled to hold back the tears. "My . . . mom . . ." her voice cracked, her features contorted. "She, um . . . she passed away when I was . . . when I was with you."

My heart sank. Guilt flooded through me. Gabi broke down, started sobbing uncontrollably. I pulled her against me, held her as she cried for many long moments. It was all, finally, starting to make sense.

She stopped crying, rather abruptly, and pulled up her shirt to wipe her face. Despite the circumstances of the moment, I found it strange erotic that Gabi so casually exposed her breasts. Not that there was anyone around but me to see her.

"I knew it was coming. We both did. Still . . . it's just so—"

"'We?'" I asked.

Her eyes bore into mine. "Rico," she said. "My . . . step-father," she added with more than a little disdain in her voice.

I took a chance and followed my intuition. "He's the one who hit you."

Self-consciously, Gabi touched her cheek. She didn't have to say anything to confirm the truth. The look on her face was enough.

"He said we weren't paying the money back fast enough," she said. "So, I . . . he told me if I worked for him, I could pay it off quicker, and . . . he'd let me go. Except . . . now it's all paid off and he won't let me go."

"Why don't you just leave? You can come stay with me."

Gabi smiled sweetly, touched my face. "You're sweet, Devon, but . . . I really want to be alone sometimes. I need my own place, where no one knows me."

I nodded. "I can help you with that. I know a lot of students. Many of them are looking for room mates, especially now—"

"I can get a place," she said, interrupting me. "That's not the problem. I just need the money, and since Rico takes half of what I bring home—"

"How much?"

Gabi sighed. "Devon, I didn't come for your money."

"How much?"

She huffed. "It's not even about that. Even if I get away from Rico, he still has Letty."

I frowned. "Who's Letty?"

"My sister," she said. "She was living with her dad – we don't have the same fathers – but Rico found her anyway. He got Freddie – Letty's dad, he's a real asshole – to give her to him. He wants her to work for him, too, like I am. So it's not just about me."

I gave Gabi a serious look. "What would it take to get you and Letty away from Rico?" I asked.

Gabi winced. "Devon, I didn't want to bring you any trouble. Don't get involved, okay? I just wanted to talk, and get it out . . . I just wanted a friend, that's all."

I pulled her close, kissed her temple. "I am your friend, Gabi," I said. "And I am going to help you, one way or the other. So why not just tell me what it will take, and we'll see what happens."

Gabi cried a little bit, tears brought out by grief for her departed mother, her trapped sister, her gratitude for me. Eventually, I got it all out of her. Rico was a slum lord, who lived in a house not far off of Central, and that was where he kept Letty, wearing her down until she agreed to prostitute for him. Apparently, Rico was a pretty active pimp. Gabi told me he had six other girls working for him.

The basics were this: Gabi needed five hundred bucks to pay her deposit on an apartment in a community where she knew she would be accepted, a place across town and out of Rico's sphere of influence. And she needed to get Letty away from Rico.

"What's the apartment complex?" I asked her.

"What?" asked Gabi as I stood and headed back to my Impala. "Why?"

"Just tell me," I said, and reached into the glove compartment. I grabbed my checkbook.

"Um . . . it's called Sierra Ridge," she said.

I nodded, scribbled on a check, handed it to Gabi. She took it, staring wide-eyed at what she held. "Devon?" she asked, wonderingly.

I tore out a slip of blank paper from the back of my checkbook, gave it to Gabi along with the pen. "Now, I need Rico's address."

"Devon, don't—"

"Do it," I said, using my best authoritative voice.

Gabi clammed up, and wrote on the slip of paper. I smiled upon her once she gave it back to me.

"It's going to be all right," I said, hoping I could back up my own words.

Gabi looked grateful, emotional. "Devon . . . you didn't have to do this."

I sat back down, took her hand. "I wanted to," I said. "Just let me take you out once this is all over."

Gabi laughed softly, a short, nervous sound. "You can take me out right now," she said, and touched my face. "Or, better yet . . . take me home."

***

I barely remember the drive back into town. Maybe Gabi and I talked, maybe we didn't. I was conscious of little more than my desire to be with Gabi again, and I was pretty sure she felt the same way.

Once inside my apartment, our clothes seemed to vanish on their own, melting away like a cotton T-shirt in a downpour. I lay Gabi on the futon, kissed and licked along her narrow torso. She sighed, whimpered, moaned passionately as I sucked her warm, sweet flesh, as I gently bit and caressed her nipples with my lips and tongue.

"Oh, Devon . . . Devon," she moaned. 

I made my way down her lithe body, placing little kisses here and there. The aroma of her sex was intoxicating as my lips traveled southward. I noticed she had trimmed a little more, sculpting her brunette pubes to a rectangle above her pussy.

Gabi bucked and moaned deeply as I pressed my mouth to her pussy, tasting her once more. God, how I had missed her flavor! No woman could ever taste as sweet as Gabi, I realized. Not to me, anyway.

Gabi rolled her hips back, pulling her knees to her chest and spreading her thighs wide. She lifted her head, staring down into my eyes as I ate her out. Emboldened, I licked from her clit to her puckered little asshole, and Gabi gasped, watching me as I rimmed her. I wish I could have captured the incredible expressions on her face as she came. Never had I seen a sight more beautiful.

I drank all her fluid down, kept licking her until Gabi pulled on my head. "Come up here, baby," she whispered.

I crawled up over her, and Gabi wrapped her arms and legs around me, eagerly meeting my lips, kissing me deeply. My hard cock pressed against her slipepry folds, the head just barely pushing inside her.

"Make love to me, Devon," she whispered between heated kisses. "Please. I want you inside me."

I grunted, almost giving in, but pulled back. "I've got some condoms in my—"

"No," she said quickly. "Please. I'm clean, baby, swear to God. And I trust you. I want it like this. Please, baby."

I moaned. My resolve was gone. I wanted her, too, more than she knew. Staring down into Gabi's beautiful young face, I pushed my cock inside her, wincing at the tight fit. She may have been wet enough to soak all the way through the mattress, but she was still damn tight.

"Uhn! Oh! Ah!" Gabi grunted, her face contorted. She bit her lip, took several deep breaths, held the last one. I worked back and forth, her juices lubricating my invading cock, then pushed deeper . . deeper . . . I felt something pop.

"Ahhh!" cried Gabi, and she bucked, clutching my back, her legs quaking as they gripped my waist tightly. I groaned as I was buried inside the girl.

"Oh, God! Oh, God, stop! Just stop!"

I looked down on Gabi, saw the pain on her face even as I felt the maddening spasms of her tight young tunnel around my shaft. Jesus, was she hot! And so incredibly tight!




American Dream



"Gabi?" I queried.

"It's okay," she said, even as she winced again. Her eyes were still closed. "The . . . the pain's going away. I knew it was gonna . . . hurt . . . oh! . . . I just . . . uhnnn . . . wasn't ready for it . . . ."

Oh, shit, I suddenly thought. I looked down at our conjoined bodies, my dark pubic hair intermingled with hers. I stared back into Gabi's eyes as she opened them. She was breathing deeply, staring back, her eyes glazed.

"Oh my God," I said in astonishment. "Gabi, baby . . . you're a virgin?"

Her body shuddered, and she winced again, letting out a little squeaking sound. "Mmm . . . not . . . not anymore," she said between puffs of breath.

I sighed, at once mortified and turned on. "Oh, Gabi, why didn't you tell me?"

"I . . . I thought I did," she said, then pulled herself up, her mouth open and hungry. "But it doesn't matter. Make love to me, Devon. Please."

I groaned, overwhelmed. I could never have thought Gabi was a virgin. It just seemed so far outside the realm of possibility that a prostitute would manage to maintain her virginity. Yet Gabi had managed, somehow, and now here I was, the first man to take her, to be joined with her.

My mind reeled. "Oh, Gabi . . . ."

"Mmm, yes, baby, make love to me," she whispered. "Take me, I'm yours . . . oh, God . . . ."

I lay atop her, pressing my lips to hers, easing in and out of her snug, hot pussy. Gabi trembled, shook, cried softly, her hands roaming all over my body. She gave herself completely to me, rolling her hips, fucking me back. But it wasn't fucking.

It was love.

Once the pain and discomfort were gone, Gabi really got into it, digging her nails into my back, pulling herself up against me. She hissed, panted, moaned, and glared at me with a feral, purely passionate expression on her face, one I had never seen before. It was the face of a virgin girl becoming a woman . . . and one enjoying the transition to the fullest.

"Fuck me, Devon!" she growled. "Fuck me!"

I groaned, sharing her lust, and started really giving it to her, pounding hard and deep. Gabi yelped, gasped, cried out as I bottomed out, as her no-longer-virgin cunt was invaded over and over.

"Oh God! Oh God! Fuck me! Fuck meeeeyyyeeeaaahhhh!!!"

Gabi arched her back deeply, pushing me up as she came. Her pussy constricted so tightly around my penis that it hurt. I couldn't move inside her, and so just held on, letting Gabi's orgasm run its course. She shrieked, cried, and literally screamed as her first true orgasm tore through her body. I had no doubt that my neighbors, and even passersby on the street below, could hear her orgasmic cries.

She finally relaxed, and sagged down into the bed. I stayed atop her, inside her, my cock burning in the furnace of her cunt. Thick warm fluid seeped out around my cock. I gave Gabi a moment to recover, then started moving again.

Gabi's eyes opened, soft and sexy and full of passion. She stared up at me, slack-jawed, lips shiny and wet. Her hands caressed my muscular chest, my neck. She pushed a couple fingers into my mouth, and I sucked on them. I wanted to keep fucking her forever.

I curled her legs up, rolling them back, and settled my hands on the backs of her knees. Both Gabi and I looked down, watching as my cock slid in and out of her fur-lined pussy. We were both aroused at the sight of the crimson streaks along my shaft, at the matted blood in her pubic hair. There was not much evidence of her deflowering, but there was enough.

Gabi came again, panting and gasping, and just as she hit her peak, thrashing about beneath me, I erupted as well, my cock spasming and releasing its flood deep within her womb. Gabi's eyes flashed open as she felt the warm fluid filling her. It made her cum again, and the force of her orgasm made my fluid squelch out around my cock, soaking into my balls and flowing down her cheeks.

I collapsed atop her, drained of strength. Gabi did not seem to mind my weight upon her. She cooed and kissed my shoulder, my neck, my lips. I barely managed to kiss her back.

"Oh . . . oh . . . Devon," she panted, holding me close.

"Jesus," I replied. "Oh, Gabi . . . oh, my sweet Gabi . . . ."

***

I awoke a while later. The sun had long set; there was only the desk lamp on in the far corner, which I never turned off. I lay alone in bed, surrounded by the heady aroma of sex. I sat up, a feeling of panic running through my brain as I feared that Gabi had left me yet again. But, no, there was her skirt upon the floor, and her little tank top across the back of the love seat.

I looked to the bathroom, saw that the door was closed, light shining golden from beneath. I got up, headed to the bathroom, and carefully opened the door.

Gabi looked up, sitting naked on the toilet. She smiled sweetly, almost innocently.

"You feel okay?" I asked her.

She nodded, still smiling. "I'm, uh . . . kind'a sore, but it's okay," she said.

I stepped closer, touched her soft dark hair. Gabi pressed her cheek to my thigh, hugging me. "I wish you would have told me," I said. "I would have made it special for you."

She lifted her face, her smile even broader. "It was," she said. "Devon . . . it was perfect."

I lowered myself until we were eye-to-eye. "You're an amazing woman, Gabi."

She swooned, touching my face. Softly, lovingly, she kissed me, her lips gently sucking my own. "Devon, I want to tell you something," she said as she pulled back.

"What's that?"

Her eyes searched mine, digging into my soul. "I'm in love with you," she said.

***

The police were called to the home of one Ricardo 'Rico' Montana the following night, after receiving an anonymous tip that illegal drug distribution and prostitution were being conducted from the location. SWAT showed up in full force, and the house and all within were seized without a shot being fired. Rico gave himself up as he stared down half a dozen sub-machine gun barrels.

I stood across the street, watching as Rico and his men were taken away. In the year since I had come to the city, I had made a few friends, among them a detective by the name of John Garcia. His little brother was one of my students. John had headed up the raid on the house, and now, as he crossed the street toward me, he gave me a dubious look.

"Looks like our 'anonymous' tip worked out," he said. "Four kilos of cocaine, tons of paraphernalia, a small arsenal . . . this bust might just make me lieutenant."

I smiled. "Well, whoever gave you the tip, I'm sure he's happy for you."

John stepped closer. He was a tall man, especially for an Hispanic. "Rico was caught in the bedroom with a sixteen-year-old girl," he said under his breath, so that only I could hear. "Looks like they were about to do something. You wouldn't know anything about her, would you?"

I said nothing for a moment, watching as two female officers escorted a pretty young girl – she resembled Gabi in some respects – from the front door and toward a patrol car. The girl was crying, covering her face.

"Don't tell me this is what I think it is, Dev," he said. "Don't tell me you've been getting your rocks off with a sixteen—"

"She's a friend of a friend," I said. I glanced back to my car, where Gabi waited. She was understandably afraid to show herself while Rico was still around.

John followed my eyes. "And who's that?"

"The friend."

John studied me a moment, and I remained silent, meeting his intimidating stare. Finally, he smiled, a thin, knowing smile. "The girl's going to be put in a home," he said. "Until social services can—"

"She has a sister," I said. I smiled. "And she's a very responsible sister."

John let out a sharp laugh. "Why am I not surprised?"

I smiled back. "See you around, John."

***

Gabi's apartment was a small one-bedroom on the west side, far away from where she had grown up. She did not have much to move from her mother's house, just a dresser full of clothes and a worn-down old bed. There were a few boxes, mostly pictures and things that reminded Gabi of her mother, but little else.

Once everything was moved in, I drove Gabi to the small cemetery wherein her mother had been buried. I kept my distance, watching Gabi as she brought flowers to her mother's grave, spoke to her for a while. Then I took Gabi back home, and we made love softly, tenderly. She was asleep when I left the next morning.

It was late June before I saw Gabi again. She called me up, out of the blue, telling me that she had been awarded custody of her sister. Letty was going to move in. Gabi was happy, ecstatic, even. She told me she had gotten a job waiting tables and was doing pretty well. She said she wanted to see me.

I picked her up with roses in hand and took her to dinner. We saw a stage play afterward, a local production of 'Little Shop of Horrors,' then headed back to my place and made love all night. Gabi was insatiable, as always, and I had little problem keeping up with her.

Four and a half months later, the three of us – Gabi, Letty and I – moved into a three-bedroom home on the north side of the city. Letty had gotten a job at a massage therapist's office as a receptionist, and over the following few years worked her way up, getting her certification, and became a masseuse. I finished my PhD and was offered a position at the same university. Gabi, meanwhile, passed her GED exam with my help and enrolled in college. She wanted to go into anthropology. Imagine that.

Gabi and I are more in love now than ever. We don't talk about her past, but I accept her for who she is and what she has done. She is my best friend, my confidant, my lover. She is everything to me.

And in a few months, Gabrielle Arredondo is going to become my wife. We've already decided to name our first daughter after her mother, Anisa.

I guess I got the Great American Dream after all.

-finis-



American Dream



Jodie and I spent our honeymoon in America, the jolly old US of A.

Actually I had wanted to go to the West Indies, maybe Martinique, but of course I was out-voted, and as frequently happens I didn't regret it at all.

We flew British Airways out of Heathrow, and landed at JFK several hours later, having tried but failed miserably to join the mile high club on the way. That didn't matter as we soon made up for it, as we toured the East coast, taking in New England and the surrounding area. 

Coming from Huntingdon in Cambridgeshire, near to Cambridge University, we especially enjoyed our visit to Yale and Harvard, but the biggest surprise was quite how wonderful and rural New York State was. Not at all how we expected it to be.

Three weeks later Jodie and I had no doubt made love in more motels than the average American would manage in a lifetime.

We loved every minute of it, and vowed to one another on the aeroplane back, that it would not be long before we returned.

Great plan ----- great idea ---- but of course real life and our careers just got in the way.

Nine years on, and I, Dave Martin, and my wife Jodie, found ourselves in our early thirties, happily married, no children, and a lovely house mortgaged to the hilt, as most of the people in our position would be at that time --- but living life to the full. I had recently been made a junior director of Alscans Ltd., who specialised in high tech incinerator plants, in which in our narrow sector, we led the world. We were a small company but growing, and I had managed to grow with it. Under my boss George, who virtually owned the company, I guess I was about number four or five in line.

Jodie had done quite well, but as a schoolteacher her progression was a matter of length of service as well as ability, and just occasionally she got frustrated that I had shot ahead of her. I later wondered whether it was this sort of jealous undercurrent that made her act in the way that she did.

I would say without doubt that we were still in love, not perhaps with the passion that we had when we'd first got married, but that was to be expected. Our love life was not bad at all, with the odd week or two of abstinence when we were both under pressure, made up for by the more frequent flurry of sexual activity when we were both in the mood.

Our story starts when we were in the middle of a particularly long spell of the former, but looking forward to a well-deserved period of the latter.

We hadn't actually taken a holiday of any sort for almost a year, but Jodie had broken up from school the week before, and we were due to go off on a well deserved break to the Beaches of Spain just the next day.

Jodie dragged me out to buy some new holiday clothes for the pair of us, though as expected, I ended up with one pair of shorts. No surprise that Jodie ended up with four or five new outfits, and each one more revealing than the last. 

It was the last one she chose that started her off.

Jodie tended to be rather adventurous and headstrong on holiday, and wore and did things that she would perhaps not normally do at home. I suppose that day, that she had already entered into the holiday spirit, and the blouse that she picked out seemed to reflect that fact exactly.

"Do you like it?" She asked, as she held it up for my approval.

"It's a bit see-thru," I noted, not with any genuine disapproval.

"Then it's just what I'm looking for then," Jodie told me. "I'd better try it on I suppose."

She disappeared out of my sight into the changing room with the filmy, black wisp of satin, leaving me stood there with six or seven other guys all waiting, like me, for their wives or girlfriends.

I wondered whether Jodie would decide herself, or whether she would come out and model it for me, to see what I thought. I thought that she had put on a fairly skimpy bra that morning, so if she did come out, then a few guys could be in for a minor treat. 

She did come out. Right out into the waiting area --- no peeping round the corner for me to come and look like some girls do.

I did get one thing wrong though, and that was the bra. It probably had been the skimpy one that she'd put on that morning, but since she'd removed it to model the blouse, then it didn't make much difference.

Male eyes, including my own, popped open in surprise as Jodie spun around showing the new blouse off to me. Well, nominally to me.

It was black.

It was flimsy.

Other than that, what could I say?

It covered her ---- well sort of I guess.

It covered her up adequately --- well I couldn't really go along with that.

What was the word or phrase I was looking for?

Hid her --- no. 

Protected her assets --- certainly not.

Covered her breasts --- well not really.

Guarded her modesty --- hardly at all.

Could me and the other guys make out the shape of her tits --- You bet we could.

Could we see her erect nipples ___ bet your bloody life we all could.

Bloody hell, my missus Jodie was flashing her boobs off at all the guys there as if she was topless. The thin material of the blouse hardly camouflaged what was underneath, and her nipples stuck out like thimbles, every detail plainly on view.

It would have been less erotic if she had been bare to the waist. 

And she was loving it!

I couldn't honestly claim that I was that upset, but she was loving it --- the cheeky cow!

Jodie bought the blouse, and we moved on to the next shop.

Then we got the new bikini!

If you could describe it as such.

She disappeared into the changing room, and seemed to take her time. Eventually she pulled the curtain back and stood there for me to admire.

Bloody hell!

I found my heart pounding as I stood there looking at her, aware that at least a couple of other chaps waiting around were also getting an eyeful. Jodie I should explain is a rather attractive young woman, about five foot three, reasonably slim and with boobs that though not more than a "B" cup, thrust out firmly as if issuing a challenge. 

"Where's the top?" I asked her when I managed to recover my powers of speech. 

"We're going to Spain," Jodie proclaimed gleefully. "Who needs a bikini top there?"

True as it happened. We'd been there the year before, and after the first hour or two, my wife had discarded her bikini top and joined the many other women who were topless. To my knowledge she never bothered with it again the whole time we were there.

But a department store in Cambridge was hardly a beach in Spain.

"Do you like it then?" She demanded, arching her back slightly, emphasizing even more just how stunning her bare breasts were.

"Love it," answered at least two of the admirers looking on, before I could so much as utter a word either way.

Jodie giggled at the attention she was getting, and twisted around to offer a different angle.

"Can I have it then?" She asked me, while I stood there, not sure whether I should be embarrassed or turned on by her show.

"I'd give her one," said one of the guys cheekily, and the others all laughed.

"Ok, you can have it," I told her before the whole thing got out of hand. 

--------------------

On the way home in the car, I got to thinking. 

Jodie wouldn't normally have acted quite like that, so something was up.

My wife Jodie was one of those women who was strong willed, and when I did something to upset her she felt she had to get her own back. Four months previously she had flirted with one of her colleagues in front of me and it ended up with her kissing him out on the dance floor, while I had to stand there watching them. I wasn't too sure where his hands were either for that matter. 

We had a blinding row afterwards at how she had humiliated me in front of everyone, and all she had to say was that it was all my fault. Apparently I had forgotten that it was the anniversary of our first date a few days before, and she had decided to make me pay. 

The anniversary of our first date??

When the hell had we last celebrated that for Christ's sake?

Then about a month after that I got home late when we were supposed to be going out for dinner. It was only half an hour or so because I got held up in the traffic coming home from a meeting with a client up North. Four hours on the road, and an accident on the motorway that had happened earlier in the day had delayed me. I'd even rang to say I'd be late but that didn't help. 

By the time I got home she'd already gone out, and left me a note to say that she'd cancelled the dinner reservation. No idea where she'd gone, just that she'd ring me in a bit so that I could join her.

A 'bit' turned out to be over three hours later, and it wasn't so much an invitation to join her as a demand that I went to pick her up to give her a lift home.

I told her what I thought of her, and that she could make her own bloody way home. She'd gone out on her own, so she could come home on her own.

"Plenty of guys here would be more than happy to bring me home Dave. I just don't know how I would be able to pay them back for their kindness."

They were her exact words!

When I got to the club I was fuming. It wasn't helped when I found Jodie surrounded by a group of young men, most of them five years younger than her, and so obviously hoping for a special ending to the evening.

The skimpy dress that she almost had on did nothing to dissuade them that they had chosen well, or to calm me down. As I walked up to the group, at least three of them actually had their hands on her, round her waist, on her exposed shoulder, and another perilously close to her breast.

"Excuse me lads," I said as I carefully eased my way through to her, somewhat cautiously pushing their hands away from her body. "Time this little lady was going home."

"Piss off mate," one of them retorted, trying to barge me away. "We got her first. Go find your own bit of crumpet."

"It's OK boys," broke in Jodie. "It's my husband come to save me. Sorry to break up the evening, but I'm afraid I'll have to go home with him."

Oh dear!

It looked as if it would turn nasty, and there was no way that I would stand a chance against the group of them.

They weren't happy!

It was obvious that they thought Jodie had been leading them on, and that by pre arrangement I had arrived to take their fun thing away, and two of them including the stroppy one started to push me.

It had been some years since I had been involved in any sort of fight; not since I'd been at school. But I'm not the sort of guy who backs down too easily, so I pushed back.

It started to get out of hand, until Jodie interrupted again.

"Come on you guys," she scolded them. "Leave him alone will you."

It quietened them down just a little, but the atmosphere was still very threatening.

"Come on then," Jodie carried on, as if she was enjoying the situation. "I'll give you all a nice kiss goodnight, and then me and hubby have got to be going."

That may have placated them, but it infuriated me.

"You kiss one of them Jodie," I shouted at her. "And don't bloody well bother to come home tonight."

Stand off!

People round us started to move away, and the barman started to clear glasses from in front of us. Most of the bunch of young men seemed happy enough to back off and leave it, but the two trouble makers were as riled up as I was. 

There was going to be trouble, and I was in the thick of it.

Suddenly two huge bouncers arrived and started to push us apart. I can't say that I wasn't relieved, even though I was pumped up and would have gone for it.

"You lot stay there," one of the bouncers said to the group of young men, pushing them back, before turning to us.

"I suggest you get out mate while you're still in one piece," he said to me. "And take that trouble making bitch with you."

There are times when you make a stand when your wife is insulted, and times when discretion is the better part of valour. I took the second and easier option, and dragged Jodie out behind me. Besides, at that moment I agreed with his judgement.

The drive home was in silence, but when we got home we had another screaming row. We hardly talked to one another for three days or so, and I warned her that if she ever did anything like that again, that the consequences would be dire.

-----------------------

So back to the incidents in the changing rooms, and what caused them?

"Just a warning shot," she informed me. "You know I'm not happy that you're working tomorrow morning when we're going away, so it was just a warning."

Well in my book, crazy cow that she was, there's a big difference between flashing her boobs off at strangers and actually leading them on with her flirting as she had done previously.

Truth was, it had actually turned me on quite a lot, and the thought of Jodie wearing her revealing clothes and going topless in her bikini in front of other guys on holiday got me rather excited.

All a matter of degree really. I've never minded other guys looking, but touching was something else altogether.

That night we screwed one another senseless, breaking our period of no sex. When I eventually regained my senses, I wondered how many other wives or girl friends had enjoyed such a night of passion, due to their men-folk remembering how wonderful Jodie's breasts had looked, and imagined that they were fucking her.

------------------------

The next day, I had just one appointment with Butch. Butch was one of those more real than real sort of guys who was over from America to look at our products. My boss George had been out visiting them a couple of weeks previously, and he was on the return trip, to see how we operated. My job was to run him quickly through the manufacturing process, and then take him out to see a plant in operation. 

I planned to have a quick lunch with him then leave, giving me plenty of time to get back home, get changed, and drive to Stansted Airport in time to catch our late afternoon flight.

Jodie had been furious when I told her what I would be doing, demanding that I cancel my meeting with Butch and get someone else to cover for me.

I tried to explain how important the meeting was for our company, and how a foothold into the huge American market could lead to expansion for us, and even greater prospects for me.

She hadn't been happy, and that no doubt, was what had led to the display the day before.

"You think more of your bloody job than you do of me," she screamed at me when I refused to go along with her idea. I declined to remind her of the numerous times we had cancelled arrangements because of her commitments at her school, knowing that all would be fine between us once we were on the plane.

I knew that Jodie could sometimes be a bit self-centred and righteous, but I'd known that when I married her, so I could hardly complain.

I patted her on the bottom as I went out, pecked her on the cheek, and confirmed that she had to be ready and packed when I got back home in a few hours time. 

"You be one minute late and you'll regret it," Jodie spat at me with a touch more venom than I thought appropriate. 

---------------------

The meeting went well, in fact extremely well indeed. I found I got on really well with Butch, only having met him very briefly on his previous visit a few months before.

He came up with some extremely searching questions, but I acquitted myself well, and as the morning came to a close I was pretty sure that we would soon be confirming the order.

"Where we going for lunch then?" he asked me at about eleven thirty, and I suggested a local pub where we could get a quick bite to eat and a beer.

"No," he came back to me. "Let's go to that place Mario's where we can sit down a bit more quietly. I've still got a number of things that I need to go through with you."

I glanced at the time, realised I had a bit of time to spare, and agreed.

An hour later we were only half way through our meal, and he was grilling me with questions that I could hardly believe. How much did he want to know about our company and our product, and for that matter about me?

"I'd better just ring my wife and warn her I might be a bit late," I explained to him as I made my way to the toilet, not wanting him to hear the explosion that would no doubt result. I decided to then give it another ten minutes or so before I would reluctantly interrupt him and explain why I had to split. You think twice before deserting such a potentially important client, but I still had a little time to spare.

"You what?" Jodie screamed at me over the phone when I told her, unprepared to listen to my protestations that we still had time to spare. "I warned you Dave that if you were late, then you'd regret it. I'm not missing this holiday even if I have to go without you."

I tried to calm her down but with no luck. By the time I rang off we were both angry at one another, and she had stopped listening what I had to say. I decided to just go back to Butch and explain my problem, and ask him if he could make his own way back to our plant. That would save me twenty minutes or so, and I'd be back at my house maybe just five minutes later than planned. Butch was a married man himself, and would no doubt understand.

"Well Dave," he greeted me on my return to the table. "It's time I came clean with you, because I know you're in a rush and have a plane to catch."

Oh shit!

What was this all about? How did he know that? What was he about to hit me with?

I sat down and waited for the axe to drop, convinced that he was about to pull the plug on the new big order that I had thought was in the bag. How did he know that I was in such a rush? I'd obviously blown it by trying to rush things through.

Why oh why hadn't I simply told him at the beginning of our meeting that I had a tight schedule to follow?

"I want you to come and work for me Dave," Butch said confidently. "How do you fancy coming over to live in the States?"

I had one of those moments when you just can't seem to get your chin to come back up and meet the rest of your face.

"Say that again please," I demanded when I recovered.

"All these questions Dave, I've been checking you out. George hasn't told you but we are going to take a license to manufacture your plants in the US, and we need someone with your knowledge to help us set it up."

"But ---- but.... " Was all I could manage, before Butch carried on.

"George suggested you Dave, as the best man. He doesn't want to lose you of course, but this deal could make Alscans a fortune over the next decade or so, and he says you're the man to make it work."

"George knows?" I asked limply.

"Of course he does Dave, but didn't want to say too much till I met you and decided that you were the man I wanted."

I collapsed back in my chair with the most incredible warm feeling running through me. Going to live and work in America as an executive of a large company. Jodie would go crazy with delight when I told her, as we both still talked about what a great time we'd had there, and how much we would like to go back. But never in a million years had I ever expected to be going back on terms like these.

I listened in astonishment, as he quickly outlined the package they were offering me, a salary that I could hardly comprehend, share options, company BMW, an apartment till we found one for ourselves .... It just went on and on.

"Well you have a plane to catch young man," he finished with. "Perhaps you'll give me your decision when you come back from holiday and had time to discuss it with your wife."

"I'll give it to you now," I found myself spluttering. "I accept, and I'm absolutely sure that my wife will agree."

We both stood up and shook hands on it, and Butch shooed me off to go pick up my wife and catch my plane.




American Dream



I walked off with my head in the clouds, checking to see that I still had time. It would be tight, but I took out my mobile phone while I was walking out to the car park, and dialled my home number.

It rang --- well it would wouldn't it?

But then it rang and rang and rang.

No answer. I checked the time, and found that it was two minutes after the time I had originally said I would get back home.

By then I had reached my car, and as I stuck the key in the ignition, I auto dialled Jodie's mobile. I hadn't even put the car in gear when she answered.

"Where the fuck are you?" She shouted down the phone.

"On my way home sweetheart," I replied. "And wait till you hear what I've got to tell you."

"Bugger you Dave you bastard," she interrupted me. "You don't care a damn about me do you?"

I was lost for words for a moment, but unfortunately she wasn't.

"Your bloody job --- that's all that you think about. You don't care shit about me. I've had to ring up Terry to give me a lift to the airport because I knew you wouldn't turn up on time."

Terry? --- Ah yes that would be Terry Jones, the art teacher that she works with. Flash bastard who thinks he knows it all.

The fact that it had been him that Jodie had traded kisses with when I'd pissed her off before, hardly endeared him to me.

"Jodie," I implored her. "I'm virtually on our road now, and I'm only three or four minutes later than I said."

"Tough Dave," Jodie replied. "I'm already half way to the airport. If you're not here then I'm going without you."

She cut the connection, and despite me attempting to ring her back, there was no response. 

I checked the time and thought how stupid all this was. I still had plenty of time to get to the airport and book in, so I turned the car round and headed off towards Standsted, arriving there much as I had predicted with at least half an hour to spare. 

I parked, took my parking ticket and made my way through to the departure terminal, hoping that at least Jodie had thought to take my case with her.

I looked; I searched, but could not find her, and by then time was getting short. Eventually I went to the departure desk and asked if my wife had already registered.

"Oh yes here it is," the pretty blonde said after searching her list. She booked in about fifteen minutes ago --- a Mrs. Martin and a Mr. Jones. They've got seats numbers 24 b and c."

WHAT!

My initial reaction frightened the poor girl, and I had to apologise for my outburst.

"There must be some mistake," I claimed. "Mrs. Martin, but not Mr. Jones."

The girl could see that I was pretty upset about something, and double-checked everything for me.

"No, that's correct," she confirmed to me at last. "The tickets were booked in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Martin, but Mrs. Martin changed one of them to Mr. Jones."

"Can she do that?" I mumbled unable to believe what I'd heard.

"Yes," replied the girl, beginning to take pity on me, realising that some odd event was taking place. "There would be a forty pound charge for doing so, but she apparently paid that."

I stood there like some refugee or something, not knowing what to say, or what to do.

"He had his passport with him Mr. Martin," She added apologetically. "So everything seemed above board."

I thanked her for her trouble, and shambled unhappily away from the desk.

What was going on? What the hell was she up to? This had beyond a joke.

Looking at the departures board, it immediately became apparent that the plane hadn't taken off yet, and for that matter they hadn't even boarded. I rushed along to try to get to the boarding gate, but couldn't get passed the counter into the departure lounge.

No boarding ticket --- no entry. That was clear.

I argued and cajoled, but when it became obvious that they were going to call security, I gave up, went to the bar, and sat there with my head in my hands. 

I couldn't believe it --- I just couldn't believe it ---- my world had been turned upside down in the space of half an hour. 

Jodie couldn't --- no she couldn't really be going to Spain with that bloody Terry Jones in my place.

It wasn't possible.

Please some one tell me that it just wasn't possible, and that I was having a dream.

Then I had an idea. Not a good one as it turned out, but it seemed so at the time.

Rushing over to the other side of the airport, I eventually arrived at the observation lounge. In years gone by it would maybe have been an open terrace, but in these days of terrorism, we had to look out at the planes through huge plate glass windows.

To my complete surprise I spotted her. My wife, my Jodie, making her way across the tarmac towards a waiting Boeing 737. I couldn't miss her of course, few women having flowing blonde hair, and such a trim figure as she did. 

Then I saw bloody Jones get out of the courtesy bus behind her, and follow her towards the waiting plane. 

When he caught up with her I totally lost my rag, as even at that distance I could hardly miss it as he put his arm around her slim waist, any more than I could miss her, as she leant back and kissed him on the cheek.

----------------------

The security guards were, I suppose, just doing their job.

I know I shouldn't have hammered like a crazy man on the glass window, and I shouldn't have shouted the way that I did. 

There was absolutely no chance that they could have heard me anyway at the distance they were, and in any case Jodie never so much as glanced back.

They eventually released me from the detention centre with no charges when they decided that I was no longer any potential threat to other passengers, and I sullenly made my way back to my car.

I tried Jodie's mobile, but of course it was a waste of time.

What a mess --- what a bloody mess!

--------------------

I think I cried that night, but I'm not sure because I was so drunk by the time I staggered home from the local pub, that I couldn't be sure of anything.

I couldn't even ring her in Spain as I had no number and her mobile wouldn't work in a foreign country.

About midday the next day, I came to my senses, the phone ringing loudly by my side. I realised that I had fell asleep on the sofa, cuddling the phone close up to me.

Why? --- I have no idea.

"Hello," I mumbled into the mouthpiece, not knowing what to expect.

"Is that you John?" Came the strident tones of my wife, sounding just like the schoolteacher that she was.

"Yes," I answered simply.

"Well?" 

"Well what?" I replied.

"No apologies then you bastard," Jodie spat out at me. "Don't you care that you've let me down again?"

"I've let you down?" Came my query, but she went on and on about how I didn't care for her feelings, and thought more about my work than I did for her.

"What about when you didn't turn up for dinner with our new neighbours because of some silly problem at your school," I reminded her rather pointlessly. "And anyway I got to the airport on time."

"That's different Dave, and you know it," she shouted down the line at me, though from my point of view it certainly wasn't.

I realised that we were just screaming at one another to no purpose, and tried to change my tack. Having just woken up I hadn't fully regained all my senses, and forgotten half of what had happened the evening before, and tried to tell her about the offer from Butch.

"Jodie," I said more levelly. "There's something I have to tell you about my job. I've been offered ....."

"There you go again," Jodie set off again. "Your job --- your bloody job --- that's all you ever think about. What about me, here on my own in Spain?"

It was only then that it all came flooding back to me, and suddenly my love for Jodie felt as if it was beginning to dissolve.

"On your own Jodie?" I queried. "And what about Terry bloody Jones?"

She went quiet at the other end, obviously stunned that I knew he was with her.

"What about him?" She asked in a quieter tone.

"Are you still in bed with him then?" I went on.

There was another period of silence, and then she answered.

"What if I am? You deserve it you bastard. It's all your fault."

"Good fuck was he then?" I asked spitefully.

"Better than you Dave," Jodie answered back nastily. "So eat your heart out Mr. Nobody."

The line cut as she replaced the phone, or more likely as it happened slammed it down.

If my marriage wasn't already dead, then maybe, just maybe that last comment finished it.

------------------------

The following morning, though not too early, found me in George's office discussing the new job. He was a bit surprised that I wasn't in Spain, but I avoided giving him a direct answer.

"Why didn't you mention it?" I demanded.

"I couldn't," he protested. "Not before he had met you properly and decided that you were the man."

"Thanks a lot," I went on. "Perhaps that has cost me my marriage."

I proceeded to tell him my tale of woe, but to my surprise he didn't express any great surprise.

"The husband is always the last one to know Dave," George at last managed to inform me.

"What's that meant to mean?"

"Nothing too specific Dave," he expanded. "But the last couple of company events, your wife Jodie has been ---- well let's say putting herself around."

"What the hell do you mean by that?" 

But he just shrugged his shoulders and I slowly came to my own conclusions.

God damn it! Who was this woman that I'd loved and been married to for all those years?

"Wait till you see Mai-Lin," George remarked with a smile on his face, trying to change the subject.

"May who?" I asked, not taking too much interest with the other problems I had.

"Mai-Lin, she's every men's wet dream."

"Wet dream?" I queried, totally lost. 

"She's your new secretary --- sorry, personal assistant," he delighted in informing me. "An Asian-American, I met her the other month when I was out there."

I just stared at him.

"Lucky bastard," he said wistfully. "You wait till you see her. You lose one you gain one."

------------------

The next few days passed in a bit of a haze, partly because of my marital problems, and also at the speed that my transfer was taking place. As keen as the one was to get me out there and working for him, then the other was also pushing, so that the license could be formalised. I felt as if my feet were hardly touching the floor.

Then Jodie rang again. I knew she would, and somehow I knew it would be mid morning.

"Hi lover," she greeted me. "Thought I'd ring you to let you know how wonderful it is here."

"I have something to tell you Jodie... " I started as before.

"Never mind that lover," she interrupted me yet again. "Are you ready to apologise yet for your attitude sweetie-pie."

"Look Jodie," I tried to say, ignoring her stupid comments. "I really have something to tell ..."

"Sorry lover," Jodie broke in, though I made no great effort to over ride her. "I still love you dearly, and when you're ready to say sorry, then we'll get on with our lives, but meanwhile I've got someone else to keep happy."

I simply put the phone down, though I'm not sure whether she beat me to it.

Jodie had sounded drunk. Not like pissed out of her mind drunk, but beyond trying to get anything sensible out of her. If she thought screwing the art teacher was more important than a chance of us having a future together, then that was her problem, not mine.

The week continued --- the most extraordinary week of my life. On the one hand the most exciting, and the other the saddest. Where would it end up?

The next call from Jodie was more of a surprise, coming in the early hours of the morning.

"Hello Dave," she mumbled. "I've been thinking. How did you know Terry was here with me?"

"I saw you together getting on the plane," I told her, trying to gather my sleep infected brain into shape, astonished that she should ring me at that hour to ask me such a question.

"You were there Dave -- you were really there?"

"Of course I was there Jodie," I told her my temper beginning to rise. "How the bloody hell do you think I knew that that creep Jones was with you?"

"Why didn't you stop us Dave? Why didn't you do something?"

"Do what," I said, nearly shouting down the phone. "I got there in time for the flight but you'd already taken the tickets and gone through with your bloody boyfriend, and they wouldn't let me through. I ended up getting arrested!"

"But I thought you weren't coming Dave. Terry gave me a lift to the airport, and in a fit of temper I asked him to come with me. Honestly, I didn't know you were there honey."

"And your damn friend Terry just happened by chance to have his luggage and passport with him did he?" I stung her with.

"Oh shit --- oh Dave I ...." But I put the phone down on her before she could continue.

I think she rang me several times more, but I either wasn't in, being far too busy making arrangements, or perhaps just didn't answer.

Eventually a few days later, I picked up.

"Hi, is that you Dave?" I heard.

"Yes Jodie, it's me," I replied. "What do you want?"

"You Dave, I want you. Terry has been such a bastard and I need you."

I mumbled something incoherent.

"I got back to my room last night, and he had some floozy in there with him," Jodie cried.

"Well how awful for you."

"Can you imagine that," she went on, missing the sarcasm in my remark. "How could someone do something like that Dave?"

"Difficult to imagine," I replied, trying not to laugh.

"To go off with someone else like that behind my back though," she mumbled, and I realised that she was a bit drunk yet again. "How could he?"

"No accounting for folk," I responded in the most sympathetic tone that I could muster.

"Dave, I'm coming home early. I can't stand it here anymore. I get back to Heathrow tomorrow at four o'clock. It was the only flight I could get --- can you pick me up?"

I started to say no, when it suddenly occurred to me that I could.

Of course I could.

"See you at four o'clock," I said curtly.

"Were you trying to tell me something the other day when I phoned Dave," she surprised me with. "Something about your job was it?"

"Oh nothing important Jodie," I told her. "I don't want to bother you with my work."

She'd find out anyway in due course.

--------------------------

I was ready for her by two thirty, and a bit pissed off when her plane landed twenty minutes late. When she came through the arrivals gate I was waiting there like a dutiful husband. I'm quite sure I even had a smile on my face.

"Hi Dave my sweetie, it's so great to see you," she called out as she saw me there, and dropping her case wrapped her arms around me and kissed me with all the vigour she could manage.

I have to say, she did look fantastic. A suntan always suited Jodie, and her blonde hair set it off. The thought that her breasts were probably also brown ran through my mind, and despite myself I felt myself rising to the occasion.

"Let's get home sweetie," Jodie whispered to me." I've missed you so much, and can't wait to get you into bed and make up with you."

All thoughts of an apology from me seemed to have gone by the board. She loved me again so it seemed.

"Let's have a coffee or a cup of tea first," I suggested.

"No let's get straight home," my wife urged.

"No a drink first," I insisted, and guided her to a café nearby.

---------------------

"Good holiday Jodie?" I enquired, having got a coffee for her and a tea for myself.

"Started ok," she replied quietly. "Sorry if I over reacted a bit."

"Terry not as good in the sack as you thought he would be then?"

Jodie looked up at me sadly, and a single tear rolled slowly down her cheek.

"Not really," she started to tell me. "Then I caught the bastard in bed with one of the maids. In my bed ---- in my room."

I neglected to point out that they had been sharing the room in question, and that in any case, strictly speaking, it had been our bed and our room. It was me who had paid for the damn holiday.

"Can you believe that Dave?" she went on. "We were supposed to be on holiday together and he went off and fucked someone else and left me on my own."

"That must have been difficult for you my dear," I sympathised. After all, I knew how she felt.

"Any way, bugger him. He'll get what he deserves. Can we go home now please Dave? I'm desperate to make it up to you."

I attempted to tell her that I had tried several times to inform her of my news, but that each time she had cut me off.

"That can wait Dave," she interrupted yet again. "Let's get home and you can tell me on the way."

I didn't have to think about it really. My mind was already long since made up.

"Here's the keys to the car Jodie," I told her, having come in her old car, my company car having gone back to Alscans the day before. "And here's the keys to the house. They're all yours."

"Ours' you mean Dave, don't you?"

"No just yours' Jodie, just yours'," I explained to her. "The titles have all been made over to you and the bills are all paid till the end of the month. If you decide to sell it, then there should just about be enough money left over to pay for another couple of weeks in Spain."

Jodie looked at me blankly, not understanding what I was telling her.

"And by the way, I noticed that one of your tyres is almost bald, and there's a funny noise coming from the gear box."

Jodie continued to look at me blankly.

"What I was trying to tell you Jodie," I went on. "Is that I've been offered a fantastic job in America. Great salary, superb benefits -- everything I've ever dreamed of."

A huge smile came to Jodie's face, as she took in the news. 

It saddened me somewhat.

"When do we go out there?" she asked enthusiastically, forgetting our conversation of a few moments earlier.

"I'm leaving on a BA flight in forty minutes Jodie," I told her.

"Have you got a ticket for me as well?" She asked excitedly.

"No" I replied.

"When will I follow you out then?" Jodie went on.

"You don't Jodie," I told her. "I'm sorry, but you don't."

Ten minutes later, I passed into the departure lounge on my own, leaving Jodie, crying her heart out at the counter, beyond which the authorities would not let her pass.

My last sight of ---- ever! ---- Was her tear stained face as she stood there watching me walk out of her life.

Ironically, it was a sense of 'deja-vue', except that the tables were turned completely. Only ten days or so before it had been me stood at the desk and barred from following the person that I had loved.

Different airport and different destination, but I'm sure the heartbreak was at least as bad.

-------------------

FORWARD NINE YEARS, THREE MONTHS AND SIX DAYS.

I was back at Heathrow, in the very same terminal that I had left from all those years before.

Not by any means the first time I had been back, but this time I had been there for two weeks, and was planning to stay much longer.

The licensing agreement with Butch's company in Huntingdon, USA, had been an unmitigated success, and I rose through the ranks to be the Coe of that division of his company, and the holder of a large block of shares. 

Butch had long since become a personal friend, and in yet another twist of fate, it had been through him that George had approached me to go back to the UK and take over as managing Director of Alscans. 

He was retiring, the company had grown hugely since I had left, much of it due to the relationship with us in America, who had been able to open their products to a much larger market. It made sense for everyone, and especially me, as along with the post I would eventually be acquiring a substantial chunk of that company as well.

I waited at the arrivals area for an old colleague from Butch's company who had helped me tremendously from the very beginning. Though no longer actually working there, it was a joy to know that they would be joining me in the UK.




American Dream



Even before I spotted her myself, I sensed her arrival, as virtually every man in the waiting crowd, perked up as they saw her and probably drew their tummies in.

Mai-Lin was as beautiful as the day when I first saw her, probably more, and her smile seemed to light up the entire terminal when she spotted me waiting for her.

Leaning over to her two travelling companions, she pointed me out to them, and they both rushed over towards me.

"Daddy --- Daddy --- I've missed you so much," cried out Maddy, our five-year-old daughter, as she leapt into my arms. She was a miniature version of her mother and had already left several broken hearted young boys behind when she had left to come and live in the UK.

"Hi Dad," greeted my eight year old son a little less spontaneously, but the smile on his face said it all. He was already tall for his age, and I couldn't wait to see how he made the change from the American style of football, to the European version, soccer.

Maybe one day he'd play for the Arsenal!

"First day of the rest of our life," greeted my lovely wife as she reached up to kiss me.

Indeed --- how true!

================

Hope you liked it.

Tried to take on board some of the constructive criticism from some of you after my last story, but only you can judge if I have succeeded. Please let me know what you think.

By the way;

Why did I choose Huntingdon County?

Well some twenty years or so ago, I, with a group of English Folk dancers (Morris dancers) spent two months touring the East coast of America giving displays at carnivals etc. 

We were looked after so incredibly well by everyone there, that I have had fond thoughts of America and Americans ever since.

The biggest event we did, was a week end in Huntingdon County, where they were celebrating their bi-centenery, and I remember I stayed with the local doctor.

What a great week-end.

If anyone remembers us then I was the guy dressed up in the Lion's suit, and my photo appeared on the front page of one of the local newspapers. Unfortunately lost my copy in a house fire several years ago.

Fond memories, and I met my wife the week end I got back.