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North

By: drsalt



The snow was getting deeper. I could barely see through the swirling clouds of crystals. My headlights were so attenuated by the blizzard that the road was invisible more often than not. For the tenth time in as many minutes I cursed myself for starting south so late. At best, I could only see about ten feet ahead. As a result I was only moving about twenty miles an hour – and that was reckless, but I needed to get to the lodge soon.

Normally, I head south as soon as I get laid off. This year, however, I had tarried at the request of friends who were wintering over in Alaska. We played and partied until after Halloween. They insisted the Moose Club's traditional dance and costume party was well worth it. It was fun. But it wasn't worth going through this shit. Nevertheless, here I was, driving through the Northern Canadian Rockies in a blizzard trying to stay alive until I reached the next roadhouse or motel.

I work on a fishing boat in the summers in Alaska. The country and the seas are beautiful and bountiful, the work's a good alternative to a normal life, or to working out (the job is physical enough to allow me to drop my winter fat gain in just a few weeks), and the pay is great. Five months of back-breaking work and long hours allow me to do pretty much what I want for the rest of the year as long as I save up enough of my wages during the season.

Staying through the winter is out of the question, though. I've managed to get an option on some land there and plan to build a little house when I can afford it. But paying Alaskan rent while I'm unemployed would wipe out everything I save all summer. So I became a "snowbird", packing all the stuff I'll need until spring in my truck to head south.

That's the downside of the whole thing -- getting back and forth. It's a long drive from there to anywhere decent for the winter, and, as interesting and exciting as the first few road trips are, it was getting old. This was my tenth trip down through the wilderness that is Northern British Columbia. It is my long-range plan to have homes at both ends and just fly back and forth. With a home and a vehicle at both ends it will be just a matter of packing my clothes and climbing on a plane. The trouble with that is primarily a financial one. A secondary problem is Rebel.

Oh, I could do it differently. A lot of people do. I could drive just far enough to get on the Alaska State Ferry system. I tried the ferry once and for me it was great, though more expensive even than flying. For Rebel it wasn't so good. He had to stay down on the car deck except when we were stopped in the various ports along the way. I guess I should introduce him before I go on.

Rebel is my four year old German Shepherd/Husky mix. I acquired him by accident during my second season up there. I had met a woman named Sherry who was in Alaska for the first time. We had reached the stage of talking about both of us becoming real "sourdoughs" by spending the winter in the North Country. With my unemployment and her wages from the restaurant we figured we could make it. She moved in with me and we split the rent on the house, though I was out fishing most of the time. Of course we had some great sex when I was home. 

A woman she worked with had a dog. It had puppies and Sherry fell in love with Rebel. I had to admit he was a cute little fuzz ball and he was smart, too. We became one big happy family. It was great – for a while. Then, somewhere around the middle of August, I came home from work one morning and found a note. Rebel watched me read it. He nuzzled my knee and helped me through the sadness. Sherry and I had only been together a few months, so the pain evaporated fairly quickly. Still, I was left with an empty bed and the obligation of Rebel. He's a good friend but he complicates things.

I'm thirty seven. My story isn't all that different from a lot of other guys. I tried college, but I was nineteen and I wanted to stretch my wings. As a result of my truncated education, I've worked at a handful of different jobs, some for years and others I couldn't get away from quick enough. I have spent a good deal of my adult life alone. So the loneliness of these trips back and forth wasn't really a hardship on me. It was kind of like taking my everyday life on the road. I have had two wives and two divorces.

After the second divorce I headed for Alaska. I dated some local women in my summers up there, but Sherry was the first one who didn't seem to have a problem with me being gone so much. After she left, I decided that a dog was all the long term company I needed. If I was the only one making the dishes dirty, it was easy for me to wash them. In the long run I guess losing Sherry was a kind of blessing in disguise, though the lack of sex was tough.

I've learned that a long road trip alone allows my mind to travel a lot of obscure trails. That's okay in nice weather. It isn't good, however, to let myself get distracted when the snow is whipping around the fenders. A couple of times I had already slid, once nearly into the ditch. While I was remembering Sherry and how Rebel came into my life, I almost missed a curve. I skidded and nearly lost control. My old high school driver's-ed class came through for me, though.

I slowed down even more after that. I knew that the little place I usually stayed at on this part of the road wasn't too much farther. It was an old place along the treacherous road that skirted Lake Muncho. There was a newer place just before I got to it, and I had stayed there once. But to me a hotel room -- especially on a 'point A to point B' trip -- is just a place to flop down and restore from the day's travel. The place I had found on my first trip down the highway was quaint and friendly. It was a café and gas station with a few rooms to rent.

What won me over, really, was the sign. It wasn't the sign on the pole by the road. It was the sign nailed to the side of the row of their five rooms. I arrived late that first time. I wasn't sure there was anybody around. A light shone from the main building's second story, and there were three lights burning over three of the rooms, so I was encouraged. When I pulled in, my headlights flashed across the sign that had another dim, bare bulb above it.

The sign said, "After 9PM, pick a cabin with a light on and see the manager in the morning". It rang my bell. I suppose they occasionally lose a night's revenue from people arriving late and leaving early, but I believe that most people -- up here, at least -- are basically honest. People in the North Country (capital N, capital C) have to depend on each other too much to make a habit of ripping others off. I found a room and crashed for the night.

I wasn't even sure that place was still open this late in the year. I knew the owner pulled his boat ("Fishing Trips! Fish Guaranteed!") out of the lake the last week of September. I passed the newer lodge and kept my fingers crossed as I rounded the next half dozen curves along the lake.

As I came around the last turn the glow of lambent light from the Double G filtered through the whipping snow. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was 'home'. At least I was home for the night, and I told Rebel. He thumped the door with his tail in his joy, but his chin never left my thigh.

I crunched through the icy rifts piled up around the parking area. Over the five doors, there were four lights still burning. As the sign said, the way their system worked, a lit bulb was the signal that the room was vacant. The only other vehicle there was a Jeep Cherokee. There wasn't much snow in its tracks, so I knew it was a fairly recent arrival, too.

I left Rebel in the truck and walked to the lighted door two down from the one that was dark. I tried the knob and the room proved to be empty as promised. I returned to the truck and brought my duffel and dog in. I brushed the snow from Rebel's paws and stomped my boots before removing them. The owners provided an oversized wiry coconut mat just inside the door for the purpose.

I knew already that there was no phone, no TV, and no coffee service. This place was rustic. It was my kind of place for this kind of trip. I fed Rebel and set down his water bowl. After that I just stripped down and crawled between the cold sheets, shivering. The thick blankets contained my body heat and my shivering stopped soon enough. I slept.

====================================

The next morning I scolded Rebel, but not too severely. I woke to find his doggy breath wafting over my neck. The dream evaporated -- it was about a leggy blonde who kept snuggling up to me. I pushed him off the bed and felt my nose. It was cool, but not frigid. I slipped out of the bed and hurried to turn on the shower. I stuck my cup under the hot water and stirred in a spoonful of instant coffee. I took it into the shower with me.

Fortunately, Rebel was on 'road trip mode'. He had become conditioned to wait until I was ready to take him out for his morning constitutional. At times, he became rather antsy with the waiting, but it usually worked out. He was sitting by the outside door when I came out of the bathroom. I dressed quickly and pulled my watch cap down on my damp hair. Before I opened the door I pulled the curtain on the small window back. It was still dark, but the snow and wind had stopped. The lights of the three unoccupied rooms reflected off the ice crystals that topped the snow that lay in a thick blanket over everything.

We went out. I let Rebel range on the end of the leash as I swept the snow from the windshield of the truck with my gloved hand. I opened the truck and started it, closing the door quickly after making sure the heat was on high. By the time the dog was done, the cab was still cool, but warm enough to let him in. He would just have to wait there until I repacked and had finished my business in the office/cafe. The sky was paling fast and I wanted to get a good start.

I paid for the room and used the pay phone to call my brother while my breakfast fried. I ate and enjoyed a cup of real coffee before gassing up and letting Rebel take another spin around the trees. As we were making that second run, I couldn't help but hear a battery being ground down to nothing. The Jeep Cherokee's driver's door hung open. I took Rebel back to the truck and got him, dusting the snow off his paws in as best I could, trusting that he'd stay on his own side.

Closing the door, I trudged through the seven or so inches of fresh snow to the door of the Jeep. Long black hair hid her face. "It isn't going to start. If you don't stop grinding it, you'll ruin the starter," I said.

I was surprised when the head whipped around and the beautiful lips spat out, "Well, the goddamn thing has to fucking start! I have to get to Fort-fucking-Nelson by tonight!" Even if I hadn't seen her, I could have told from her accent and the colorful adjectives that the speaker was no novice to the North. The women up here swear as well as the men do, sometimes even more picturesquely. More significantly, she had the bronzed complexion of a native.

"Well, it ain't gonna start right now," I said. She stopped grinding the starter and the silence was only broken by the purr of my truck's engine. She glanced toward it. Then she turned back to me. We assayed each other. I can't tell you what she saw, but what I saw was okay. I was sure now that she was a native, or at least part native, but her features were a blend. Her skin tone really wasn't too much darker than mine was after the months at sea.

She looked to be in her mid to late twenties. As I said, her long black hair hung free. She wore a thick parka with a fur ruff around the hood. Her jeans were faded and her pacs were unlaced halfway -- usually a sure sign you're looking at a Canadian, or at least a person who has spent a fair amount of time up north. Boots need to be removed when you go inside and lacing them and unlacing them is too much trouble. Facially, she was very attractive. At least she had the potential. Just at that moment her anger and disappointment with her vehicle made her features pretty rough. The thought drifted through my mind that I was really glad her anger was not directed at me.

She stood up and I backed off. Without another word she stomped off toward the café. I could have just gotten into my truck and driven off. Like I said, though, people up here help each other. I didn't know anything about her. She could be anybody or nobody. She said she had to get to Fort Nelson today. I mean Fort "fucking" Nelson. After a few seconds I followed her. Rebel barked just once to warn me that he was ready to go. I ignored him.

When I reached the office, I heard her yelling at the owner. "I can't wait for parts! I already told you I have to be in Fort Nelson today!"

"Well, Miss, I don't know that you'll need parts, eh? I only said that if I had to order them..." She cut him off.

"What can I do then? Will you please go and see what my problem is?" She seemed to be getting herself in hand. Her voice had dropped several decibels. I guessed she was resigned to the situation.

"Yes, Ma'am," the short bald man told her. I marveled at his patience. But then, he was seeing the same features I had. I could have been on the road and miles away by then. I wasn't.

We all traipsed back out to the Jeep after the man got into his outdoor gear. We cleared most of the snow from the roof and windows. She and I pushed and the little man steered as we pushed the Jeep toward the open door of his garage. About halfway there, she turned her head to me. She seemed surprised I was still there, but she didn't say anything.

Once we got it inside, he pushed a button and the door rumbled closed. A large heater hung on cables and pipes running from the ceiling, into it, and out through the wall. It roared to life and began to drive the cold back. The man hooked up a booster/charger to the battery and a hose to the exhaust. The hose ran across the floor and disappeared through the outside wall. He told the woman to try the starter. It only took a few seconds for him to determine that her starter was shot. "Maybe the alternator, as well," he added.

She slumped against the door of her car. Her long hair hung down, shielding her face. I glanced at the man and he looked back at me. He shrugged. It was too bad, it said, but he wasn't going anywhere. And neither was she – at least that day. I cleared my throat.

She raised her face to look at me. I had expected tears, but her cheeks were dry and flushed an attractive shade of bronze. Her anger had receded, but it was still there. There was sadness, too, and something else. "I'm heading south," I said simply. "I don't know what your situation is, but I can get you to Fort Nelson."

She stood up straight. It's a great thing to know that something you have done has put hope back into a disappointed heart. She seemed to buoy up; as if her car troubles had deflated her and my announcement had puffed some fresh air into the tires. "I'm just passing through, but I can get you there. Getting back here to get your rig is up to you," I added. (I have friends down south -- that's south of Alaska and British Columbia -- in the continental U.S. -- who tell me it is an anomaly to call vehicles "rigs", as if they were horse-drawn wagons. In the north, that's what they're called, so I'm sorry.)

She gave the man all her information while I trudged back to the truck and pulled it around to the door. I shed my own parka since the cab was nice and toasty by then (Rebel was panting). I turned the heat down. She came out and felt the heat when she opened the door. Quickly shrugging out of her coat, she poked Rebel's butt to move him into the back (my truck has an extended cab -- one of the reasons I bought it was to take these trips with the dog) and jumped up into the passenger seat. She slammed the door and held out her hand.

"I'm Marjorie Johns," she said. The surname is a common one in the north. "I live in Watson Lake." If you don't know, the town next to the lake has its name. She didn't actually live in a lake.

"Don Billings," I said and shook her hand. Hers was cool and narrow, but strong and calloused. Obviously she was used to working. We pulled out onto the road. Along the edge of Lake Muncho, there are no guard rails. I could only tell where the road was by the way the snow broke off suddenly to my right at the shore of the lake. The left side was thickly covered with trees at those spots where the rock face fell back enough. The road was the only unnatural surface in sight. It was flat and currently covered with a thick blanket of snow. I expected to come up on a plow at some point. The Canadian road crews were always working somewhere along the Alaska Highway, no matter the weather.

We drove a while in silence. After about ten miles (about fifteen minutes at the required speed) she turned to me. She asked about me. I told her as much as I wanted her to know. It was a new experience having company for this trip, so I probably let my mouth run a little more than I should have. When I stopped, she looked like she was going to ask something else, but I beat her to it. "What about you?" I asked. "What's so important about getting to Fort Nelson today?"

At first I thought she wasn't going to answer. Her mild expression turned stormy and she flashed me with an angry glance. Then her face softened. "I'm sorry. It's just that this trip is so fucking stupid. I shouldn't have to be here at all." I thought that was all I was going to get, but she went on a few seconds later.

"My damn boyfriend has gotten himself into trouble," she began. As the story came out, I learned more than I wanted to know about the Canadian justice system. Her guy had gone with a friend to help him remove some possessions from the house the friend had shared with his already ex-wife. Well, the split wasn't as clear cut as the friend had led them to believe. The ex-wife called the cops. The end result was that Marjorie's boyfriend and his buddy were in the custody of the Mounties in Fort Nelson, charged with burglary. They were both waiting for her to bail them out. Another kink in the tale was that if the boyfriend didn't get back to Watson Lake in a timely manner, he would lose his job.

"I can't thank you enough for helping me," she said. I looked at her. She was looking back. Her anger had, at least for that moment, disappeared. She smiled and it was as if the interior of the truck had lit up. I felt my face flush and saw how truly beautiful she was. I just shrugged an 'aw, shucks, ma'am' and said that I was making the trip anyway and the company was welcome. I turned my eyes back to the road and looked around us as the day brightened. The sky was still overcast but it was broken a bit. The snow reflected the gray light. Through those stretches where we left the lakeside, everything was a fairyland of white, nearly unbroken snow. There were animal tracks here and there, leading to and from the lake. There were a few places where the water was still open and they could drink. When the overcast started to break up more, the sun peeking over the tops of the mountains, things got uncomfortable for my eyes. I pulled my sunglasses from the visor and put them on. She dug in her parka and put hers on.

"I make the trip every fall and back north every spring," I told her. "I'm usually alone, so it's kind of nice to have company, especially when the company is so attractive." It was her turn to hide her blush, hiding it by turning her face to look out the window. I don't know if it was my compliment or just her own way of doing things, but Marjorie began talking again. A half hour later I knew all there was to know about her disastrous relationship. Her boyfriend seemed to be a real dick. I always wonder why these women hook up with this kind of guy.


North



We drove through the impossibly beautiful landscape and she talked. "Joe is a real handful. We got married just after I got out of high school in Whitehorse. I was pregnant but I lost the baby. We got divorced, but got back together. I refused to marry him again." It was a few minutes before she continued. "We didn't have any more kids. Anyway, we moved around. He is a driver and heavy equipment operator. I asked him if we could go south -- to Vancouver or somewhere. He loves the North, though. I was born up here, so I guess it's okay. But it's also a trap. I learned that a long time ago. My dad died when he didn't make it home from a party one night in the winter. He slipped and hit his head. By the time they found him, he'd frozen.

"Joe could be my father." She glanced at me and then hurried on. "I mean, he's so much like him. He drinks more than he should and he stays out all night some nights. His boss has warned him already. He's a great guy, but he has some bad habits. One of his bad habits is letting his love for his friends outweigh his obligation to me. That's why this whole thing pisses me off so fucking bad. I told him if he loses this job, I'm history." I really didn't have anything to say about all that, so I said it. She fell silent for a while. When I glanced over at her I saw that she was asleep. At least her eyes were closed, so I drove on in silence.

The trees glowed in the bright morning sun. There was no track from earlier traffic. The snowplows hadn't been there yet, so we just broke trail, four-wheel-drive all the way and following the flat break between the tall snow-shrouded pines and aspens that flanked the road and the flat expanse of the lake on the other side.

I came around a turn and had to stop myself from slamming on the brakes. A short way beyond the curve a mound of dirty looking snow and ice blocked the road. It was at least three times the height of my cab. Two R.C.M.P. cars -- SUV's, of course -- were pulled up on the shoulder on the opposite side, about a hundred yards away. Mounties in orange parkas and gloves were waving as we came around the trees.

I had wondered why we'd seen no opposing traffic. Here was my answer. Apparently, from what the Mounties said, the slide had come down about dawn. As I sat with the frigid morning air rolling through the window, they gave me the disappointing news that we'd have to turn back. Marjorie made no sound at all. Just as the Mountie was trying to decide the best way for us to turn around, a clanking behemoth approached from our rear. It was a heavy duty snowplow truck with chains on, and pulling a trailer with a backloader on it. The driver unhitched the trailer before wheeling smartly around us in the truck. The Mountie backed off as the truck began pushing the snow, its blade biting into the bush alongside the road.

The driver obviously knew his job because after shoving that load aside, he backed off and cut into the edge of the mounded snow that was blocking us, shoving it toward the lake. His efforts soon bared a wide shelf of solid ground off the left side. Once it was clear he backed past us and a good ways behind us and waited. With the Mountie's help, I turned the truck and we returned the way we had just come.

After we were away from the roadblock, Marjorie made a small sound. I glanced at her, but she had her head turned away from me. After a few seconds I could hear that she was crying. My heart hurt for her. She had given her boyfriend/ex-husband an ultimatum and he would not now be able to meet it. I looked down at her hand resting on the seat beside her. I reached for it. When we made contact, she stiffened for an instant, and then relaxed. She let me take her limp hand. I gave her an encouraging squeeze. She didn't return it. I put my hand back on the wheel.

========================

When we got back to the lodge, she spent a half hour on the phone in the cafe. Rebel and I returned to our room -- they hadn't yet made any of the rooms up, so the guy said we'd get discounts before he stuck his head back under Marjorie's hood. Since I didn't know how long I'd be there, I took my laptop in with me along with my duffel and my dog, on the second trip I brought in Rebel's dishes, his food, and the cooler.

I was just waiting for the computer to boot up when there was a knock at the door. Without rising I called out, "Come in." I knew it had to be either her or the owner. There was nobody else there who would be calling on me. She entered and kicked off her boots on the mat. "Have a seat," I told her. I was sitting on the only chair in the room at the table where I'd set up my computer. She looked around and sat on the edge of the bed. I punched a few keys to bring up the program I wanted and turned around.

"So what will you do now?" I asked her. "Did you make any progress on the phone?" I had already figured out who she would call – Joe's boss and the Mounties. Maybe they'd let poor old Joe out on his own recognizance. Still, he wouldn't be able to get back to Watson Lake until the slide was cleared.

She looked at me. "You're a really nice guy, Don," she said. "You didn't have to do any of this. You offered me a ride and now you act like you care about what happens."

I turned to look at her. "I do, Marjorie," I told her. "We're stranded here together, so we might as well be friends. Your problems are the problems of a friend. At the very least, it's like a story that I haven't finished reading yet. I want to know what is going to happen." That made her smile.

I stood up and went to the large cooler I have learned to carry on these trips. Sometimes the outposts of civilization can be pretty far apart. I had some sodas and some beer in there, along with most of a bottle of vodka and some substantial snacks for the road. I'd drained it and iced it all down again before leaving Watson Lake the day before. The cooler had kept everything from freezing solid. It acted paradoxically like a heater. If it all had just been in the back of the truck the cans would have frozen and burst by then. Marjorie opted for a cup of instant coffee so I settled for a soda. Under other circumstances I'd have cracked a beer, knowing that I wouldn't be going anywhere at least for the rest of the day, in spite of the fact that it was still shy of noon. The way she seemed to feel about drinking I didn't want her to think I was like Joe.

"Joe's boss said he'd give us two more days. After that he said Joe was toast. He's an asshole. But there are plenty of other operators up here. Then I talked to the Mounties in Fort Nelson. They told me that they had released Joe this morning. His buddy's wife had come in and dropped the charges. Those two are all kissy-face now and making up. This whole abortion of a trip turned out to be unnecessary for me. Still, I'm stuck out here. The Mounties told Joe about the slides -- there are several others between here and Fort Nelson, by the way." She was pissed off and I didn't blame her.

"Did you talk to Joe at all?" I asked her. She flashed me a quick glance and returned her gaze to her lap. I wondered how much of her life was spent hiding behind her hair.

"I called his friend's house. They're all shit-faced already and he just laughed when I told him where I was and what was going on. The asshole just told me he'd be there with bells on when I finally got there." She swiped her hand across her eyes and I knew she was so angry that she was leaking tears. "So I just told him he could stick those bells up his ass. I told him that when the Jeep was fixed I was going back to Watson and packing my bags."

"What did he say to that?" I asked.

"He just laughed and said he'd see me when he got home then." She tipped her coffee back and finished it. She turned to the cooler and opened the top. Rummaging around, she examined the contents. I watched her hand hover over a can of Budweiser ("piss-water", as the Canadians call it) and then seize the neck of the vodka bottle. She pulled it from its ice cradle and looked at the label.

She turned toward me and raised her eyebrows. I shrugged. She smiled. "Oh, wait," she said. She replaced the bottle in the ice and, without another word, closed the cooler and slipped her feet into her boots, her arms into the sleeves of her parka, and she was out the door. I looked at Rebel, but he didn't have any comment other than a wag of his tail. He was a lot more comfortable lying next to the heater than he'd been in the back seat of the truck. It was all good for him. I love dogs.

I haven't mentioned it yet, but I'm kind of an electronics junkie. My laptop has all the bells and whistles, but falls short of wireless internet. It does have a few things I've added. While Marjorie was gone I put my own boots on and went to retrieve a couple of things from the truck. There was no sign of her when I went out.

Back inside I plugged things in and connected cables. By the time she came back -- simply opening the door and walking in without the formality of knocking -- I had hooked up the game system to the computer. Computer games are great, but for the most part they only allow for one player if you're not online and playing over the internet. That way is fine. I've played Hearts and Backgammon with people from all over the world while we chatted in real time. If two people in the same room want to play a game, however, the dedicated game consoles are better. Since there was no TV, I had hooked up the console to my computer display.

Marjorie brought back a plastic pitcher of orange juice. ("The woman in the restaurant just gave it to me.") From the bathroom she brought two plastic cups and proceeded to mix us both screwdrivers. She set mine on the table and watched as I keyed in the final commands to slot the computer's attention and control of the monitor to the console. I turned sideways in the chair and we clicked (not "clinked", since they were plastic) our drinks together. She took a long pull from her drink. I sipped mine. She had mixed them strong.

"I got the impression that you might not be a drinker," I said hesitantly. I didn't want to spoil her obvious party mood, but I needed to know.

"Well, when it interferes with things, or if it is so big a part of your life that it takes control, I am. But we're not going anywhere. I just kicked myself free from a bad relationship. I'm having a freedom celebration. You're invited. Of course, if you're not interested..." she said, reaching for my cup, but I pulled it out of her reach. She laughed and it was a wonderful sound. I looked at her eyes and saw possibilities there.

We watched each other take another drink. As I felt the sweet/tart liquid on my tongue I saw something in her eyes. We tipped the cups and, we simultaneously drained our glasses. She held out her hand. "Whoa," I protested. "I have to take it a little easy. You go ahead and have another one if you want, but I'm going to wait a few." I didn't want to get drunk and pass out for the day -- at least not that early.

"Party pooper," she said and mixed herself another drink.

Finally I had the game booted up. I explained the rules and what she was supposed to try to do and we started playing. I had moved everything to the floor and we were sitting side by side, our backs against the bed, with the joysticks in hand. She finished her second drink and I let her mix one for me when she mixed her third one. We played a few minutes and drank. The vodka was taking effect for me. From her laugh and exuberance, I could tell it was affecting Marjorie too.

"This fucking floor is too hard!" she said when we paused the game. I looked and gauged the distance from the outlet. I rose up and, with Marjorie's help, moved the whole setup to the bed. She settled in, wriggling from attractive cheek to cheek to get comfortable. She pulled her hair back and pulled a rubber band from her pocket to contain it. We both piled up pillows against the headboard and got ready to do battle again.

After I won three games in a row (and after two more drinks), Marjorie tossed the joystick to the mattress. "Well, fuck! I guess you're just too good for me," she said.

"I've had practice," I answered, though I really thought it was the vodka that made her response time slower. "We could play something else," I offered.

"Let's play 'rub Marjie's back'," she said and she rolled over onto her belly, pulling a pillow under her head. I looked down at her. I looked at my watch. It was nearly 1PM. I had been thinking about lunch. At any rate, I rose up and returned all the electronics to the table. When I went back to the bed, I knelt on the bed beside Marjorie and got ready to rub her back. Just before I put my hands on her, though, I heard a snort. It turned into a snore.

I sat on the chair and watched Marjorie sleep a while. When she rolled to her back I watched her face. In her sleep she looked a lot younger than the twenty four she claimed. When her brow wrinkled and she emitted a whimper -- almost a cry -- she looked no more than thirteen.

In order for you to understand how I felt right then, I have to remind you that I am almost forty, twice divorced, and without the stricture of a year-round job. Yesterday I was headed for Arizona. Today I find myself in a motel room alone with a sexy twenty-four year old woman who is in the process of escaping a doomed relationship. A lot of thoughts passed through my mind as I watched Marjorie sleep.

Finally, though my stomach called for attention, I didn't want to just go and leave Marjorie sleeping. I munched a few strips of beef jerky from the cooler and finished my drink. Then I simply went to the bed and lay down next to her. I pulled the spare blanket over us both and took her hand. I was drifting into the never-land between wakefulness and sleep when she turned slightly and snuggled up against me. My arm went around her and I drifted off into the most restful sleep I'd enjoyed in months.

"Don!" I struggled against the disturbing hand on my shoulder. I wanted it to go away and let me sleep but it was too insistent. The short winter day outside had lost its glow. It was barely still daylight. I looked at my watch and saw that we'd been sleeping for three hours. I looked up at the sleep stained face above me. Even freshly wakened she was beautiful. My arm went to her shoulders without my conscious volition. She allowed it and let me pull her back down beside me. It felt great.

"I'm hungry," she said quietly. The statement reminded my own stomach that it had been most of a day since it had been fed. I sighed and she laughed. She pushed herself up with a hand on my chest. The gesture felt like we'd been sleeping together for longer than one afternoon. She slipped off the bed and went to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

I rose to sit on the side of the bed. I rubbed my face, trying to regain some sort of composure. I heard the toilet flush and stood up. When Marjorie emerged I passed her and closed the door behind me. I peed, washed my hands and then used some of the warm water to sluice the vestiges of sleep from my face and the vodka fog from my head. I slurped up a mouthful of water and swished it around. I spat into the sink and looked at my reflection in the mirror. I recognized the face that looked back. That was a good sign. There have been vodka-fogged mornings that my reflection almost looked like a stranger. I hadn't really had that much to drink, but the lack of food had magnified the effect of what I'd had.

When I left the bathroom, Rebel was wagging his tail furiously as Marjorie scratched his ears and neck. She cooed some words to him that sounded like Tlingit to me as she scratched. His brown eyes rotated toward me and seemed to apologize for this temporary infidelity. He snorted and sneezed when she stopped. He ran to the door and I knew he had to pee too. I told Marjorie to go ahead to the restaurant and order us a dinner.

I let Rebel pee on several trees until I decided he was just leaving a small sprinkle for his "mark". I forced him back into the room and dusted the snow from his paws. Then I went across to the café.

As I shed my coat and took my seat, the owner's wife brought our plates. Marjorie had ordered us steaks and fried potatoes. "I figured you, being a man, would find this to your taste," she said. I did, but I decided to be cute.

"I was hoping for a nice veggie quiche, but this will do," I joked. She laughed and her hand came across the table to squeeze mine. Suddenly I felt like I was getting into something. It felt good. It felt exciting, but I wasn't sure where -- or how far -- I wanted it to go.

While we were eating the door opened and the same Mountie that had turned us back at the slide entered, stomping the snow from his boots. "Hey, Gord!" he called out to the owner.

"So how's the slide, Brian?" the owner responded.

"We got it clear, eh? Word from up the road is they almost got the others clear as well. But I need coffee. My thermos ran out about noon." While Gord got a cup of hot coffee for Brian I looked at Marjorie. She was concentrating on the rest of her steak and didn't look up. I knew that I could probably leave now, but that would have left her here alone and just waiting for her Jeep to be repaired.

We finished eating and I paid for both of us. A short talk with the Mountie confirmed that the road would be clear to Fort Nelson probably by 7:00 -- at least clear for now. He cautioned that more snow was in the forecast. Marjie had gone outside while I was at the register. She'd paid for our dinners in advance. I pulled on my coat and went out into the dark afternoon. She was just rounding the corner of the building that held the rooms.

By the time I got to my door there was no sign of her. I entered and was only a little surprised to see that she was again reclining on the bed. "So what do you think? Are you going to hit the road?" She asked me. "I don't have enough money to stay here as long as it's going to take for parts to get here. The Jeep belongs to Joe anyways. I had planned to be home by now. But I don't really want to go back to Watson either. There isn't much there -- just some clothes and stuff. I have a cousin in Quesnel. If I can hitch a ride with you that far, Joe can send my clothes."

"If you're short of cash you shouldn't have paid for dinner," I told her." She just waved my objection away.

"The Mountie said more snow is on the way. I almost killed myself last night driving through the blizzard. I'd really rather wait until it's light." She sat up and crossed to start putting on her boots. I frowned at that. She saw my puzzlement.

"I have to go ask Gord if he'll front me for the room using the Jeep as security. I only have about a hundred bucks. It's enough for a room, but that's all I have to my name."

"Listen, the rooms here aren't that much. I'll pay for your room. You can send me the money when you get work. Then you're certainly welcome to ride along to Quesnel."

"Thanks for the ride, but I can't let you pay for my room. You already put yourself out for me too much," she seemed close to tears. Our short party had been fun, but reality had dropped back on top of her.

"Okay, then stay in here. Rebel and I have to keep the room anyway and it won't cost me any more. Besides, it was warmer sleeping next to you than alone." She looked at me. I wasn't exactly propositioning her, but the situation opened the possibility. She looked away and Rebel nuzzled his snout into her hanging hand. She let out a small laugh and scratched his nose. "Hey," I added, "No strings. This isn't a proposition." She studied my face a few seconds before replying.

"All right," she said. "I have to go anyway and tell Gord about the change." She put on the other boot and slipped into her parka. She opened the door and went out. I slipped into my boots and put my coat on. I snapped Rebel's leash onto his collar. We went out and he revisited his spots from earlier, making sure no other dogs had dropped by.




North



Marjie came back while we were still out. She didn't say anything, but just went to the truck. I got Rebel back into the room and was just turning on the computer when she came in carrying a small backpack.

"I didn't bring much in the way of extra clothes," she said, dropping the pack near the door. "I was going to be home by now."

"Well, it's not like you got those dirty today," I pointed out.

"Yeah, but I've been in them for two days. I feel dirty."

"You can jump in the shower if you want. I don't think my jeans will fit you but you can borrow one of my shirts and some sweats if you want." I opened my duffel bag and pulled out a long-tailed flannel shirt for her. She held it up against her and looked down. The tails fell to about mid-thigh on her. 

"Forget the sweats. This will do just fine," she said. She grinned at me and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

I played on the computer while she showered. My thoughts were jumbled. I didn't know if we were going to do anything but sleep, but ripe fantasies bloomed in my thoughts. Hey, I'm a man. I'm a man who had been without female company for quite a while by then. I couldn't have helped the fantasies running through my mind, even if I'd wanted to. I didn't want to -- even knowing in my heart that they were probably doomed to remain dreams. The sound of the shower stopped and I heard her moving around. I tried to imagine her naked. I was successful enough to cause an erection to begin to twitch.

She came out wearing my shirt. Her bare legs and feet showed below. "I rinsed out my shirt and panties. If you're going to shower just hang them up again when you're done." I smiled. She was talking as if we were a couple now. She hadn't said, "Hang them up please" or, "if you don't mind". It was just a direction really. I didn't comment.

The thought of her near nudity and the sight of her in my shirt was nice. She turned back the blankets and slipped her legs under them, leaning back on the pillows the way we'd done that morning. I got the computer set up for her to play some games if she wanted, grabbed a pair of boxers out of the duffel, and went to shower.

The bathroom was still steamy from her shower. The aroma of shampoo and soap filled the air. It was a welcome change from the cold I'd been in all day. I peeled off my clothes and turned on the shower. Her panties were draped over the rail at the top of the glass doors. There was no bra. Reaching up, I pulled her undies down. I held the small garment up and couldn't resist bringing it to my nose. I thought I could detect a trace of her scent, but it was probably just wishful thinking. I set them next to the sink and stepped into the shower.

I was rinsing the soap from my back when the door opened and she knocked (a bit late, I thought, but...). "Can I pee while you're in there?" she called.

"Sure, just don't flush. I'm not sure if it will affect the shower." I felt more and more like we'd become a couple. My last wife couldn't pee if I was in the bathroom, or even if the door was open when she was alone. I watched through the pebbled glass at the blurred image as she sat on the toilet. A few seconds later I heard her stream hitting the water. My erection reawakened.

I'm not a fan of "water sports", but it is an intimacy to urinate in the presence of a member of the opposite sex. I started to stroke myself and then the thought hit me: If I could see her, she could probably see me, even if the view was distorted. I looked at her head and it was turned toward the shower. I stepped back a little and turned away a bit, just in case.

She pulled some tissue from the roll hanging beside her and I watched her hand go down between her legs. My back was half turned toward the glass so I just continued to stroke my hardness. I didn't intend to get myself off, in case my fantasy came true. I wanted to be able to perform if she opened the door to letting me between her legs. She rose to her feet and left the room without any comment.

I finished washing and turned off the water. As I dried the image of her pissing remained in my mind. 'Never mind, Don,' I tried to tell myself. 'She's going to be out of your life in a couple of days.' Still, I filed the thoughts away for my lonely future. On the heels of those thoughts came the realization that we'd have at least one more night to spend together. I held the fantasies at bay since I was about to leave the bathroom in a little while. It wouldn't be good to let my penis lead the way.

I've never been one who wanted or needed family to convince me I'm alive. I live every day and that's that. Still, companionship is good. That was what got me into my marriages. I guess at heart I'm a romantic, even if I have never really behaved romantically. The possibilities of spiriting Marjorie away with me to Arizona for the winter drifted through my mind. I enjoyed the idea a while as I shaved.

Suddenly I came to. I was shaving! Usually on these trips my razor never leaves the kit. Now I was shaving -- and before going to bed, rather than in the morning. I had to laugh at my reflection in the steamy mirror. The fantasy had a firm hold on my subconscious. I passed it off as just being prepared, in case anything might happen.

I finished up and slipped on the boxers. When I opened the door I heard the 'beep-beep' of the computer game I'd booted up for her. Then I heard her swear at the same time I heard the noise indicating a 'death' of the little man in the game. I had to smile. She tipped her glass, finishing another drink.

I thought I saw something in her eyes as she looked at me. I knew it was something I hoped and wanted to see, but pushed it away and looked away. Rebel had stuck his nose into my tipped over boot. He was sound asleep and dreaming of chasing rabbits or something. His leg vibrated slightly on the floor.

Marjorie slid over to the far side of the bed -- taking the laptop along -- to allow me room to join her. As I slid under the blankets I felt the heat she'd left behind. Another intimacy, I thought: sharing body heat.

I yawned. "Want me to turn this off?" she asked.

"Not necessary," I replied. "Knock yourself out. I'm just beat. I don't know why, since we didn't do anything except get drunk today."

"Well, there you go," she said. "That takes it out of you. All you can do is go to sleep or start drinking again." She raised her cup to illustrate her point. In spite of my reassurances, when she finished the game she yawned and asked me to turn the computer off. I did and set it on the floor next to the bed. We still hadn't discussed sleeping arrangements. I opened my mouth to open the subject for discussion.

She beat me to it, however. "Don, I know we just met and all that but we've been together a few hours. Normally, I would never share a room with a guy I didn't know. Still, we did okay this afternoon, so I think we can be adult enough to just sleep." There was only the one bed and nothing so luxurious as a couch.

The puzzled look on my face must have tipped her off. "Okay. So, that was all you had in mind anyway. Sorry I jumped to conclusions." She rolled away from my side of the bed. I thought she maybe sounded a little disappointed.

When she reached for the bedside lamp the shirt she wore gapped open and I got a clear sight of her naked breast. Her nipple was a chocolate brown that made my mouth water. Then the light went out and the sight was gone. I had left the light on in the bathroom with the door almost closed. It's a habit I'd adopted whenever I was in motels, so I didn't slam into walls in the middle of the night. I pulled the blankets up to my chin.

It was by that dim light that I saw her glance over her shoulder at me briefly before she rolled back over. I put my arm over her shoulder and she moved back against me. She turned over and nestled her head on my shoulder the same way she'd done that afternoon. Her warm breath caressed the fur of my chest. Lying there like that sleep was suddenly miles away. I was very conscious of the 'twenty-something', nearly naked woman lying next to me.

A few minutes later she whispered, "Don? Are you awake?"

"Yes," I answered, not nearly as quietly.

"Um...well, I can't really relax, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. This afternoon we had a few drinks and the fact that there was a beautiful woman lying next to me meant very little. Now here we are. We're both nearly naked and it feels really good to have you under my arm. I know."

"Do you want me to move?"

"No fucking way!" She chuckled and snuggled closer, though she was already against me. Her legs were warm against mine.

"It feels good to me, too," she said. She raised her face to mine. I planted a kiss on the tip of her nose. She smiled. "I was thinking..." I wasn't going to let her go on.

"No, you were right. Let's just go to sleep, Marjie. Things are too weird. I know most guys would jump at the chance, but I'm not most guys. You're beautiful and sexy and I'd love nothing more than to make love to you. But we aren't going to do that. I offered you shelter. There's no price tag on it."

"I didn't think there was. Still, I wouldn't mind if you wanted to do something."

"I do," I told her. "But we aren't going to. I don't just stick my dick into anybody who comes along. I think you deserve better than that anyway." She was so quiet for so long I thought I'd insulted her. I was trying to compose something to ameliorate that when I realized that she was crying.

"Marjie? What's wrong?" I asked her. She just reached across me and clamped her arms around my neck so tight I had some difficulty breathing.

"Oh, God, I feel so stupid crying like this," she gasped. "It's just that nobody's ever treated me like this! It's so...so much like a story or a dream or something!"

I patted her back and felt her tears on my neck and generally tried to deal with the discomfort. I hated this kind of thing. I felt great because I knew I'd hit a nerve, or a feeling, or something. I knew I had acted the right way. There was no doubt in my mind that she'd been ready to submit if I had wanted to just fuck her. The fact that I had displayed concern for her made a big difference to her. She sobbed on my chest a long time.

She finally began to sniffle and try to get herself back together. I untangled myself and went to the bathroom for some tissue. She honked her nose into it in a very unladylike manner. When she looked up to see me smiling she laughed.

"Really sexy and attractive, eh?" she said.

"Yes," I said. She did a double-take and realized I meant it. Well, she understood I meant it was okay. I guess it only made her feel closer to me.

When she looked around for someplace to get rid of the snot filled toilet paper I just held out my hand. She wore a surprised expression as I took it and deposited it in the trash for her. "Jesus," she said in a low voice. "You're a knight in fucking shining armor!"

"What?" I asked, "just because I threw your snot-rag away? Besides, I may be a knight, but I'm a knight in a pair of boxers."

"No. Because I just offered myself to you and you didn't take it because you said it wasn't right."

"Well, as long as you don't think it wasn't because I'm not attracted to you. I am -- very much." I was tempted to grab her hand and press it to my semi-hard erection as proof, but knew that would destroy all the credit I'd earned. "I am. It's just that the time and the timing are wrong. Now can we just go to sleep?"

She nodded her head and sniffled a bit more. A few minutes later, as I was slipping down that long slide into sleep, I felt her lips on my shoulder and felt her breath when she said in the faintest of whispers, "Thank you, Don." Then she relaxed and her breathing leveled off.

When I'd been younger, I would never have let the opportunity pass. I had found, however, that as I got older I needed more than a woman willing to spread her legs when it came to sex. I needed to care for the woman. I cared for Marjorie, but there was no bond there -- not yet anyway. I finally was able to let sleep take me.

I opened my eyes. The light was no brighter than it had been when I closed my eyes. My brain told me I was awake, though. I picked up my watch from the bedside table and pushed the light button. It told me it was 5AM. I looked at the sleeping woman next to me. I replayed everything we'd done and said the day before. I had no idea whether we'd ever see each other after Quesnel.

I pushed a strand of hair out of her eye and looked some more. With her eyes closed I could look as much as I wanted. She really was beautiful. Her eyes never opened, but as I gazed at her those violin lips curved into another beautiful smile. "Are you just going to stare at me all day, or are you going to kiss me?" I had to laugh.

I leaned toward her and kissed her lightly on the lips. She wrapped her arm around my neck and prevented my escape. Her lips opened and I gladly let my tongue find its own way.

A few -- or a lot -- of seconds later we broke the kiss. She opened her eyes and looked at me with no amusement in her eyes. If I had to describe her expression, I'd have to say she looked hungry. She rolled on top of me and kissed me again. She reached down and unbuttoned the shirt she wore. She stripped it off her and I felt her flesh against mine. She leaned down and her tits smashed against my chest. When she started struggling with my boxers, I helped her. The random thought passed through my brain that sleeping a whole night together must have established that bond I thought I needed. Her legs fell to either side of me and I felt her wetness.

We made love. It began as simple, horny sex, but ended as making love. Once I felt her heat enveloping me, I slowed down and all I knew about her bubbled over my lust. She'd had little enough love in her life up until then. It was high time she had some. I had a lot to give and nobody else to give it to right then. I know I had only known her a day. I know there was a lot about her I didn't know. I knew, as well that these two days -- and nights -- might be the only time we had together, too, so I tried to make it as memorable as I could for both of us.

She achieved orgasm on top of me. When she calmed down I rolled us over. I dragged her legs up and over my shoulders and she gasped. While I pounded into her I stopped thinking. I simply felt what our bodies were doing to and with each other. For her part, her breathing quickened and overflowed. She climaxed three more times. Each time her expression was so erotic that it drove me to further heights and I was able to postpone my own orgasm until her fourth orgasm was subsiding. The last time she scared me because her eyes rolled back until they were simple egg-white blanks. It wasn't until I exploded that she seemed to come back to herself.

I slipped out of her and wrapped her in my arms, feeling pretty proud of myself. Along with a new perspective on who to take to bed, getting a bit older had also given me a bit more control over my response. I had learned to hold my climaxes back for a long time. My pleasure came more these days from watching what I was doing did for my partner.

It was only about a minute before her eyes fluttered open and she looked at me. "Good God! What did you do to me?"

I smiled and hugged her. I moved my leg across hers and pressed my belly and sticky dick into her hip. "Just the usual stuff. Why?" I know. It was shameless fishing for compliments, but I thought I deserved it.

"I have never come so many times in a row -- or so hard!" She pushed up on an elbow and her hand slipped down under the covers. Her brow smoothed and she smiled. "Just making sure you 'got there' too," she explained. I assured her I had. "I need another shower now," she said and she slipped out of bed and went to the bathroom. In the dim light from the bathroom I watched her muscles ripple under the skin as she rounded the end of the bed and walked from the room. I waited until I heard the water running and the glass door slide before I left the warmth of the bed. I went in and joined her under the hot spray.

We were back on the road an hour later. Marjie was studying the atlas, taking her job as navigator seriously. Not that there was a lot of navigating to do. There was only the one highway. The road got steadily better the nearer we got to Fort Nelson. It's a little better than a hundred miles from Muncho to Nelson. I half expected her to change her mind once we got there and ask me to drop her off at Joe's friend's place. We pulled into the gas station a little after noon and I filled up. I took Rebel out in back of the station and he took care of his business. I gave the attendant my credit card and went around to the passenger side to open the door to the back seat for Rebel. The weather had grown warmer and the air had lost its deep chill. It was still cold, but there was less snow and the temperature was tolerable.

I closed the back door and just stood by the open door to the front. Marjie looked up at me and smiled. She closed the atlas and turned in the seat. She pulled me toward her and wrapped her legs around my calves. She forced my torso forward and kissed me hard. "This morning was fantastic, Don. I'm still tingling."

I broke the kiss and smiled at her. Then I got serious. "Marjie, this is your last chance. If you want me to, I can drop you off -- either at Joe's buddy's house or you can call him from a café and have him pick you up."

She sat straight and shook her head. "Huh-uh. I'm finished with him. This morning just confirmed it." I took a deep breath.

"So you still want to go to Quesnel?"

She hesitated a few beats before answering. "Yeah, I do. I haven't talked to my cousin for a while, but she always complains none of us ever come to visit." I had a feeling about her hesitation, but I let it go for the time being.

"Okay," I said. "I just wanted you to be sure. What we did this morning shouldn't be a part of your decision, though. I won't say it was just sex, or just physical. I like you an awful lot. But this whole thing -- leaving Joe, leaving the North -- has to have more of a foundation than just running away. You need to be moving toward something, too."

She grinned. "Is that apprehension I hear in your voice?"

I swallowed hard. I always hate this kind of conversation. "Yeah. Don't jump to conclusions -- either way -- about anything, though. We'll get to Dawson Creek tonight and Quesnel tomorrow unless we stop at Prince George. We have time to think it all through."

"Two days and one more night," she said. "Not all that much time really." The attendant had returned with the charge slip and she released her hold on me -- for the time being. I signed the slip and got my copy. Marjie asked me to stop at the Ft. Nelson version of a department store so she could get some spare panties. Then we had lunch at a little burger place and hit the road.

The weather got a little warmer in the afternoon. It made sense, since we were moving south and decreasing our elevation. Just before we hit Dawson Creek it started to rain, mixed with a little snow. Snow was piled to either side of the road, evidence that they'd already had their fair share of fall weather. The road was bare and not too icy.

We pulled into town just after the early twilight had blotted out the daylight. I pulled in under the canopy of the motel I usually used there. The owner remembered me from earlier stays, mostly because he remembered Rebel. He gave him a scratch. The long pink tongue lolled from the side of Reb's mouth. He's just a whore for attention. Most of the motels in British Columbia allow pets. Some charge a damage deposit. The closer to Vancouver and the U.S. border you get, the more likely they'll just charge extra, or disallow pets altogether. It was still early to stop. We could have gone another couple of hours. I have traded speed for comfort on these trips, however. I'd rather drive fewer miles and stay in a decent place than take a chance on not finding one down the road. The first couple of times I made the trip I wouldn't stop until I'd put 700 to 800 miles behind me in a day. Now I stopped early more often than not. I had no deadline to meet, after all.




North



In spite of the rain, Marjie took Rebel off to pee while I got us checked in. I pulled around to the side door -- all the room doors were along the interior hallway -- and grabbed our bags from the back. When I returned to the truck for the cooler, Marjie was running toward the door. Rebel was bouncing along beside her. He was in heaven. I never ran him like that. The idle thought drifted through my mind that I could leave him with her in Quesnel. Then she could keep him or I could pick him up when I went north again.

I discarded the idea almost immediately. I've never been one to slough my dogs off on other people. I was raised learning how to care for pets and the responsibility had taken root. Rebel was mine until he died -- or I did, whichever came first. Her cheeks were rosy when she got to me. The rain had soaked her hair and made mats out of Rebel's fur. I grabbed the trash bag with Rebel's towels in it from the back of the truck. He was going to need them.

In the room Marjie stripped to the skin and used one of the bath towels to dry off while I did the same for Rebel. I didn't do such a good job on the dog because I was too busy watching Marjie. Her belly was flat and she had very little pubic hair. In the light from the nearly closed curtains I caught sight of a silvery line just below her navel that I hadn't noticed that morning. I realized I was looking at a stretch mark from her pregnancy. It meant that she had been fairly well along when she lost the baby.

She was sitting on the bed with her hair forward as she toweled it. Suddenly she jerked her head up, flipping the curtain of hair to the back. She caught me watching her and her lips curled into a slow smile. She leaned back on her elbows and moved her knees apart. My heart thumped in my chest. It was such an erotic move I felt my mouth water. I dropped Rebel's towel on the floor and walked on my knees to the bed. I moved between her legs and caressed her thighs. Her smile never wavered. I leaned forward. Her taste was wonderful. Once she climaxed, I stripped down and moved up on top of her.

Later we finished the vodka before we dressed and went out for dinner. I was surprised at how much she ate. When I commented, she just said I'd made her work up an appetite. We laughed and clinked our beer glasses together. We had another beer after dinner. Marjie had a shot with hers. I looked at my watch and saw that it was not quite 7:00. Before returning to the motel I made a stop at the liquor and grocery stores. I knew they were right next to each other so one stop took care of both needs.

I told Marjie to go in and get some stuff for snacking on while I walked over to the liquor store. We'd discussed the relative merits of American vs. Canadian beer over dinner. I bought a half case of my preferred (American) brand and a six-pack of Molson's for Marjie. I stashed the beer in the truck and joined her in the grocery store. She was already in line. I examined what she'd picked out and dashed off to grab a couple more things that I wanted.

Back at the room we put everything that needed cooling in the cooler with some fresh ice. Marjie turned on the television and flipped through the channels. I called my brother and told him where I was. I hadn't told him about Marjorie yet, since there hadn't been any opportunity. It didn't seem like a good time to try to explain her right then, either so I hung up letting him think it was just Rebel I meant when I accidentally said 'we' a couple of times during the conversation.

I opened the atlas and found the map of B.C. I confirmed what I thought I remembered from previous trips. It looked like roughly 60 or 70 miles to Chetwynd and another couple hundred to Prince George. Beyond that it was about 70 more miles to Quesnel. Under normal circumstances it was an easy drive. I've covered twice that much in a day on my earlier trips. Even with my slackened schedule I might have gone on to Williams Lake -- for a total mileage of just over 500.

I reminded myself that the road from Dawson Creek to Prince George led back across the Rockies. There was no telling what we'd run into up there in November. We were about 230 miles south of Fort Nelson at Dawson Creek, and the weather was fair. Climbing back into the mountains would take us back into winter. There was no certainty we'd make even Prince George by tomorrow night.

Between Chetwynd and P.G. there was only one place on the map that might have shelter that time of year. I'd never stayed at McLeod Lake, but it was a year-round community so I was confident something should be open. Long haul trucks make the trip all year round. Still, it was only a little over 200 miles from Dawson Creek to there. If it was an emergency, then we'd be fine. I hoped to get farther than that, however.

I closed the atlas and slid down to the pillow. Marjie had been watching some Canadian or British sitcom. I waited until it ended before asking her for the remote. She handed it to me and gave me a quick kiss before stumbling off to the bathroom. I recalled how much I'd seen her drink that night.

I flipped through the channels until I located the weather channel. So far they were forecasting decent weather where we'd be traveling the next day. I offered up a little prayer that it would hold. I sat up and took off my shirt. I sat on the bed and popped another beer while waiting for Marjie to finish getting ready for bed. She came out just as I was draining my beer. I stood up and looked at her. She was naked. We hadn't been together long enough for the wonder of her beauty to have paled for me. I just let my eyes caress all her curves and valleys. She continued across the room to me and hugged me. She smelled great. She hadn't showered, but she didn't need to. I inhaled her natural scent and rubbed her round butt. She bit my nipple and I was instantly erect.

"Let me go brush my teeth and get out of these clothes. I have plans for you."

"Okay," she said. "I'll warm up your spot." I assumed she meant the bed, but then I wasn't sure if that was the spot she meant. I let go of her and walked into the bathroom. I noticed that she had washed her panties again, along with her tee shirt. She hadn't brought any clothes with her at all. In Ft. Nelson she had picked up a sweat shirt and some long johns along with the spare panties. I hoped neither of us would need the long underwear. If we did, it would mean we would probably be walking.

We made love twice that night. Marjie slipped down my body to use her mouth on me, just as I had done for her earlier. When I pulled her arm she realized I wanted her to stop before it was too late. When she began to settle herself on my hips I tugged her legs to get her to move farther up. She gently lowered her aromatic crotch to my face. I gripped her ass and she gripped the headboard as she climaxed. Then she slipped down again and impaled herself on my stiff erection. There was no gradual entry; just a quick stab and I felt her weight settle across me. I expected her to pound down at me after the sudden penetration but she just rocked back and forth a while, smiling down at me. We held hands and just felt our joining.

She leaned forward to kiss me. Her tongue was like a butterfly, slipping into my mouth and out, running across each lip separately, then back into my mouth. She rolled her tongue into a tube and slipped it in and out of my mouth. For obvious reasons it increased the eroticism of our act. Eventually the sensual pleasure mounted too high to dally any longer. She began to move faster and I thrust my hips up to meet her. It didn't take too long for us to reach our peaks. We arrived there together, or near enough as to make no difference. Sweat glowed over her upper body and added to the fluids we had both released between us. She collapsed on top of me, breathing hard, and I hugged her.

We rested and kissed a while as we recovered. Then, without leaving the sheath of her body I rolled us over. We rearranged our legs so hers were once again outside of mine. I nibbled her nipples a while before rising over her and moving higher to kiss her. Then I leaned farther forward and asked her to suck my nipples. Sherry had been the first woman to suck my nipples. I learned that it was an intense turn-on for me. She had gotten the notion on her own, though, once she learned I liked it, she did it whenever she thought of it. With Marjie, I asked for it and it felt strange. Marjie moaned as she sucked and nipped on my little nubs. Shivers skittered up and down my spine and I grew incredibly hard inside her. "Harder," I whispered, and felt even more...what? I guess it was a kind of wantonness I was feeling. Just the asking turned me on more.

Marjorie responded and I felt the intense pain/pleasure as her teeth clamped onto me. I slammed into her as she bit me. My movements pulled my nipple away a little with each thrust and it increased the intensity of what she was doing to me. I erupted into her with a heavy throbbing that surprised me, considering it was my second climax in less than an hour. I continued to thrust and Marjie's teeth released my tender nipples as her mouth opened for a wail that announced her own second orgasm. Her legs clamped to my hips and her inner tissues clamped my rapidly deflating member.

When I relaxed next to her that time I knew I was done for the night. She hunched her hips against mine and whispered as she drifted off to sleep, "I could get used to this, Don." I had been feeling the lethargy that overcame me after vigorous sex. Her comment brought me back to alertness. I'd been thinking the same thing but didn't tell her. I mulled the thought over as sleep regained its hold on my mind and dropped the curtain on the day.

As I stood over the toilet peeing the next morning Marjie slipped into the shower. As she stepped in her hand slid across my ass in caress. It felt great. I recalled her words from the night before. I had a dilemma. I was undecided whether I should ask her to skip Quesnel and continue south with me. I really wanted to. It was great having winters off work and being able to do pretty much as I pleased. Still, it always felt like I was killing time until my life started into motion again. The things I saw and the places I went were beautiful and amazing, but I always had the feeling they would have been better if I could share the experience with somebody. I took pictures and showed them to my friends later, but that wasn't the same.

The room filled with steam and I slipped into the shower behind Marjie. She leaned back against me and our bodies melded together. I slipped my hands under her arms and around her under her small tits. I slid them from her collar bone, over her hard-tipped breasts and down the outward curve of her belly. She sighed and leaned her head back against my chest as I stroked her, revisiting places a few times over. I reached as far down as I could, to where her thighs came together and I cupped her mound. The hot water coursed down and over us both. She turned her head and I kissed her. I was happier than I'd been for a long, long time. I gradually released my hold on her and she stood away from me. I wiped the water from my eyes and looked at her.

I knew she was feeling the tendrils of the bond forming between us, just as I was. We were rapidly approaching a point of no return in our relationship and we both knew that. I splashed her with a handful of water and she giggled, splashing me back. We played and scrubbed each other until our skin was flushed and tingly. When we stepped out we clumsily tried to dry each other at the same time. We finally admitted it was impossible. So I told her to wait and I dried her off first. She returned the favor for me and we got dressed.

We were back on the road by 7:30. The weather channel said conditions were the same, but travelers should carry chains at all times. The forecast was for high and broken overcast. That meant it would be cold, but better that than a blizzard or freezing rain. The road south out of Dawson Creek ran through some low hills before it began to climb up into the foothills of the Rockies again. The roadside slush gave way fairly quickly to unmelted snow heaps left behind by the plows after they had cleared the first layers from the road.

Along with my big cooler I had a smaller one that I kept in the cab of the truck so I could snack without stopping. As the miles rolled under us I drank coffee from the thermos. Marjie drank some water, ate jerky and chips with dip and talked. I learned all about Marjie's family -- her three sisters (two older and one younger), her mother and more about her dad. In return I explained about how I got to the North and about my smaller family.

"So where do you go in Arizona all winter?" It was the first time she had asked any details other than where I was headed. She had the atlas open on her lap to the page with the map of Arizona.

"Well, I've stayed a couple of different places. I like Tucson best. One winter I rented a house in Bisbee, but it was too far from anything else, except Mexican border towns." I glanced at her and she found Bisbee.

"There it is! Wow, it really is close to the border. It's smaller than Tucson, eh?"

"Yeah -- a lot. There was a great big copper mine there, but it's closed now."

"Hey, there's Tombstone! O.K. Corral and Wyatt Earp! I know all about that."

"Yeah, it's about halfway between Tucson and Bisbee." She studied the map with a lot of interest.

"So, it's nice there in the winter, eh?"

"Well it's nicer than here. The last few years it was cooler than when I lived there, but still better than this." I stepped on the accelerator as we started up a long curving hill. The engine shifted into a lower gear and we climbed. I thought I knew where her interest in Arizona was taking us. I hadn't thought about much else all morning. When she popped a beer I was kind of surprised. She caught me glancing at my watch.

"No worries. I'll take it easy," she said. I thought there was an edge in her voice.

"Hey, as long as you aren't driving and we don't get stopped I don't care. It's just a little early, that's all."

We topped the hill and began to descend the shorter far side. Rebel whined and moved into the space between the front seats, his feet resting on the console between them. I recognized the signs. He had to pee -- at least. At the bottom of the hill, I pulled to the side of the road. I pulled my parka out of the corner of the back seat where Rebel had been using it as a pillow. Opening the door I made quick work of putting it on. I grabbed the leash from under my seat and clipped it to his collar. He jumped to the ground and I closed the door.

I pressed the button to let Rebel extend the leash. He wagged his way into the low scrubby underbrush, sniffing as he went. He stopped here and there to mark his passing and broke through the brush into a spot that only held some dead yellowed grass, matted to the frozen earth. He took on a frantic pacing back and forth that indicated he was going to take a dump. I lit a cigarette and waited. 

While he took care of business I looked around. The clouds were still high, but I could smell the cold, and it also smelled like snow. That might sound strange to people who have never spent time in places that get real winter. It's true, though. You can smell the weather sometimes, just like the scent of the air changes after a rain. In fact, as I stood there waiting for Rebel to finish a couple of flakes fell. I smoked and waited. When my dog stood up and pawed some dirt toward the pile he'd left I pushed the button to retract the leash. He felt the tug and, following it, he came to me happily enough. Marjie was doing something in the back of the truck.

I opened the door and Rebel jumped into the back seat. I repeated my earlier motions in reverse: unclipping Rebel, stashing the leash and pulling my coat off. I got back into the truck. When Marjie got in she had a fresh beer in her hand.

In a few minutes we were climbing another hill. I have made it a habit to take notes as I travel. I log my mileage at the beginning and the end of the day, as well as expenses, stops, and sometimes intermediate mileage. Everything was kept in a small notebook that "lived" in my truck. I double checked the distance from Dawson Creek to Prince George. Barring any bad weather we could reach Prince George, have an early dinner and decide whether to go on or not. If we did I figured on making Quesnel just after dark. The miles rolled by and we spoke little. Marjie would ask a question now and then -- about me or about my life. I'd answer and we'd fall silent again. When one silence stretched out longer than usual I glanced over to see she had dozed off.

She slept until I had to pull over to pee. She had to go too, and we moved a little apart in the leafless brush. We both gave off steam clouds in the frigid air. Marjie glanced my way and called over, "I still say it's unfair that girls have to freeze their asses while guys only have to get a little part of them cold."

"Hey! What are you calling little?" I countered. That made her laugh. I got back into the truck but Marjie grabbed her empties and stashed them in back, and returned with two full ones. I was starting to wonder a little about her.

As it turned out I decided to stop at Prince George. The weather was supposed to worsen and I just didn't need the stress. It was only an hour or so from P.G. to Quesnel, but neither of us wanted to pass up the opportunity for another night together. We checked into a Travelodge and went to the restaurant.

We had more drinks with dinner and were pretty loaded by the time we went back to the room. I walked Rebel and Marjie watched TV. It was a repeat of the night (and morning) before. I think she felt as desperate as I did, not wanting to face the next day and our parting. As she snored I lay awake, pondering whether to ask her to come with me. Finally the alcohol took effect and I slept.

******************************************

The next day was bright and sunny. The weatherman had been wrong (big shock). We didn't say much after we made love again, showered and dressed. We had breakfast and Marjorie didn't look at me much. I reached across the table and took her free hand. Then she did look at me. Her eyes traveled over my face and returned to my eyes. I squeezed her hand and took a deep breath.

"You know, you can always come with me to Arizona," I told her. Her eyes widened a little but she didn't say anything at first. She glanced away and then back.

"Don...you're sweet. I really love being with you. On top of that, you're a dog lover." She paused and took a bite of toast. I thought I knew where she was going. When she looked back at me there was a shine in her eyes. "You don't know much about me. You've noticed that I'm an alcoholic. I've noticed you aren't. That kind of relationship is doomed from the start – I know."

"But that can be controlled," I protested. She snorted.

"Only if a person wants to control it," she said. " Haven't you heard about us "injuns"? We're regular alkies if we start drinking."

"That's just a stereotype, honey. You mean you don't find anything in life to make you want to cut your drinking down?"

"Oh, it isn't that so much, it's just that...well, I couldn't 'cut down'. I'd have to stop completely. I'm not sure I'm strong enough for that. Besides, you like to drink, though it doesn't seem to have the hold on you it does on me."

She was right, I realized. Though my parents had been drinkers – my brother thought they were alcoholics, but I wasn't sure any more what the term really meant – I didn't feel a 'need' to drink. I just liked it. I could take it or leave it. My brother didn't drink at all.

I pushed the cold hash browns around on my plate. I looked back at her and saw her tears had brimmed over and were running down her cheeks. She wasn't doing anything to impede them. "Marjie...listen, I'm not proposing marriage. I've been there, done that and I know it isn't for me. Come with me for the winter. Then, if you want me to, I can bring you back in the spring." Her hand tightened around mine. She looked up at me. Then she swiped at the tears with her napkin. She blew her nose and just sat there.




North



"You really mean that, don't you?"

"I do." Then we laughed at my response. It was too much like a wedding response. "Look, you can get work down there, and I'll have my unemployment. It's almost enough to live on for me. You were through with Watson Lake anyway. What do you have to lose?"

She smiled and used another napkin to wipe her face off. I liked it that she didn't wear makeup. She had no need anyway. "All I could do is wait tables or something else that pays minimum wage. I never went to university."

"I went, but it didn't take. That doesn't matter." She sat up and squared her shoulders. I knew she'd decided. Then she got a crooked grin on her lips.

"You don't know about my kinky side, Don. I can get pretty wild."

"Hey, as long as it's consensual, I couldn't care less." My mind took a flip and I wondered how wild she meant to get. "For that matter, I like some things we haven't tried together." She laughed.

"Yeah, well I can guess, what with the way you like your nipples treated." She hadn't seen the waitress approaching with fresh coffee. There was no way the woman hadn't heard her comment. She cut her eyes sideways at me as she poured. I just smiled back. Her cheeks flushed.

So that was what we did. When we got to Seattle we stayed with my brother a day and a night. Like me, she said she thought he was "a little tight-assed". Three days later we were in Tucson. We spent the winter there in the sun, wearing shorts while the locals wore parkas. We fell in love – hard. Marjorie almost stopped drinking, though we did have some great times boozing it up. By the time April rolled around we were too close to break the bond.

She returned with me to Alaska. She'd gotten a green card when we hit Arizona and worked shifts at a restaurant. They'd made her the hostess before she left. In Alaska, she went to work at the same place Sherry had worked and I went back on the boat. Together, we made enough money to make a start on the house I'd designed with her help. When we left the following September, the foundation and the exterior walls were up. By the next year's end we were living comfortably in our home.

We never got married but we were together for the next twenty years. We'd still be together if Marjorie hadn't come up with lung cancer. She didn't smoke. While we were together I took pains to leave the house to smoke. After she died I quit.

As I write this I'm sitting in our living room, gazing out at the snow falling. It's October again and the Halloween party is tomorrow night. It will be the first time I've attended since Marjie died. She's been gone almost five years now. I guess I'll never stop missing her. Rebel's been gone ten years now and I finally got another puppy. She's a cute little fuzz ball and I named her Marjie. I think Marjorie would be pleased.



North of the River



Author's Note:

This is another story that takes place in the timeline of a major world war. It does not pick up where Collateral Damage left off, but is rather another slice of life from the time period I've envisioned and actually takes place earlier than Collateral Damage, during the most desperate portion of the war, when the enemy is driving into the United States, seemingly invulnerable. For those of you who wrote telling me you found Collateral Damage too "dark" of a story to be enjoyed, I would suggest you not read North of the River. It is even darker. For everyone else, please let me know, as always, what you thought of it. As with all of these stories I'm posting, they are all self-contained stories capable of being enjoyed by themselves, and all potential first chapters in an ongoing series. I make no promises as of yet to continue them.

*

January 12, 2012

Vancouver, Washington

It had once been an office building, a modern, uninteresting four-story structure that had housed half a dozen doctors' offices, three or four lawyers, a dentist, an orthodontist, and a private investigation service. Now it was an empty shell, most of the windows broken out, part of the southern wall partially collapsed, the second and third floors gutted by fire, the rest looted by vandals. Conner Boreman supposed it was no longer structurally sound, that it was within the realm of possibility it would collapse under its own weight at any time. This thought was not worrisome to him, however, as he lay next to a shattered window on the top floor, looking out to the northeast. He had cheated death so many times in the last six months that the thought of dying in a building collapse was almost amusing.

Nor was the view to the northeast appalling to him, although to any red-blooded American raised in the feverish patriotism of the post 9-11 era, it certainly should have been. Nearly every building he could see was damaged at best, a pile of rubble at worst -- blasted by Chinese artillery rounds, pounded by Chinese bombs, destroyed by Chinese tanks. Smoke came up from hundreds of places, the fires producing it unchecked by a civilian fire department, undampened by the rain that had been falling from the sky all morning. What had once been a fashionable suburban area now looked like Stalingrad or Berlin during World War II. But Conner had seen too many American cities in this condition since joining the army six months before. He had fought in Bellingham, in Seattle, in Tacoma, in Olympia, he and his comrades relentlessly and brutally pushed southward by the advancing Chinese. The sight was too familiar to be depressing.

Vancouver was lost, of that there was no doubt. General Li Chang's forces had already taken all of the ground in Washington State between the Cascade Range and the Pacific Ocean, smashing forward with two complete armies concentrated in this sixty-mile wide corridor. They had ten tanks for every one American tank. They had fifteen planes for every one American plane. And they had twenty soldiers for every one American soldier. A day when the Chinese advanced less than ten kilometers, when less than ten thousand American soldiers were killed, when less than a hundred tanks were destroyed by the Chinese swarming tactic, was considered a good day in this war. The fighting retreat of the American forces was nothing so organized as a trading space for time strategy such as the Soviets had utilized in World War II. Until now it had been little better than a complete and total rout.

The only thing left in American hands in western Washington were the two bridgeheads across the Columbia River in the southern section of Vancouver. This was where Interstate 5 and Interstate 205 crossed over from Portland on the south side of the mighty river. Every other bridge between Astoria and the Cascade Locks had been blown by American engineer battalions, dropped into the frigid waters to keep the Chinese from advancing into Oregon.

These last two bridges were the most critical and would be the last to go. Portland was a vital road junction, where I-5 and I-84 met. If the city fell, the Chinese would have no natural defensive barriers until well into California. They would also have an easy route east, through the Columbia River Gorge to eastern Oregon and eastern Washington. They had to be stopped at the Columbia River or there was a good chance the entire west coast of the United States would be under Chinese occupation by spring. 

As it stood now, the Vancouver Pocket was in the process of collapsing. Chinese forces were pushing in from all directions, attacking the perimeter forces with tanks, attack helicopters, aircraft, and hordes of dismounted infantry troops. The air was filled with the sound of desperate battle as the American rear guard forces tried to hold them off long enough for the main combat units to withdraw across the two bridges and get safely south of the river before they were blown. Machine gun fire and small arms fire echoed back and forth through the rubble. Tank guns and the explosions of anti-tank missiles joined in with depressing regularity. All of this was to the background of exploding artillery shells coming from the bridge approaches themselves. The Chinese had been raining 155mm shells down on the fleeing Americans for hours, shredding vehicles filled with wounded soldiers and civilian refugees, snarling the roads, and creating a traffic jam unlike anything ever seen before. 

Conner and his platoon were part of the rear guard. The former office building they occupied stood on Northeast 28th Street, a half-mile east of I-205 and mile north of the river. From this position they were supposed to hold off whatever armored forces tried to push their way through a six block corridor for as long as possible. So far, no Chinese had made a serious attempt here. Conner and the men under his command knew that couldn't last.

"My platoon," Conner mumbled to himself as he shifted his M-16 nervously and wished for a cigarette. 3rd Platoon of Alpha Company of the 32nd Armored Calvary Regiment was a platoon in name only. It consisted of fourteen men out of the original forty. They had eleven M-16 rifles, a single M-60 machine gun, and two AT-9 anti-tank missile launchers. They were out of food rations, out of fresh water, and were down to less than six hundred rounds of ammunition and six AT-9 rounds for the missile launchers. They had no medic and no medical supplies save the first aid kits they all carried. They had two working radios, both of which were beeping steadily with the low battery warning — not that there was anything coherent coming across the fucking things anyway. For the past two hours, as they had been attacked and forced from one desperate position to another, the chain of command had seemingly broken down -- at least on the communications level. He hadn't had contact with Captain Rearsy, the company commander, in more than an hour. Conner himself was only nineteen years old and was technically still a corporal, although the former platoon commander, Lieutenant Jenkins, had promised a battlefield promotion to sergeant. That was before Jenkins and eighteen other men had been mowed down by a combination of machine gun fire and 20mm cannon fire during their last withdrawal. Yes, he had finally achieved command, all right. He only hoped he would live long enough to be proud of it. 

He looked around at the gutted floor for a moment, making perhaps his hundredth check of the positioning of his men. Corporal Billings -- who had been a member of 3rd Platoon for two months now and was now the second most seasoned man after Conner himself -- was in the northeast corner with the M-60, where he could cover the most likely avenue of approach and switch between two different windows. Privates Jenkins, Callahan, and Stinson were on the north windows, their rifles ready. Three newbies whose names he hadn't even bothered to learn were on the east windows. On the roof above were the rest of the men, the two AT-9s and the remaining missile loads with them. Conner thought his positioning was as adequate as it was capable of getting. They had had already driven off a platoon-sized force of Chinese fifteen minutes before -- a force that Conner knew had been only a probe, which had served its main purpose of locating their position. The real attack would come next. He was surprised it was taking so long.

"Jesus fucking Christ," said one of the newbies, his eyes wide with terror. "How much longer do we have to stay in this fucking city? We need to get across the bridge before they fucking blow it!"

"We stay out here until they give us the fall-back command on the radio," Conner told him. "They're trying to get our tanks and wounded out first. That's why we're out here. To buy them time to do that."

"How do we know they haven't already blown it?" the newbie demanded. "You haven't heard from command in an hour! Maybe they already gave the command and we missed it! Maybe the fucking chinks already took the bridgehead! Maybe..."

"Maybe I'll blow your fucking head off and toss you out the window as chink bait," Conner said, his voice calm but menacing. "Now shut your ass and keep your eyes open. If you wanna live long enough to cross that bridge, we need to hold this pocket."

The newbie looked at his commander's face for a moment, decided he just might be serious about blowing his head off, and did as he was told. 

The sound of jet engines swelled up from the north of them, becoming louder until the entire building was shaking. Conner and the rest of the platoon tensed up, their eyes searching through the sky, hoping they weren't the target. None of them bothered speculating whether or not the aircraft would be friendly. If it was flying, it was more than likely not American. The Chinese had air superiority for two hundred miles on either side of the line. 

Sure enough, when the two aircraft came into view, streaking over the rooftops less than a thousand feet up, they were F-18s with Chinese flags painted on the twin tails. Napalm canisters hung menacingly from the wing pods. The planes shot over the top of them, climbing to attack altitude, their goal undoubtedly to drop their load of jellied gasoline on the entrenched soldiers on the south side of the river. The American commanders had assembled quite a force over there and the Chinese were doing their damnedest to soften it up. Conner didn't waste any time feeling pity for the poor bastards. He had enough troubles of his own.

"I got movement over here, Sarge," reported Billings, his voice steady. "A couple of chinks just came out from behind that old Starbucks there at your two o'clock."

Conner looked over there just as the two figures -- both dressed in urban camouflage BDUs and packing AK-74s -- disappeared behind a pile of rubble in the abandoned strip mall. No sooner were they gone than two others slipped out from the other side of the building, their weapons held at ready, their movements the careful, quick motion of men who had lived through many battles. They dashed from one pile of rubble to the next, taking cover, keeping themselves exposed for no more than three or four seconds. As soon as they settled in, two more groups of four soldiers emerged on either side. These Chinese moved more awkwardly, with the nervous gait of newbies. They would never live to become veterans.

"Open up," Conner ordered, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. "Drive them back behind the building."

Billings was the first to fire. The M-60 roared to life, spitting out rounds and spraying them over the group on the left, mowing three of them down before they even knew they were under fire. The rest of the platoon -- those with rifles anyway -- joined in a second later, blowing down the remaining soldier in the group on the left and two of the group on the right. Conner himself sighted in on one of the Chinese still standing and squeezed off a three round burst, taking the man directly in the chest.

Before he had a chance to savor this first round victory, two pairs of armored personnel carriers came out from either side of the smashed strip mall. They were BTR-80s, the workhorse of the Chinese armored forces. Conner felt his blood go cold at the sight of them. He keyed up his radio, which was set to transmit on the tactical channel. "Logan, Mears," he said to the men on the roof. "Take out those fucking BTRs or we're seagull food!"

"We're on it," Mears' voice replied, scratchy with static.

A second later, there was a muted explosion from above them. An AT-9 round streaked out, propelled forward by its rocket motor, guided by a targeting laser. The range was so short it barely had time to arm itself. It struck directly below the turret of one of the BTRs. There was a double flash and the turret went flying in the air. The BTR began to billow smoke and flame. 

At the same time, the other three BTRs opened up on them, plastering the building with the heavy machine guns in their turrets. 14.5mm bullets ripped through the walls like they were paper. Two of the newbies -- including the one who had been near hysterics -- were mowed down, their bodies torn open and flung backwards. Everyone else hit the ground out of instinct, although this only made them marginally safer. The bullets continued to slam into their position.

Conner, laying on his back, his rifle clutched desperately to his chest, keyed up his mic again. "Logan, Mears," he said. "We really need you to do something about those BTRs."

"Firing now," came a terrified voice. From above came the pop and whoosh of another missile taking flight. "Good hit," the voice said, calmer now. "Working on the third... oh fuck!"

"Oh fuck what?" Conner demanded. "What are you oh fucking about?"

"Choppers!" the voice said. 

No sooner was the word out of his mouth than Conner heard the menacing growl of Chinese attack helicopters approaching. He could tell just by the sound that they were Mi-35s, the Russian-designed helicopter gunship that had proven itself time and time again during the war, everywhere from the Middle East to the European line to the rout that was now taking place in the Pacific Northwest. "Get off that fucking roof!" he screamed into the microphone. "Displace!"

It was too late. Explosions began to rattle the entire building as the helicopters plastered the roof with high explosive rockets. Everyone up there was dead in less than four seconds.

"Let's get the fuck out of here!" Conner said, rolling across the floor. "Everyone displace! Regroup outside. Let's go!"

But again, it was already too late. Having eliminated the missile crew on the roof, the helicopters now went after the infantry squad they knew was positioned on the third floor. They opened up with their 23mm nose guns, raking their fire back and forth. The holes these bullets made in the walls made the BTR rounds seem like mother's kisses in comparison. They rolled in with an evil sounding whine, chunks of lead nearly an inch in diameter, six inches in length, and moving at three times the speed of sound. Billings and Stinson were the first to be hit. Their bodies literally exploded, spraying blood, bone fragments, internal organs, and limbs throughout the room. The last newbie -- staring at this in horrified hypnotism -- took one right in the throat. It ripped his head right off of his body. 

The last semblance of control broke down at this point. Everyone still capable of it rushed towards the stairwell at the rear of the room. Most were shredded before they made it three steps. Conner made it by crawling along the floor, his weapon dragging after him. He threw himself down the stairs, tumbling downward, bumping and sliding. When he landed at the bottom of the second floor landing in a heap, Private Jenkins -- the only other man to have made it that far -- came tumbling down atop him, his body spraying blood. Conner looked at him and saw his right leg had been shot off just above the knee. Blood was spurting from it and spraying all over the dusty landing. Jenkins himself was already fading, his skin white, his eyes glazed over. Conner took the time to strip the two unfired M-16 magazines from Jenkins' belt and then stood and ran down to the bottom of the last stairwell. A quick turn and a jog down a short hallway and he was at the ragged rear entrance they'd used to access the building. 

The helicopters had stopped firing and were now moving off to the north. From the other side of the building Conner could hear the popping of the APC guns and the chattering of AK-74s. That was covering fire, meant to support the advance of infantry troops toward the building. There were none in sight at the moment but he knew they would be there any second. He needed to get the fuck out of there.

He ran, his combat boots crunching over broken glass and bits of concrete. Across the main street he went, leaping over a pile of rubble that blocked the way, heading for a smashed mound of corrugated steel that had once been a gas station. Just when he thought he was home free he heard the sound of bullets whizzing over the top of him and plunking into the pavement around him. The chinks had spotted him and were trying to take him down. Though he didn't think it possible, he ran even faster, zigzagging back and forth, until he dove over the outside of the rubble pile, unmindful of what might lie on the other side.

Blind luck allowed a good landing. He didn't hit anything sharp or anything that exploded. The air was driven from his lungs and he rolled over twice, a piece of rebar sticking him painfully in his side, but he was uninjured as he came to a halt. The bullets continued to whiz over his head and kick up puffs of dust all around him, but he had complete defilade from the enemy -- at least for the moment. He took a few seconds to let his lungs refill with air and then began to scramble westward, hoping that the enemy would lose interest in him now that he was out of sight.

It was a hope that turned out to be a correct one. He made it across the next street and down one block without being fired upon, without seeing any Chinese soldiers. He had no sense that they were pursuing him. He rested up against the remains of bicycle shop for a few minutes, trying to catch his breath and think through what to do next. From all around him, the volume of gunfire and explosions seemed to have picked up. He could hear tanks and other armored vehicles rumbling around, could hear the growl of more attack helicopters. He knew what all of this meant. As a soldier in an army that had been in a constant state of retreat since its very first battle, the sound of a defensive pocket collapsing was very familiar to him. The Chinese were pushing in fast and the remaining American forces were now in complete disarray. He needed to get to the bridge and across it before it was either blown or fell to the enemy.

He tried his radio, hoping to get someone, somewhere to provide him with the best escape corridor, but all he heard was a garble of confused messages as dozens of platoon commanders walked all over each other. Most of the words were unintelligible but all were undercut with the unmistakable tone of panic and desperation. Conner could sympathize. He was feeling pretty much the same.

He stood up and began to work his way to the southwest, towards the I-205 bridge approaches. He moved more carefully now, block by block, dashing from one bit of cover to the next. He had no way of knowing whether the Chinese had broken through into this area yet but suspected that they might have. He saw no one as he fled -- no one living anyway -- but the booms and bangs and rumbles of the battle continued to grow louder all around him. More Chinese helicopters filled the air, traveling in pairs, frequently firing their rockets or their nose guns at some building, occasionally launching an anti-tank missile. None of them came close enough to Conner that he needed to take cover. They probably wouldn't be interested in a single man anyway. 




North of the River



At last he made it to an overlook position about three blocks from the riverbank and about half a mile east of the bridge approach itself. The sound of falling artillery was constant now, the ground vibrating with the concussions of the exploding shells and the louder secondary explosions of exploding vehicles. Three abandoned American M1-A4 battle tanks were in positions around the overlook, all three of them burning feverishly, sending greasy black smoke into the air, the obvious victims of Spiral anti-tank missiles fired from a flight of Mi-35s. Two bodies, both burned beyond recognition, were lying on the ground next to the closest of the tanks. Another appeared to have been caught trying to extricate himself and was half in and half out of the hatch, his blackened skull forever frozen into a horrified scream of agony. Conner ignored these sights, which were as common as ants in an ant farm to him by now, looking instead out to the west, to where the bridge was.

"Still there," he whispered to himself. And indeed it was. The twin span of the interstate bridge stretched across the gray water of the Columbia and into downtown Portland. Its roadway was choked with tanks, half-tracks, deuce and a half trucks, and countless pedestrians all trying to flee the advancing Chinese. Smoke rose from multiple places where vehicles or armor were burning out of control. But the bridge itself was still there, still capable of taking him to the relative safety of the south side of the river.

And yet, even as part of him reveled in the continued existence of the bridge, another part of him saw that escape across it was not going to happen. On the northern approaches, where a hideous traffic jam of vehicles, soldiers, and civilians had gathered, all waiting their turn to move across the span, chaos had broken out. Chinese infantry troops and armor had appeared, their numbers increasing by the second. Firefights raged back and forth as the soldiers took what was basically a last stand. Tank rounds and anti-tank missiles flew back and forth, exploding vehicles and slamming into buildings. Civilians, trying to flee, were caught in the middle of the two groups and were being blown up and shot down. It was clear that this last stand wouldn't last more than ten minutes or so, that the Chinese would overwhelm the remaining resistance quite easily. 

Conner watched helplessly, his hope fading, as the volume of fire picked up to a vicious ferocity and then began to slack off as the American units surrendered to the Chinese one by one. That was the final signal for the commanders across the river. The bridges were within minutes of being captured. Somewhere on the other side, probably from the safety of a reinforced concrete bunker in South Portland, an order was given by someone with stars on the lapel of his undoubtedly clean uniform. Seconds after that order was given, buttons were pushed and electricity was sent coursing through a series of wires to a series of high explosive charges that had been installed on the bridge days before by combat engineers. 

It was over in less than five seconds. Conner saw flashes detonating all along the bottom of the roadway section and the spans crumbled, falling into the river below with a tremendous crash, water spraying hundreds of feet into the air. Hundreds of tanks and armored vehicles and thousands of men, women, and children went down as well. Most of the people were killed outright, either by the initial explosions or by being smashed in the debris, but many -- particularly those in the armored vehicles -- survived long enough to drown. In all, less than twenty people would emerge on one of the riverbanks.

Conner watched all of this in horror, not at the tremendous loss of life but at the loss of his only escape route. Further downstream, through the haze of smoke, he could see that the I-5 span had been dropped as well. He was now trapped on the wrong side of the river and there was no way to get across.

+++++

The first light of the next day found Conner alone, sequestered beneath the partially collapsed roof of what had once been a Macy's department store. The store itself, along with the rest of the fashionable shopping mall it was attached to, had long since been destroyed by artillery and bombings and looted of anything even remotely useful. Before him was a multitude of concrete debris mixed with dismembered mannequins, overturned display shelves, and broken cash registers. The smell of spilled perfume and cologne was heavy in the air. From above the sound of heavy artillery shells streaking overhead continued unabated as the Chinese pounded the American positions on the south side of the river, softening them up for the inevitable forced river crossing that was in the works. While working his way to this position of relative safety, Conner had seen hundreds of Chinese amphibious tanks and APCs moving towards staging positions near the riverbank. 

Whether or not the Chinese would be successful in their river crossing was no longer much of a concern to Conner. He was trapped on the wrong side of the line, with no way to get back where he belonged. All organized American resistance on this side of the river had collapsed with the bridges. The Chinese had captured or killed all of the large groups and were now roaming the city in trucks and APCs, gathering up stragglers and securing their occupation. Conner was amazed he had made it through the night without being mopped up himself. He had moved from building to building all night, trying to work his way east, towards the residential section of the city. He had dodged patrol after patrol, mostly by blind luck since his night vision gear had been left in the building where his platoon had been massacred. Four times he had been fired upon and twice he had actually returned fire, expecting to be killed at any moment, but always managing to fall back and lose his pursuers. The fact that he was alone was probably what helped him more than anything. The Chinese occupation troops weren't going to waste much energy chasing after one scared kid with an M-16. 

Finally he had ended up here, less than two miles from where he'd watched the bridge go down. He didn't dare go any further now that it was getting light. Not that he had any idea where he should go anyway. He wondered if there was even any point to fleeing. Wouldn't it just be easier to drop his weapon here and go find the nearest Chinese patrol so he could surrender? He had no food and less than a cup of water in his canteen. He had lost his helmet sometime during the night. He was armed with two frag grenades and a grand total of 43 rounds for his rifle. His radio had long since died of battery failure. He hadn't slept in nearly forty-eight hours now. The prospect of being captured was actually starting to look like the sanest thing he could do. At least he'd get some chow and some sleep once they put him in a barbed-wire cage somewhere.

He decided his mind was not working coherently enough to make such an important decision right now. He couldn't do anything about the hunger, but he figured he was in a safe enough place to catch some badly needed sleep. Maybe after an hour or so of slumber he would be able to think clearly, to put his unenviable situation into perspective. He yawned and then leaned back against the support pillar he was sitting next to. He closed his eyes and listened to the ominous roaring of the artillery shells passing over his head and the distant thumping of their explosions south of the river. It was about as effective of a white noise as he was likely to get in Vancouver and within moments he began to drift towards sleep.

Before unconsciousness could completely claim him he was jarred back to alertness by the sound of something thumping to the ground in front of him. Her jerked his head up, his hands instinctively picking up the M-16 from his lap and socking it to his shoulder. He looked towards the sound and saw a fat white seagull lying on the ground about twelve feet in front of him. The bird was dying fast, its beak opening and closing spastically, it's wings twitching as if in seizure. There was a large bloodstain on its breast.

"What the fuck?" Conner whispered to himself, his eyes going from the bird to the open roof from which it had fallen. Seagulls were fairly common around here, particularly since there was so much carrion for them to feast upon these days. This one had seemingly been perched near the roof opening when... when... something had happened to it. But what? There had been no gunshot, at least not close by. Had a stray bullet from somewhere else struck it? That didn't ring true in Conner's mind. What would the odds of something like that be?

He heard a shuffling footstep from behind a pillar deeper in the store. He turned his rifle in that direction, his finger tightening on the trigger, his eyes peering down the sight. One squeeze would send a three round burst into whoever was approaching him. The range would be less than twenty yards, practically point blank for a man who had become skillful enough with his weapon over the last six months to effortlessly shoot down moving Chinese soldiers from nearly three hundred yards.

But it wasn't a Chinese soldier who appeared from behind the pillar. It wasn't a soldier at all. It was a girl, a teenager by the looks of her. She was dirty and disheveled, almost as dirty and disheveled as Conner himself. She was dressed in a pair of designer blue jeans that were now tattered and torn, with holes in the knees. On her upper body was a forest green winter jacket that was smeared with enough mud, dirt, plaster dust, and other unidentifiable stains that it had achieved a fairly decent state of urban camouflage. Her light blonde hair was dirty and uncombed, falling loosely around her shoulders. In her right hand she held something that Conner immediately recognized from his own days of youthful innocence -- before the war and the death and the destruction that was now commonplace. It was a metal slingshot. 

"Don't move," Conner ordered, his voice just loud enough for her to hear.

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of it. Her eyes locked onto him and she let out a startled scream. She tensed as if about to run.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," Conner told her.

"Then... then... why are you pointing your gun at me?" she squeaked, her voice terrified.

He realized he was indeed still pointing his rifle at her, his finger still on the trigger, still exerting several pounds of pressure in fact. He eased up on it but kept the sight centered on her chest. "Are you alone?" he asked.

She didn't seem to know how to answer that question. Her eyes shifted from Conner's gun to the passage that she'd entered from and then back. She swallowed nervously. "Uh... yes, I mean... uh no... I mean... I mean..."

"You're alone," he said, convinced more by her demeanor than anything else. He lowered his rifle, setting it back in his lap but keeping his hands resting on it. "Don't worry. I'm not gonna rape and murder you or anything like that. I'm too fucking tired to rape and murder anyone right now. I just wanted to make sure there weren't any chinks with you."

She shook her head slowly, her eyes remaining riveted on his face. "No chinks," she said. "I'm just here... well... you know, getting some... some food."

"Food?" he asked, his eyes dropping to the seagull -- which had now stopped its death throes and was lying still.

She nodded sadly. "Food," she confirmed. "They seem to have closed down all the McDonalds'."

A smile touched his lips. The first one in... well... in forever. "Yes, I guess business hasn't been too good for them lately, has it?"

Something that almost looked like a smile touched her lips as well. "No," she agreed. "It really hasn't."

He looked down at the bird again. "Pretty good shot with that slingshot," he told her.

She took a step closer to him, seeming to relax a little. "I've had more practice with it than I really should have to admit," she said. "Thank God my older brother left it in the house before he... well... before he left."

"He's in the war?"

She shook her head. "Not any more," she said. "He got killed in the Battle of the Border. Napalm."

Conner nodded sympathetically. "I was there," he said. And he had been. The Battle of the Border had been the near-fanatical last stand the American forces had taken just south of Vancouver, British Columbia, two long months before, as they had tried in vain to prevent the Chinese from becoming the first foreign armed force to enter the continental United States since the War of 1812. Tens of thousands of American men and women had died there, as well as maybe a hundred thousand Chinese. And it had all been for nothing. The Chinese had pushed through them in less than 100 hours, shattering the crust defense and capturing five times as many men as they'd killed. Conner had barely escaped, making it through a choke point less than ten minutes before the Chinese had closed it off.

"Glad to see you made it," she said, a scowl on her face. "Can I get my bird, or what?"

"Go ahead," he replied, nodding towards the carcass.

She walked over to it and kneeled down, her eyes keeping a careful, though furtive watch on him. She picked the bird up by the neck and stood again. Her blue eyes examined it for a second and her face turned sour. "I don't suppose," she asked, "that you have anything else to eat?"

He shook his head. "We ran out of MREs two days ago, when the chinks started hitting us hard. The last thing I had was a can of ravioli sometime yesterday."

"A can of ravioli?" she said, nearly drooling.

"I bought it from a sergeant before everything went to shit," he said. "Cost me ten bucks but it was the best goddamn thing I've eaten in months."

"I'd kill for a can of ravioli," she said in envy. "I haven't had any real food in almost a week now, since the chinks started pushing in hard. That's when I had to... you know... start living off the land."

He looked at the bird carcass. "What do those things taste like?"

She rolled her eyes. "Like greasy, stringy, tough chicken that's been overcooked and then left to sit on the counter for a week or so. And that's if I cook it right."

He laughed -- a tired, pitiful laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. "You should go into food sales, you know that?" he asked. "You have a way of selling things."

She laughed as well. "What's your name?" she asked him.

"Conner," he said. "Conner Boreman. I'm either a corporal or a sergeant or a lieutenant. I kinda lost track somewhere."

"I'm Madison," she said. "Madison Richards. They call me Maddie. Do you want to join me for breakfast, Conner Boreman?" She hefted the bird invitingly. "It ain't much, but it's all I got."

He looked at the bird carcass in distaste once more but the rumbling in his stomach pushed it to the side. "Thank you," he said, standing and slinging his rifle over his shoulder. "I'd be honored."

+++++

She led him through the bowels of the Macy's store, through a maze of debris and rubble, until they arrived at a set of elevator doors. She used her hands to push them open. Inside was the dead and dark elevator car. 

"Up here," she said. "Follow me." She stood on a packing crate and pushed on the access panel at the top of the car, shoving it to the side. She then climbed through the hole in the ceiling, her legs disappearing from sight. "There's a ladder up here," her voice told him. "You can't see much, but just grab it and keep climbing until you get to the top. And be sure to push the panel back in place before you climb. This is the only way up to where we're going since the stairs are collapsed."

He looked up doubtfully for a moment but finally climbed atop the plate and pulled himself onto the roof of the elevator car. The smell was dank and oily. He stood and pushed the access panel with his foot until it clanked back in place. The darkness became absolute. He groped blindly around. His hands contacted several cobwebs before finally finding the rungs of a steel ladder. He pulled himself upward until he was able to get one of his feet on the rungs.

"You still there, Maddie?" he called.

"Keep climbing," her voice said from somewhere above him. "You'll know when you get to the top."

He climbed, his arms and legs pushing him upward until they began to get sore. He knew the store was three stories high, which translated into about sixty feet. He tried not to think of the drop below him as he ascended. Finally a shaft of dim light appeared and he found himself next to the partially opened doors of the third floor elevator stop. Maddie's face was looking out at him.

"Now step across over to here," she said, holding out her hand. 

He took a few deep breaths as he pondered the drop he would suffer if he missed his step. Finally he screwed up his courage and stepped across, taking her hand and pulling himself through. It was easier than it looked. He was now in a dim hallway with office doors on both sides.

"I've been staying up here for about a week," Maddie told him. "In the security office. No one has found me here."

"I can see why," he said, following her down the hallway. "How did you find out about the ladder and all that?"

"I was chased in here," she said. "A squad of soldiers out on patrol saw me and my friend Ashley when we were getting water from the old fountain outside."

"Our soldiers?" he asked, although he knew it would have to be. A week ago the Chinese were still on the outskirts of the city.

"Yes," she said softly. "A squad of them. They were drunk and they surrounded us, started telling us to... well... do things for them. We ran from them. They caught Ash outside but I ran into the store and found the elevator and shut the doors behind me. I heard them looking for me and... and that's how I found the trap door in the top. Then I found the ladder and climbed up to the top."

"What happened to your friend?" he asked.

She sniffed a little. "I heard them raping her down on the bottom floor, just about where you were lying. She screamed for the longest time, begging for help, but there wasn't anything I could do. When they were done with her... they..."

"Shot her?" he asked, unsurprised. He had witnessed such atrocities many times himself though he had never participated in them. Many of the draftees fighting this war were criminals who had been given a choice between remaining in jail under wartime conditions or fighting. The fact that the girls they were raping were American citizens and the houses they were looting were American houses didn't seem to bother them in the least.

"I found her body the next morning," Maddie said. "She was lying naked down there, all bruised up, her head blown off. I buried her over by the fountain."

"I'm sorry," he said, although he wasn't sure just what it was he was apologizing for.

"You didn't do it," she said with a shrug.

"No, I didn't," he agreed. "I'm surprised you invited me up here though. I am wearing the same uniform, ain't I?"

"You're different," she said.

"How do you know that?"

She barked out a little laugh. "Maybe I don't," she admitted. "Maybe I'm just so tired of being alone and scared all the time that I just don't care anymore."

He nodded thoughtfully. He could certainly sympathize with that point of view.

The security office was not a large room. It was maybe fifteen feet by twenty. It was windowless, but a two-foot hole had been blasted in the far wall -- probably by an air-launched rocket -- allowing basic ventilation and a view to the outside if one stood on the bench just below it. The bench ran the length of that wall and had steel rings installed in it where shoplifters could be handcuffed. On the other wall was a bank of security monitors -- all dark of course -- and a complex control panel for controlling them. A few writing tables were next to the door. Sitting on one of them was a camp stove which Maddie had apparently lit before she'd come down after the seagull. Sitting atop the flame was a large, stainless steel pot full of boiling water. 




North of the River



"Is the water from the fountain?" he asked.

"Uh huh," she said. "This one is for cooking. If you need canteen water I'll boil you up some more later."

"Thanks," he said, sitting in one of the chairs and setting his rifle down.

He watched curiously as she carried the dead seagull over to the boiling water and, holding it by the neck, submerged it in the water. She held it there for a few seconds and then took it out, shaking it a few times to get the excess liquid off of it. She then sat down in the other chair and pulled a small garbage can over so it was between her legs. She began to pluck the seagull, her ragged fingers pulling the feathers out in clumps. "The hot water makes the feathers come out easier," she explained when she noticed his interest. "And then, once it's cleaned, I can boil it up in the pot."

"Where did you learn to do that?" he asked. There weren't many modern teenagers who would know the cleaning procedure for a seagull. "Did you grow up on a farm or something?"

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "As if," she replied. "Before the war I was the daughter of a lawyer living in a house overlooking the river. I was in the most popular clique in a private high school. I had my own Jetta and I was dating a pre-med student in his second year at WSU. And now look at me. I'm plucking a fuckin' seagull so I can fend off starvation for another day. The only reason I know how to do this is I went on a mission for my church once down to Nicaragua and saw how the poor people fixed their chickens. I never thought I would have to do it myself."

"What happened to your parents?" he asked.

"Dead," she said simply. "About two weeks ago, when everything started to go to shit here and the chinks started blowing everything up along the river with artillery, our house got hit. The shell came down right in my parents' bedroom."

"Do you have any other family?"

"My grandparents are in Bend. I was going to go live with them but I was never able to get across the river. First, all of our tanks and trucks were coming across the bridges to hold off the chinks. And then they all started to go back in the other direction. And then, when they started evacuating the citizens across I was too scared to go. The chinks were shelling people as they tried to leave." She shrugged. "I guess I thought it was safer to stay."

"Well... you're still alive," he said. "Maybe you made the right decision."

She shrugged again. "How much longer will I be alive?" she asked. "Am I supposed to wait out the rest of the war right here?"

"When the chinks get across the river the fighting will move further south," he said. "There will just be an occupying force here. No more bombing and shelling -- at least not like it is now."

"Will they get across the river?" she asked. "The last news reports I heard said we were going to stop them here."

Now it was his turn to shrug. It was a bitter gesture. "I don't think anything is going to stop them," he opined. "There's so fucking many of them. I've watched them take every position we've held, every city we've tried to save. They swarm over us like army ants. We kill thousands of them on foot, we blow up hundreds of their tanks with the AT-9s and with our own tanks, and they still keep coming. We hardly have a chance to dig in and take a stand against them before they're overrunning us. And when their tanks and foot soldiers aren't advancing, their helicopters and their arty and their airplanes pound the shit out of us. They drop napalm on us. They drop cluster bombs on us. They strafe us with their choppers." He shook his head. "The Columbia is a big river, but I don't think it's going to stop them."

She shook her head sadly. "This fucking war," she said. "Why the hell didn't we nuke them when we had the chance?"

"Because we never thought they would get this far," he said. "We could've annihilated China, India, and Japan back in the beginning without them being able to annihilate us back, but we didn't do it. No one wanted to make the decision to do it. And now we can't. They have all those Russian nukes under their control now. The first time someone fires off a nuke, it's holocaust city."

"And is this better?" she asked. "Destroying every city they go through. Killing hundreds of thousands with tanks and machine guns and airplanes instead of nukes?"

"I don't know," he said. "I don't even care anymore. I'm just a foot soldier, some stupid ass kid who thought it would be static to sign up for the army and go kill some chinks for my country. How old are you, seventeen?"

"I turned eighteen two months ago," she said, somewhat huffily.

"Well, I'm not much older than you. I was in high school this time last year, starting to think about where I wanted to go to college."

She smiled nostalgically at his words. "I remember what that was like," she said whimsically. "I was gonna get a cheerleading scholarship, can you believe that?"

He looked at her. Despite the dirt on her face and the filth on her clothes, despite the tangled mess that was her hair, he could tell she was a very pretty girl, far prettier than any he had ever touched. She was the epitome of the high school elite. "Yeah," he said with a smile. "I can believe it."

"What about you?" she asked. "What were your plans?"

"Computer systems engineering," he said.

She raised her eyebrows at the mention of this. "You mean you were a... a..."

"A nerd," he said. "About as nerdy as they come. I was captain of the chess team, founder of the computer club. I used to carry a PDA with me to class. Beer used to make me throw up. The only time I ever smoked pot I had an allergic reaction to it. The only girls who would have anything to do with me were the ones who wanted me to do their math homework for them."

"Wow," she said, trying to equate the image of the former Conner and the present one. "You seem so... so... un-nerdy now."

"Six months on the line will do that to you," he said. "I feel like I'm forty years old now. Like I've seen everything, done everything a man can do." He shook his head. "It's not really a good feeling, you know?"

"Yeah," she said, plucking another clump of feathers free. "I know."

When she got the last of the feathers free from the bird she reached inside one of the desk drawers and pulled out a large butcher knife. She chopped off the bird's head and neck. "This is the gross part," she said with a wince. She then forced her small hand through the hole in the top and began to pull out the guts of the bird, dropping them in the garbage can. Conner watched her impassively, unable to be disgusted by bird entrails. He had seen too many human entrails lately. At last, she pronounced the bird clean and dropped it into the pot of boiling water. She adjusted the propane flow a bit and then covered the pot with a lid.

"How long will it take?" Conner asked her.

"About two hours," she said. "Think you can wait that long?"

"I think I'll make it," he replied, stifling a yawn. "Do you mind if I... uh... kind of nod off for a while? It's been a few days since I got any sleep."

"Go right ahead," she said. "Do you want me to wake you up when the bird is done?"

"Yeah," he said. "I'm looking forward to a home cooked meal."

She laughed and started to say something else, but before it could come out of her mouth Conner was half asleep in his chair.

"Here," she said, reaching under the bench and pulling out a sleeping bag and some blankets. "Go ahead and lay down here."

"I couldn't," he said, eyeing the sleeping bag like it was a feather bed. "I'm filthy."

"You're no dirtier than I am. Go ahead. I insist."

"Well," he said, standing, "if you insist."

The rumpled sleeping bag and pillow was the most comfortable surface he'd laid on in the past month. This time unconsciousness did not just creep up on him, it assaulted him. Within three minutes he was snoring loudly, his rifle curled up next to him.

+++++

Her hand on his shoulder brought him awake. He sat up suddenly, going instantly from deep sleep to full alertness, his hands snatching up his rifle, his eyes tracking for trouble. He felt his heart hammering alarmingly in his chest as it went from 56 beats a minute to 130. Maddie was the only person in the room, her blue eyes wide and startled.

"Jeez," she said, a little defensively. "I didn't mean to scare you or nothing. I just thought you'd better eat."

He took a few breaths, allowing himself to calm down. The ability to wake in an instant was something he'd developed in his first week of combat, something he feared would stick with him forever, even if he did somehow manage to survive the war. "Sorry," he told her. "Sometimes you have to... you know... jump up and start shooting when you're on the line."

"It's okay," she said. "You just scared me a little."

Outside, the sound of artillery shells, jet aircraft, helicopter gunships, and muted explosions went on and on. But there was something about the quality of the light coming in from the window that didn't seem quite right. It was too dim. And then there was the fact that he felt almost rested, a sensation he hadn't been familiar with in quite some time. "How long was I asleep?" he asked.

She gave him a sheepish smile. "Almost ten hours," she told him. 

"Ten hours?" he asked incredulously. He hadn't had ten hours of sleep at a stretch since before leaving his parent's home in Omaha.

"I know I shoulda woke you up when the bird was done, but you were, like, way asleep. You were snoring and everything. You seemed like you needed to sleep more than you needed to eat so I... you know... just ate the bird myself and then went out and got you another one a couple hours ago."

"You mean... you left here and then came back... and I never woke up?" He wouldn't have thought that even possible, so attuned was he to the sound of nearby movement.

"You didn't even move," she said. "You stayed in the same position the whole time."

"Damn," he said wonderingly. "I really must've been tired."

"Your bird is done now though," she said brightly. She picked up a plastic plate with a skinned and boiled seagull sitting atop it. "And I boiled up some fresh water for you too."

He smiled, putting the rifle over his shoulder. "Thanks, Maddie," he told her. "But... uh... before I eat, I kinda have to... you know... use the latrine."

"The latrine?" she said, confused for a moment. Suddenly, she brightened. "Oh, you mean the bathroom." She then blushed. "I've uh... like... just been using... uh... the manager's office across the hall. There's not an actual toilet or anything in there, so you have to... you know?"

"Go on the floor?"

She nodded. "It's kind of... uh... messy in there."

"Believe me, it can't be worse than some of the places we've had to use on the line. Which way?"

She pointed and he got up, leaving the security office and walking across the hall. He opened the door and the smell of latrine hit him immediately. He found an unused corner and took care of his business. When he returned, Maddie was still blushing, obviously embarrassed at what he'd seen in there. He thought about offering some reassuring words to her but thought better of it. Deep down inside he was still an awkward teenager from the computer club and she was a member of the high school elite. He had killed hundreds of chinks, survived everything they could throw at him, and had become about as hardened a combat veteran as a man could become, but he still had very little experience with girls. He sat down in one of the chairs and put his rifle on his lap. 

"Here you go," she said, handing him the plate. "I'm sorry there aren't any... like... knives or forks or anything."

He shrugged. "I guess you won't get as much of a tip then, will you?"

That earned him another smile. He returned it and then dug into the bird.

The meat was every bit as greasy, foul tasting, stringy, and tough as she'd promised. But it was food, something his body was crying out for, and he ate it gladly, peeling long strips from it and sticking them into his mouth by the handful. He chomped and chewed aggressively for the better part of twenty minutes, destroying the breast, both legs, and the wings. He would have gone after the meat on the underside as well but Maddie warned him it was unpalatable.

"Thank you, Maddie," he told her as she wrapped the remains in a plastic bag for later disposal. "That was the best goddamn seagull I've ever had."

She giggled. "I aim to please," she told him.

The light was nearly gone from the sky now, imparting a dim duskiness to the former security office. Conner left the desk seat and settled down on the floor, his back against the wall. He yawned, surprised to find he was still tired. Maybe seagull meat had that same natural sedative that turkey meat had. Anything was possible, wasn't it? Maddie settled against the wall across from him, her tennis shoe clad feet nearly touching his.

"How long will that go on?" she asked, nodding towards the window, where the sound of explosions and artillery shells continued.

"For a while," he told her. "Two or three days maybe. The chinks are gonna pound the shit out every defensive position they can identify south of the river. They'll hit them with arty, strafe them with helicopters, and drop napalm on them with planes. They'll want to kill as many of us as they can before they try crossing the river."

"It must be horrible," she said, shaking her head.

"It's not a picnic," he agreed. "I'm sitting here wondering if I'm actually safer on this side of the river."

"So what happens now?" she asked him. "What are you going to do?"

"I've kind of been avoiding thinking about that," he said.

"Sorry."

"It's okay," he assured her. "I guess maybe I have to. I can't stay here forever. You can't either. Even if the chinks don't find you in here, you're not gonna be able to go on living off seagulls for very long. You'll get scurvy. And eventually, someone's gonna come along and blow this building up on general principals."

She looked a little frightened at this thought, which obviously hadn't occurred to her.

"Anyway, I'm sure I've been listed as MIA by now, that they've sent my parents the email explaining I'm just another soldier presumed killed or captured in the pullback from Vancouver. The army has already written me off." He shrugged. "They won't miss me much. The army that is, not my parents. They're probably worried sick about me, wondering if I'm dead or on my way to some chink POW camp."

"My grandparents are probably wondering the same thing," she said. "Is there any way to get out of here? To get back to our own side?"

"Not to the south," he said. "All the bridges across the Columbia have been blown. If the chinks push across they'll put up pontoon bridges once they secure a bridgehead on the other side, but I don't think they'll be letting us walk across them. It's a little too cold and a little too far across to swim, and even if we tried, either the chinks on the north side or our guys on the south side would just pot us out of the water anyway."

"So we're stuck here?" she asked. "Behind the lines?"

"That depends," he said, an idea starting to occur to him.

"On what?"

"On how well you know how to climb mountains."

"Mountains?" she asked. "What do you mean?"

"The chinks are driving down a narrow corridor," he explained. "They're contained between the Cascades and the ocean. As they move further and further south, they leave a few reinforced battalions behind to seal up each pass through those mountains to keep us from hitting their supply lines and getting forces in their rear. We're guarding the other side of each of those passes to keep them contained in their corridor. If we can get to the other side of the Cascades, we'll be back in friendly territory. But the only way we'll be able to do that is to stay well away from the passes. That means going over the mountains in the most impassible place possible, where it's completely inconceivable that any vehicles could get through. There won't be many troops guarding a place like that. Probably not any, just random helicopter sweeps."

"How long would it take to do something like that?" she asked.

"This is your home," he said. "You tell me."

She ran the geography of the state down in her head. "It would take a long time," she finally concluded. "A few weeks, I think, if we're just walking."

"That's about what I figured," he said. "And I'll add on a few more weeks because we won't just be strolling along. We'll have to hide and slink and move mostly at night. Hell, I'm not even sure we'll be able to get out of Vancouver without getting captured. And even before we try it, we're gonna have to secure enough food and warm clothing to carry us through. We're not talking a cakewalk here."

"No, it doesn't sound like it."

"You might not want to come with me," he said. "I have to get out of here. Or I have to try at least. I'm a soldier and if they find me they'll either kill me outright or send me to some fucking POW camp for the rest of the war. You're a civilian caught in an occupied area. I don't imagine it's a lot of fun living under chink occupation, but you might stand a better chance of living through the war if you stay put."

"No," she said immediately. "I'm going with you."

He smiled again, feeling warmth inside, but also a fear -- fear at being responsible, fear at being a failure in front of such a beautiful girl. "Okay then," he told her. "At first light tomorrow we'll start thinking about a way to get our hands on some supplies. How does that sound?"

"That sounds static," she said, beaming. "In the meantime, though, we're about to lose the last of the light. I'm gonna get some sleep, if that's all right."

"By all means," he said. "I think I'll do the same. I know I just slept all day, but I still feel like crashing out."

She took off her heavy jacket, revealing a flannel shirt beneath that was only marginally cleaner. She kicked off her tennis shoes and then unzipped her sleeping bag, folding it all the way back. She lay down on her back and pulled the blankets over herself. She looked up at him as he unzipped his tattered boots and kicked them off. When he started to head towards the far corner of the room, she asked, "Where are you going?"

"Just over here," he said. "Hopefully I won't snore too loud."

"It gets, like, really cold in here at night," she said. "Why don't you share the blankets with me? You'll be a lot warmer."

He felt himself blushing. Was she actually offering to let him... let him sleep with her? In her bed? "Uh... well... uh, that's okay," he said. "My BDUs are pretty warm. I've been sleeping outside all winter."

"I would be a lot warmer too," she said softly, her eyes bright and inviting. "Please?"

He swallowed, all of his high school awkwardness flooding back to him, his brain screaming at him to just leave, that this was some sort of a cruel setup, a practical joke precipitated by one of the jocks, a joke that would end with his underwear around his neck or his head in a toilet. But another part, a part that had faced battle, that had seen many of those same jocks blown to pieces because they were too big and too clumsy and too dumb to survive, that part gave him the confidence he needed. "Well," he said, "if you really want me to."

"I really want you to," she said, pulling the blankets back and patting the space next to her.

He set his rifle down on the ground next to the bed and then unclipped his web gear, shucking it off. With it went his extra magazine (which only had 13 rounds in it), his two frag grenades, his canteen, his first aid kit, and his radio with the dead battery. He set it next to the rifle. He then unzipped his BDU jacket, shrugging it off and setting it on the desk where he'd eaten earlier. He winced a little as he caught a whiff of the odor his body was giving off and wondered for a moment if he should put the jacket back on to cover it.




North of the River



"What's the matter?" Maddie asked him, seeing his hesitation.

"I... uh... haven't had a shower in a few weeks," he said slowly. "Maybe I should just sleep over there after all."

"You can't possibly smell any worse than I do," she said. "I haven't had a shower since our house blew up." She patted the bed again. "Come on, Conner. Come lay with me. I promise not to be offended."

"Okay," he said slowly. He walked over and let himself down, putting his body next to hers. He felt his leg touching the side of her jeans, his hip touching hers. He tried to scoot away but she wouldn't let him.

"It's okay, Conner," she said softly, putting her hand on his hip and forcibly pulling him against her. "It'll be warmer if we, like, kinda cuddle up, you know?"

"I... uh... I guess," he stammered. He remained on his back, relishing the sensation of her next to him. Even through all of the clothing, she felt soft against him. And even though he could smell the sour odor of girlish sweat clinging to her, it was not exactly unpleasant. He felt his penis hardening in his pants as it realized this was the closest he'd ever been to such an attractive girl.

She rolled up onto her side, facing away from him and then looked over her shoulder at him. "Well?" she asked.

"Uh... well what?"

"Are you going to cuddle me?"

He swallowed nervously. He had never cuddled a girl before and wasn't exactly sure how one went about it. He had never had a girlfriend before, had never even had a date. His entire history with the opposite sex consisted of two visits to a whorehouse outside Dallas, Texas during basic training. And, while he had gotten himself laid, the whores had treated the entire relationship like what it was, a business. Their goal had been to get him in and out -- so to speak -- as quickly as possible. They had most definitely not been into cuddling. "I... uh..." He swallowed again. "I mean..."

Maddie seemed to pick up what he couldn't say. "Just roll up against me," she told him. "Put your arm around me and pull the blankets over us. That way, we'll, like, share body heat."

Slowly, hesitantly, he did as she said, rolling up onto his right side, so his front was pushed against her back. He kept his hips back a little, fearful that she would feel his erection pushing against her if he made contact. He then took his left arm and draped it over her stomach. Her body felt extremely nice against him, soft and curvy and very feminine.

"Mmmm," Maddie sighed. "That's nice, Conner. Very nice. It feels good to have a man hold me. It makes me feel... you know... safe."

"I'm uh... glad I can... uh... help," he said, memorizing the feel of her soft stomach against his forearm.

They lay there silently, not moving as the last of the light disappeared and complete darkness conquered the room. Outside, the artillery barrage went on and on but Conner barely heard it, so enraptured was he to be actually in a bed with a pretty girl and holding her body next to his. His penis remained hard within his pants, begging to be ground up against Maddie. He resisted the urge, keeping it well away from her. What would she think if she felt it? Probably disgust. She would probably kick him out of her bed, possibly even out of her room.

Despite his efforts to keep it away from her, he soon found out what she would think. She squirmed a little in her bed, pushing her rear end backwards until it contacted him. The bulge of his crotch was now pushed firmly against her ass, exactly where she couldn't help but feel it. He tried to pull back away from her, horrified, embarrassed, but she moved with him, keeping the junction firmly together.

"It feels like you like me," she said softly, her tone indecipherable.

"I'm sorry," he blurted. "It's been a while... since... you know... and... and..."

"It's okay," she whispered. "I kind of like it."

"You... you... do?"

"Yes," she said with a naughty giggle. "It makes me feel... like... pretty, attractive. You know what I'm saying? I mean, I must look and smell like absolute shit, but I can still give an older guy a... you know... a stiffy."

"Uh... yeah," he said, licking his lips. "It's a... a stiffy all right."

She giggled again. "Do you want to... touch me?" she asked him.

"Tuh... touch you?"

"Uh huh," she said. "You know? Like... under my shirt? Under my pants?"

"Uhh..." he started, unsure how to respond. Nothing even remotely like this had ever happened to him. Was she really inviting him to... to... touch her?

"You can," she said, squirming a little against him, putting more pressure on his erection. "I kind of want you to. It reminds me of... like... the past, you know? Before the war. Of being in a car with my boyfriend. Will you touch me, Conner? Just for a little while?"

"I... uh... guess I could do that," he said through a dry mouth. "If you really want me to."

"I really want you to," she said.

He felt her hand atop of his, the one he had on her stomach. She grasped it, pushing it downwards, under the bottom of her flannel shirt. She then pulled it up, setting it on the soft skin of her bare stomach.

"Go ahead," she whispered. "Touch me. Feel me. Anywhere you want. Anywhere."

Trembling, excited beyond belief and nervous as hell, he began to rub his fingers around on her stomach. He passed over her bellybutton, over her flanks, felt the bottom of her ribcage. Her skin was silky smooth, so soft and pliable. She cooed a little as she felt his touch, her hips grinding just a bit against his hard-on. He moved his hand further upward, onto the bra cup of her right breast. He squeezed softly, getting the feel of it, in awe that he was actually gripping her tit. It was about the size of a grapefruit, soft, yet firm, as if it had been made to be squeezed.

"You can put your hand under the bra," Maddie told him gently.

Conner knew an order when he heard one. He brought his hand downward again and then squirmed his fingers under the bra cup. Soon he had her bare tit in his hand. The nipple was hard, pushing insistently against his fingers. He felt it, pinching it lightly. Maddie took in a sharp intake of breath as he did so, obviously enjoying his ministrations.

He decided to take a little initiative. He ground himself a little more firmly against her body, sending pleasurable tingles throughout his groin. Maddie seemed to like this, so he did it a little harder. As he moved his hand to her other breast, he moved his head forward. With his free hand he pushed her hair out of the way and began to kiss the back of her neck. He had read in the many Internet porn sites he'd perused over the years that girls liked it when you did that.

The Internet porn sites were apparently right. The effect on Maddie was nothing short of dramatic. She arched herself more firmly against him and her breathing speeded up to a near pant. "That's nice," she said, desire clearly in her voice. "Very nice, Conner."

"Yes," he panted back, still unable to believe this wasn't a wet dream he was going to awaken from at any moment.

Suddenly she was squirming into a new position. She twisted herself until she was on her back. "Suck them," she told him. "Suck my nipples, Conner. I want to feel your mouth on me."

He made a growl in reply, his mouth incapable of forming speech at the moment. He extricated his hand from her shirt and then began to tug on it, rucking it up to her neck. She reached down herself and pulled up her bra, releasing her breasts from their confinement. He lowered his face down, operating by feel only since there was no light. He felt the jiggly flesh against his cheek, the nipple pushing into his chin. He adjusted himself and slurped the hard protrusion into his mouth.

"Oh yessss," Maddie sighed, her hand going to the back of his head.

As he suckled first one nipple and then the other, he put his hand back on her stomach and began to move it downward, towards her crotch. She had told him he could feel her anywhere and he figured that standing order still applied. He grasped the button of her jeans and, when she didn't protest, pulled on it until it opened.

"Mmmm, yessss," Maddie moaned in his ear. "Do it, Conner. Touch me. Feel me up."

He found the zipper and pushed it down, opening the pants enough to allow his hand admittance. He pushed his fingers in the opening and felt the silkiness of her panties. He allowed this sensation to register for a few moments and then moved onward, forcing his fingertips under the waistband of them, onto the skin of her lower stomach. He found the going a little rougher than he'd anticipated here but, with persistence, he was soon touching the crinkly hair of her pubis. He pushed lower until he encountered wetness and her slippery lips. Though he was inexperienced, he could tell she was incredibly turned on by what he was doing to her. This gave him confidence unlike anything else that had happened. He had actually turned a woman on! He had! The boy who had once thought that even the Dallas whores would refuse to sleep with him.

He pushed even lower, until his middle finger was firmly entrenched between the lips of her vagina. He rubbed up and down for a bit, smearing her juices around, drenching his finger, and then curled the finger inward, forcing it inside of her. She was tight, he realized excitedly. Incredibly tight. Her muscles gripped at his digit, trying to pull it in further. Her entire pelvis rose off the ground, assisting in this effort. She was now panting like an engine, her breath rushing in and out, occasional moans punctuating his efforts when he touched her in a particular way. His engineering-oriented mind quickly learned to duplicate these sensations and expand upon them, bringing further pleasure to her.

She suddenly gripped his forearm in hers, almost hard enough to cause pain. "I want you to fuck me," she told him.

"Huh?" he stammered, his awkwardness coming back in an instant. Did she just say what he'd thought she'd just said?

"Yes!" she said, pulling his hand out of her pants. "I want you inside of me. Oh God, fuck me, Conner! I'm, like, so fucking horny right now!"

He heard her squirming around on the bed beneath him. Though he couldn't see her, it didn't take a genius to figure out what she was doing. She was taking her pants off. She was not kidding around, not teasing, not participating in some elaborate practical joke. She really did want him to fuck her. He heard the pants slide down her legs, heard her kick them off. The smell of her crotch hit his nose at the same time. It was a thick, musky, sweaty smell, obviously made much stronger than it was meant to by the lack of recent bathing. It should've been overpowering, even gross, but it wasn't. It was the most erotic thing he had ever smelled in his entire life.

"Come on, Conner," she pleaded, her bare leg raising up and rubbing against his flank. "Do me, baby! Get your pants off!"

That kicked him into gear. He rose up and began fumbling with his belt. His hands were trembling so badly it took him three tries before he was finally able to open it. She wanted to fuck him! And he hadn't even paid her! At last, he was able to get the buttons undone and the zipper pushed down. He rolled over onto his back and pushed the pants down and off, his filthy GI underwear going with them. His cock was as hard as it had ever been before, wet and dripping pre-cum. He had a momentary fear as he realized he wouldn't last very long, but Maddie stifled it by reaching out and wrapping her fingers around him.

"Oh yes," she said, jacking it up and down a few times. "It's a nice one. Nice and big and hard."

Nice and big? Had she really said that? In all of the porno stories he'd read over the years, the guys all had cocks of at least nine inches. His was only seven and a half. Was she just trying to stroke his ego?

"Come on," she said again, pulling at him. "Get on top of me. Please?"

He rolled atop her, getting into position exactly as he'd done in the whorehouses. At least those experiences had done something for him. He slid between her spread legs and felt her hand tugging his cock forward. He felt the head touching her wetness, felt her smearing the tip up and down. He had another momentary fear about pregnancy -- after all, they had no condoms -- but that too disappeared once she seated him between her lips and began to pull on his with her hands on his ass.

"Fuck me," she said. "I want to feel it!"

He pushed forward, finding the going extremely difficult at first. She was very tight, almost too tight, certainly nothing like the whores he'd fucked before. He felt the head penetrate her and then stop, refusing to go further. He pulled out a little and then pushed in again, going deeper this time, about a half an inch past the head.

"Yesssss," Maddie moaned. "That feels so good. Put it all the way in. Allllllll the way!"

He pulled out and then pushed in further, sinking deeper this time. He did it again and then again, going deeper into her body with each thrust. Soon he was balls deep in her, his pubis mashed against hers. Both of them sighed at the penetration, Conner in particular as he felt her tightness gripping him like a sheath, putting pressure on his entire length. He began to rut in and out of her, moving smoothly and precisely for about twenty seconds, enjoying the caress of her passage, enjoying the feel of her smooth body moving beneath him, of her contented pants in his ear.

"Yes, yes, yes," she moaned as his butt rose up and down, as he slid in and out of her tightness. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck meeeeeeee!"

His thrusts quickly became erratic as he heard her pleasurable moans, her obscene words. Though the whores had whispered such sentiments as well, they had not even made the attempt to pretend they were sincere, nor would he have believed them if they had. But with Maddie, she really was sincere. She really was enjoying what he was doing to her, the feel of his cock in her pussy, the feel of him fucking her. Fucking her!

The orgasm hit him so quickly and so powerfully he didn't even have time to try to prevent it, to try to think of war bonds or Allied strategies or computer code. One second he was in control, the next, pleasure was exploding through his body and he was spurting blast after blast of hot semen into her body, his hips rising and falling spastically, his mouth biting at her neck to keep from screaming.

"Ohhhhh, Godddddd," he groaned as he poured himself out into her.

"Ohhhhh, yesssss," she moaned as she felt it.

It was only after the last spurt had shot, only after the immediate pressure was released, that it occurred to him he'd just put in a pathetic performance. Maddie hadn't cum! Though he had never experienced a female cumming as a result of his ministrations, he was reasonably sure the event had not taken place. She was excited, sure, but orgasm? No. Though his natural inclination was to stop thrusting, to collapse atop her and whisper sweet nothings in her ear while his cock slowly shriveled up to normal size, he fought it. He continued thrusting, driving his wet cock into her overflowing passage.

"Ooooh," Maddie said, surprised. "You're not gonna... oooh, you're... oh!"

He began to move faster and harder, moving his cock in such a way that the sensation caressed it firmly enough to prevent it from shriveling. He found it was exactly the manner in which Maddie enjoyed him moving as well. Now it was her words that became incoherent, her body that began to thrust up and down in an out of control manner.

"Oh my God, Conner, you're gonna... oh... you're gonna... Ohhhhhhh!"

He redoubled his efforts, slamming in and out of her, grinding at the bottom of each stroke, rubbing himself on her exposed clitoris. She began to tremble beneath him now, her fingernails biting into his back through his T-shirt. When she finally came, it was an amazing thing to be a part of, an experience that would forever shield him from being fooled by a fake orgasm. She had a near seizure beneath him, her legs tightening around his ass. Her vaginal muscles clenched down on him, nearly hard enough to bridge the gap between pleasure and pain.

"Ahhhhhhh, Goddddddd!" she screamed out, loud enough so that any passing Chinese soldiers on the street below might have heard her.

She relaxed against him but he wasn't done. He kept thrusting, slamming in and out and grinding his body. By now his cock was once again very interested in staying in the game, was begging for another release. There was no way he was going to stop now. He put his mouth to hers, kissing her for the first time. Though he hadn't brushed his teeth in quite some time, though he had been eating seagull for dinner, and though she had been doing the same, he didn't care, and neither did she. Their tongues came together, swirling against one another, probing each other's mouths. She came again a few minutes later, the spasms and groans indicating it was even more powerful than the first. He came shortly after, his orgasm weaker than the first, but certainly nothing to complain about.

At last, both of the sated, he collapsed atop her. They shared a few more deep tongue kisses, their remaining passion grounding like an electrical current, gradually easing off to more affectionate kisses of lovers, of friends.

"Wow," she said at last. "That was, like... you know... wow."

"Yeah," he said, already feeling the pull of sleep trying to take him.

"I've been, you know, like fucked before... but never like that," she said. "No one has ever made me cum before."

He shrugged, as if satisfying lovers was something he did a couple a times a day. "I guess you just haven't found the right man," he said.

"I guess not," she said with a giggle. She took a few more breaths, her hands continuing to caress his back. "I think I can sleep now," she told him. "I feel nice and relaxed. Safe."

"Me too," he said, truthfully.

"Will you still hold me tonight?" she asked, her voice very much that of a little girl.

"Yes," he told her. "I'll hold you. I'd love to."

They repositioned themselves, neither bothering to put their clothes back on. She snuggled up against him, his arms around her. Within minutes, both drifted off, neither thinking about what tomorrow was going to bring.

Al Steiner

March 25, 2004



North Sea Crossing Pt.0 1



Simon George knew he was one of the luckiest 33-year-old Englishmen alive.

He knew it well, that day on ferry-cum-cruise liner, the SS Toksvig, as it ploughed the North Sea on its way back from Esbjerg to Harwich.

Simon, after a few false career starts, had found himself writing travel features for a regional newspaper group based in the east of England. This was why he was right now enjoying the free hospitality in the "elite" bar of the SS Toksvig, well away from the rampaging packs of college students who were on variants of the Scandinavian art history cruise.

Yes, he had done rather well for someone written off as a failure at 17. He had never made it as an athlete, a singer, nor as a photographer. All three had seemed like possible careers until his drug-addled early 20s, and all three proved to be way beyond his abilities, or his ability to push others out of his way.

But now, he was flying. He hardly even thought about the not so lucky aspects of his life. Like his almost complete lack of success with women.

In fact , that was his chief unlucky aspect: that he had never had any success with women. It puzzled him slightly, because, or so he felt, he had so much to offer. 

In fact, he had even more to offer than he knew himself - but he was about to find this out in the most pleasurable of ways.

Yeah, it was true, Simon had a bit too much time for himself. He believed he was a loving person. Trouble was no girl seemed the slightest bit inclined to give him the chance to prove this. They definitely avoided him. Was it written on his forehead - this guy is bad news? No, it seemed to say something more off-putting: "Look at me, admire me, but don't get close to me".

Yes. Like Cain's birth-mark, Peter's lack of sexual confidence was there for all too see in his body language, in his propensity to blush and stammer whenever anyone he fancied came within a hundred yards. He was quite bright, could be funny, had a few male friends, but they all had "partners" now. And beneath the apparent insouciance and arrogance there was actually a frustrated little boy who hated himself profoundly.

He was over 6ft 2, lean and athletic looking (although it was over a decade since he'd run more than the length of a bar-room), good skin, dark hair, big wide-set dark brown eyes with long, quite girly lashes. Yes, he was a touch perhaps on the effeminate side. He also had hardly any body hair, and could not grow a beard.

Maybe that was the problem. He remembered that year when he stayed at his sister's whilst she was in hospital giving birth, and the neighbours really thought the brother was having a week of passion with his "bit on the side". Because back then, when he had his Charles II locks, and wore tight short t-shirts and crazy hippy pants, he could easily pass for a tall, skinny but rather strikingly pretty girl. He had a waist and slender hips, snake-hips he liked to think. Chick-hips, everyone else thought.

Yes, well, fuck the lot of them, he thought to himself, as the lovely Latvian waitress cleared the crockery from his singleton's table. Watching her, absorbing her wide smile, he felt a slight stirring of the soft little worm that nested uncomfortably in his too-brief briefs. 

Simon sighed, inwardly. The waitress must have known he was writing an article about this voyage, and that she had to be extra-nice and extra efficient. He only had to say a few well-chosen words and who knows...but no, he couldn't. No point trying really. He'd already found out she had a hunk of a Swedish boyfriend back in - of all places - Ipswich.

His proposed article was the usual rubbish. The paper liked his proposal of a "cut-price away-three-days" hop over from the suffolk coast of England to what he liked to call the "sex capital of Europe", Copenhagen - and then on to Oslo, the "capital of gloom". He got no sex at all in wonderful Copenhagen. He could have but it would have cost more than his expenses ran to.

His brief from the features editor was "750 words, facts and figures, a list of famous Danes and famous Norwegians, a list of good places to eat and drink - smutty jokes and double entendres, bring them on, but no filth, pur-lease! "

The editor need not have worried, for Simon was a past master at delivering precisely what they wanted: the right mix of hinted sex, pickled herrings, and a few lousy jokes at the expense of all those funny old foreigners.

A drag to write, but it meant he had as much booze and food as he needed for three days, for nothing, and that mattered. And it got him out of his ludicrously expensive pad in a new-build block near the railway station, sold to yuppies because it was "only 45 minutes to King's Cross".

He thought he'd go back to his "luxury" cabin, have a shower, change and then try all the bars, one after the next, and drink himself to sleep. First he went back on deck. It was a lovely evening, the North Sea for once was almost smooth, golden. Small groups of teenagers were smoking and canoodling and larking around, plump middle aged couples were gawping at the sunset.

Simon turned his back on them and headed down to his deck, finding it hard to remember which corridor to take. The boat was like a floating shopping mall, but all the shops looked the same. When he hit the home straight, he realised that what - on the outward journey - had been his private domain was now choc-a-bloc. He had a four-berth cabin all to himself, but now all the other cabins on this corridor were full - full, it seemed to him, of very noisy, mainly female students, Danish he supposed, but pretty multi-cultural.

In fact he had to squeeze past many hot and sweaty young women and climb over their giant backpacks, as the new passengers compared each other's cabin facilities, chattering and laughing the length of the passageway. 

He took refuge in his cabin, slammed the door, and began undressing for the long-awaited shower. He turned it on so that it would run good and hot before he got in. It was almost a point of honour that he should use up all the free shampoos and lotions provided. Just as he was about to apply the cocoa-butter skin-cream, there was a loud rapping on his door.

"Hang on, hang on, coming, coming," he sang. The fluffy white towel around his skinny midriff, he opened the door an inch: "Yes?"

"Oh sorry, you have towels? They no put towels in our cabin?" The short, plump dark-skinned girl pushed her cheerful face around the door, as if casing the joint. She took an eyeful of Simon's towel-clad, gothic statue of a body and added, giggling: "Wow, you are pretty damn emaciated!"

Then she added: "Hey really sorry, if I'd known you were a guy I'd've left ya in peace, just assumed it was all chicks on this floor!"

"No, really, I'm fine, and look, if you really need towels, there's a couple of extras here."

"Wow thanks, look I 'm Irma, we're all from Toronto Uni? Just loved the Scandi tour, now heading back to London for the best two weeks of the tour - we hope! - then back home and stuff and yeah, drop by for a chat later if you like."

It struck Simon that this Irma was completely stoned.

"Oh thanks, Irma, well I thought I'd go for a drink or two...the Bar Havana looked, well, OK. If any of you fancied a drink..."

Simon had astonished himself. He was getting flirty with a plump stoned Canadian girl of about 21 - but, if he were to be honest about it, it was not Irma he was after, but the taller, slimmer, shyer girl he noticed her talking with earlier in the corridor. He assumed she was also in the next cabin, and already his active imagination was racing ahead of itself.

It's fair to say Simon was a bit on the vain side - again, this paradoxical mixture of extreme self-loathing and narcissism was evident in his choice of body-hugging, almost camp outfits. His evening out fit for this trip comprised skin-tight black trousers, with a narrow, orange leather belt, an indigo silk shirt and a rather skimpy, body-contoured black leather bomber jacket. Slightly pointy black suede boots completed his soft-punk professor look.

As he strolled in Bar Havana - which looked very much like the other three bars on this floating car park - he immediately saw three of his neighbours a corner alcove, and they saw him and beckoned energetically.

"Hi!" said Irma. "Meet Francesca, meet Thalia, the two most beautiful art history majors in Toronto, you're real lucky to be with us I tell you, ain't he guys?"

Francesca certainly was very well put together, thought Simon as he introduced himself. And as for Thalia, another stunner: he was able to compare and contrast the relative merits of Italian and Greek female beauty right here, via Toronto and Denmark, in the middle of the North Sea.

However, Simon noticed sadly that "his" girl was not there.

His thought seemed to be the cue: "Where's Leila got to?" 

"Said she was coming up for a coke, but you know what she's like", said Irma, adding waspishly, "she probably got to read some verses first."

The mischievous Irma confronted him: "So tell us all about yourself and especially your sex life," as she poured him a beer from the massive jug on the table.

"Don't mind her, she always does this with guys", said Francesca, laughing but also blushing slightly.

Luckily Simon did not have to answer as the fourth girl made her entrance at just the right moment. Her long, elegant legs, encased in tight faux-leather jeans were right in front of my eyes.

"Oh sorry", she said, tripping over his clumsy foot. A rather skimpy cream alpaca jumper did not reach the top of these low-cut jeans, and there was a very provocative segment of golden-brown lower abdomen on display. The jumper clung to the small, widely-spaced peaks of her breasts, and was deep cut at the neck, revealing again the most delightful collar bones you could hang a body from. Higher up, this fabulously sensual creature did not disappoint: her gorgeous face, the wide-set, sparkling eyes, the proudly aquiline nose, wide, generous mouth, shining teeth all set perfectly against the flawless café au lait of her skin.

Simon shuffled along the banquette to make space for her, she climbed over his knees, and sat herself down. As she sat, Simon could not help noticing a flash of her lower vertebrae, the delightful depression of the coccyx, and then a more surprising flash of the waistband of a shockingly bright red thong peeking out of the jeans.

"I'm Leila," she smiled, holding out her fragile hand, which he touched lightly, "Sorry am late. I had to text my brother. He's back in Beirut, I have to text him every day."

She looked hard at him with those eyes, those smiling eyes, and Simon felt himself bathed in warm Mediterranean sunshine. "I like your shirt," she said, "It's silk?" She touched the cuff lightly with one finger, and then nodded, "Oh yes, good silk, very good..."

"Er, yeah, it is" he mumbled. Noticing she was not drinking the beer, Simon took a risk: "Can I get you a drink?"

"Nah, I'll get her her diet Coke", said Irma. "You carry on telling us all about your wild sex life...!"

"Irma!" said Francesca with mock anger.

"Oh my god, I wanna hear all about it too!" said Leila. The damage, Simon thought, was done. That little minx Irma a had it in for him and wanted to wreck his chances even before he had any chances.

"He's a travel writer, he must have girls in every port" the wicked Irma continued as she dodged to the bar. "Don't spare the details!"

The three other girls did not seem at all phased by any of this: indeed they look attentive, as though they really expected Simon to launch into an account of a debauched life that in reality did not exist. He was going red in the cheeks.

"Oh, poor boy", said Thalia, "she's embarrassed you, she always does this. Don't worry, let's just drink lots and think about dinner!"

"Well actually", he stammered, squirming a bit as he heard his own voice, "you could all come for a meal on me in the so-called Royale, it'll be on the house, you can order whatever you want..."

"Wow, that'd be great, yeah? I mean, are you sure?"

Irma came back with Leila's diet coke and picked up on the talk of a free posh dinner and was very excited.

"See, I told you it was worth while me seducing him," she giggled. 

"You didn't'.

"Oh yes I did and I've already seen him naked too," she laughed.

"And he was very nice but a bit skinny".

That was it, Simon thought, he had to fight back! "Er, look, Irma dear, all I did was lend you two towels and I was not naked, well not entirely...I mean..."

"Yeah, well, whatever, hey aren't you guys hungry?"

"Well Simon said he'd kindly take us to the blingy restaurant on the top deck" flashed Leila, and as she turned for confirmation he caught her eyes, she was looking at him with such a concentrated look of need, he was taken aback. He realised he was in the company of four extremely sexy girls, on a ship in the middle of the sea, away from all cares and inhibitions. He could be somebody else. Or - more to the point - he could at last, for the first time, be himself. His real self, or his fantasy self - which?

As they stood to leave the bar, a short guy with a baseball cap and half-grown moustache came up to them, put his hand on Leila's shoulder and whispered angrily into her ear. Her face clouded, she pushed him away and said something harsh in what Simon liked to think was Beirut street Arabic. The lad snapped one word back and stomped off.

"What the fuck's he up to now" chorused the other girls. 

"Oh, just sticking his stupid little dick-head in where it's not wanted" Leila sniffed. "He'll never change. He thinks he's still back in west Beirut, and that he can boss all the girls around as much as he likes. I bet he's on the phone now to my bro telling him I've gone all haram and honky." .

They entered the restaurant, the lovely Latvian waitress took them to the best table, giving Simon a very satirical look indeed. "Would the ladies like an aperitif? Your usual martini, sir?"

"You see, I told you he had a wild sex-life", Irma stage-whispered, nudging Francesca in her lovely ribs. "He's had this one already".

"That's enough, Irma", Simon snarled, mock angry. "Bring us some champagne please, my dear, on ice, and some nibbles too, please" he said, happily losing his own plot, and following something he must've read in a tacky magazine article.

That's how the evening progressed. They drank a lot, ate little, talked ceaselessly, and the talk got wilder and dirtier. Irma would not let go and as the others got more drunk they joined in the spirit. Things were going just as SImon had hoped, if he were honest, and when Thalia suggested they all go up on deck for a smoke, he agreed almost too eagerly.

It was cold, now, and the wind was strong, so that it was difficult to roll the spliffs, let alone smoke them. They were crouched by the massive funnel of the ship, which was warm but stank of diesel. There were dozens of other kids up there too, all smoking and swigging at bottles. Art history majors, my arse they are a cultured lot, Simon thought snobbishly to himself.

"Is crazy, let's go back to the cabin" said Francesaca.

"Can't smoke in there though"

"Smoke it as we go back"

Thye each took exaggerated tokes on the big fat spliff Irma had rolled, and it hit Simon too fast. 

What with the swell and the booze, he suddenly felt he was going to vomit hard. He crouched down, the girls saw and became all nursey and concerned. "It's ok, I just have to get something out" he muttered, stumbling towards the railing. He was copiously sick into the heaving sea, his vomit blowing back onto deck further along the boat, just msisng an entangled couple.

"Uh-oh, we'd better get scarce," laughed Irma, and they all traipsed down the steep steps, through the the steel doors, down, down, the shops and bars passing in a blur.

The next thing Simon knew he was on a lower bunk-bed, Leila was sitting on the pillow next to his head, helping him drink water. Someone had taken his jacket and boots off and loosened his belt.

He suddenly felt absolutely fine, as the weed kicked in again, this time in a very good way.

"Oh, you're so kind, thanks, I feel fine now, just got the horrid taste out of my..."

Before Simon could say any more, Leila planted a finger on his lips, said, "Shhhh!" - then gave him a smacking kiss on those same lips, with her full, remarkably articulate lips, lips that you could almost call muscular, there was power in that kiss even though she held back her tongue. For now.

"Hey Ley, steady on, don't hog on that joint gal! "

"Yeah we all want a taste" 

They were sitting on the other bunk, and Irma was dealing a pack of cards into four piles. "Thought the old games are the best, we're gonna play poker."

"Nah that's boring shit, if you wanna get naked just get naked!" yawned Thalia.

"She always does get naked" Francesca laughed.

"So do you!" said Leila.

"Yeah we all do, except you" accused Francesca. "You never do - it's against your religion right?

Leila was silent for a bit, then she chuckled to herself and said something that shocked Simon to his core:

"It's not us who are going to get naked. It's Simon. He's gonna put on a show for us, aren't you Simon, sexy Simon?"

The four girls fell silent, and looked hard at soft, soppy Simon.

"Simon, brother, you're gonna have to do what Leila said. It will be good for us all."

"I...uh...I'm not sure I can do that...really. Not sure at all."

He looked down at his shirt , which he now realised had also been unbuttoned since his little drama with the vomit. 

Before he could think any more, Irma and Leila jumped over to the bunk, rolled his long legs out, and began tugging at the tight black trouser. "You might need a little help it seems"

They had them down to his knees in no time and he did not resist. As a matter of good taste he insisted on taking off his bright red socks before the trousers were fully removed.

The dark blue silk of the shirt framed the front of his white underpants very nicely. The small bulge of his genitals seemed to be untroubled, there was no movement there. It was like just another nice set of curves, complementing his very smooth belly, and the curve of his almost hairless thighs.

The four girls sat almost primly, facing him, studying their subject as if they were about to draw him.

The reverential atmosphere was destroyed by Irma of course: "Show us your tits then love!"

Somehow - probably the weed - he was getting into this weirdness. He gave a saucy little shake of his shoulders, then slowly slipped the shirt down one arm to reveal one nipple. It was dark and as erect as a male nipple can be. 

Now almost dancing he let the other sleeve slide down the arm , then shook the shirt right off his wrists and turned to give them a good full view of his torso, which, it had to be said, was rather lovely in its whiteness and its slim smoothness and its subtle curvaceousness, the thin arms were not un-muscular, the long elegant hands crooked in a camp way, one up, one down. 

"More, more!" they chanted.

He sashayed around a bit, hooking his thumbs and and fingers in the waistband of the briefs, the very tight white briefs. He turned his back to them, stuck out his rump, and half-bared one cheek.

The applause made him repeat this for the other cheeks, then both cheeks.

"OMG what a lovely tight little set of buns!"

The pompous Simon returned for a minute. "And that sweet ladies is all you get from me tonight, good night, good night," he sang as he swayed toward the door.

"Oh no, you ain't going nowhere" four voices in unison sang.

They were up on him, he was forced onto the bunk, and four pairs of hands went for his little white knickers.

They started hungrily, pulling and pulling at them, until Leila said, "No, not yet, let's wait. Let's enjoy the rest of him first."




North Sea Crossing Pt.0 1



"Don't worry dear, we're not going to be nasty to you," said Francesca. "The opposite, we want tho give you a lovely massage. Up and down your lovely body".

They sat him back on the bunk, eased him back against the wall, and started stroking his smooth limbs, his ribcage, his long, smooth belly, his loins.

"Close your eyes, lie back, enjoy it" breathed Leila. Kneeling on the bunk, she moved closer and applying her hands to his chest from above, paying a lot of attention to his nipples.

"You know, touching Simon is bringing my inner lesbian right out to the front" said Irma. "He's got the body of a rather sexy girl."

"Simon's a lady-boy, or ladyman" said Thalia. "All you need is boobs and you could be a supermodel, with those long curving thighs.

As she said this she slid her hands lightly up both thighs, right to the top and over the front of his briefs, ruffling their contents gently with a wonderfully suggestive smile. 

"Yeah, that's all you need. Boobs. You've even got a perfect thigh-gap at the top, look. 

They stood him up and turned him around and all agreed the waist, hips and thighs were not merely feminine, they were the stuff of some men's dreams. Well, certainly fashion designers.

"You have the body of a 17 year old anorexic from Ljubljana!" yelled Francesca.

"Why Ljubljana?"

"Dunno, just sounded good."

"It's a pity his bum's not just a big softer, a bit bigger, you know... then he'd really be one of us".

Thalia and Francesca were now kissing each other as they stroked the man-boy, and sometimes they stroked each other. Irma took no notice and worked diligently on massaging Simon's head and temples, chanting in an almost comic way. Leila played her fingers on Simon's tummy, round and round the navel, then down the tiny path of little downy hairs towards his core, and she was shaking with the electricity she was giving and receiving. She did not know if she could keep her cool much longer.

"He's nice, but not very macho", Leila purred to herself. She poked her little finger into and out of his navel, saying rhythmically as she did so, "I would like to take you back home and me and my mom and my sisters and my girlfriends would all look after you very very well. Yes we would, oh yes we would. 

"But we wouldn't ever let you out the house!" 

"Tough shit Leila, I'm having him".

"No, he's mine." shouted Francesca.

Thalia said, "Oh yuck! You all can have him and wipe his bottom. I will just visit him in secret every night!"

All four started to tickle him mercilessly on the sides of his stomach, and his feet, he curled up, they were all laughing hysterically, and they started singing a made-up song, "our lady-boy, with his lady legs, and his lady little fingers, his lady lips and his lady hips - but what about his lady bits?"

"I think his lady bits are just a bit like ours too" said Francesca." I think it is time we see. From outside it looks like he has a very tiny penis, if he has one at all."

One by one they felt the soft bump and the two little bumps below it. "Let's guess its length and see who wins," said Irma.

"Five!" "Five and a half"

"Four"

"Four what? Centimetres? Hard or soft?"

"Hard, it will be seven centimetres, soft, about two and a half", said Thalia with the voice of authority. "I can tell, it is tiny!"

"Well maybe not. Look at his knickers now!"

They all stared. After a long hibernation, his little friend had woken up and was stretching himself, up and up and up...

"Oh god, how much is in there?" said Thalia. It was entrancing - the knickers were now pulling away from his belly at the top, and the thin white cotton was stretching to its limits.

With an almost audible "thrupp" his penis broke free from its confines, and quivered in the warm air like an arrow that had just hit a target.

It was much longer than they'd expected - but also thinner. 

And - by god, it was not an illusion - it was still extending, still climbing. The curve upward was as elegant as all the other curves on this lady-boy-man's body, and as this marvel continued to rise, so the foreskin rolled itself slowly back and a pink, shiny helmet was revealed. Its one slit eye winked at them all, and the now wavering shaft took a little bow, as if expecting applause. Which it got.

Simon seemed as surprised as they were. He too had never experienced quite such a spectacular erection.

"Someone find a ruler!" said Irma, in a voice that was strangely strangled. 

But no-one did. They all seemed in awe of this unearthly thing, this apparition, it might have come from another galaxy. But it was so thin and elegant. The tip was like the barb to some fantastical harpoon, designed, perhaps, to spear mermaids.

Simon's wonderful penis seemed to be rising again, and getting even longer and thinner - but then there came this tap tap tapping on the door.

Then a louder rap rap rap! And a hissing voice, "Leila! Leila, I know you're in there! Come out, I need to talk, NOW!"

"Oh fucking shit!" said at least four of the cabin occupants in unison.

To be continued...



North Sea Crossing Pt.0 2



Simon was alone, in his bunk bed, wearing only his underpants. It was 7.45am and the sea swelling outside the porthole was oily-grey. 

A banging at the door had awaked him - or was that the banging at the door last night? He remembered the previous evening's events with astonishing clarity, a mixture of shame sauced with sharp, deep pangs of excited pleasure. Was he really undressed by four beautiful young women, and did they really watch with such reverential silence as his member transformed itself before their eyes, from a little worm to a tall, elegant stem of flesh?

Yes, that really happened. He tried to relive the incredible feeling he'd experienced, that delicious tingling right at the core of his being that he had felt when he looked, one by one, deep into those four pairs of eyes, as those eyes stared greedily, transfixed by the vision of this ascendant member. 

And how their eyes looked up and into his eyes, and then back down, and then back up, and how their lips quivered, how one by one they were licking their dry lips with just the tips of their tongues, still staring, shuffling closer on their knees towards this shaft, now swaying gently as if in a light breeze, now stiffening up again proudly, the tip now glistening. And then, and then...

And then the chubby oaf with half a moustache bashed at the door. Only Irma seemed to know what to do. She threw a shirt over Simon's now fast-collapsing erection, and bundled him into the bathroom. Meanwhile, Leila shouted at the door, "Just fuck off, idiot, I am going to bed right? I am being a good girl."

Not satisfied, the chubby young man with the half-moustache stuck his grinning face round the door and yelled some more insults at her. Then he said, "I know that screwy guy has been with you. If I see him around he'll regret ever talking to you. This is the last warning, and your bro not going to be at all happy when I tell him what you just said".

Which took SImon right back to the present. There had been a second banging, this time at his door. He notice a slip of paper on the coarse green carpet and instantly realised that it was going to be some sort of threat. It was even clumsier than he expected - scrawled on the back of some instructions for a replica pistol (a 9mm Luger) in red marker pen, it said, "TOUCH HER AGAIN = YOUR DEAD." Subtle, or what?

Next he remembered why he was here and that he had a job to do. It was his duty to try out every facility on this boat, and he had already decided to make full use of the saunas and steam rooms boasted about on the tour company's website.

It was still early, enough, he hoped, to get the best of the steam rooms to himself. 

He pulled on a pair of swimming shorts, jeans and a t-shirt, grabbed a towel and made his way quietly down into the bowels of the ship where all the sauna facilities were located. As he passed the four girls' cabin, he put his ear to the door: not a sound.

Now, he imagined, they were sleeping it off, and would wake up with some big regrets about the previous evening. That's what he thought but the was completely wrong.

On the other side of the door, the four young women were very much awake. They were listening for his every move. None had slept well - least of all Leila, who, curled up in her chaste pale blue pyjamas, could think of nothing but this curious young man. Her ideas about men had been formed too young and too brutally, and this curious, delicate, alabaster figure with his girlish curves and his elegant limbs, and then his strange...but no, she could not think about that, she had to shut that out of her mind. Somewhere in her head lived an angry old man with a red right hand, and this old man prevented her thinking some things...or so had been the case until this long, torrid night.

Thalia, Francesca and Irma, and the other hand , had enjoyed whispering little reminders to each other. "It looked so much like a dagger, so sharp!" "Lucky you didn't let it get anywhere near you then, it might have hurt!"

"No, it would've been amazing, I am going to have him I tell you, I must."

"We've still got one night, and I want him too. I want to play with him a lot more, I want...I don't know what I want, I just want him here, now."

"We'll get him back. He liked us a lot. It will be. "

"Will be? You planning to get him for yourself tonight?" snapped Leila.

"Oh, er, no, just dreaming," laughed Thalia, "I think we just have to regard what happened as a bit of fun that we'll all remember. He was a bit weird, and he was much older than us and probably has some sad little wife back home, or maybe a big strapping boyfriend, just can't tell with his type."

Leila just sighed, and thought to herself, "Well no, he hasn't, and maybe - just maybe - I will find out more about this man child before very long."

*****

Simon was rather annoyed to see couple after couple of large middle-aged passengers in their white towelling robes and their white fluffy slippers padding around, most obviously heading to or returning from the saunas. This was clearly a popular early morning ritual. He headed for the last sauna at the bow-end of the ship, the smallest one which was also - he had been careful to note - the only designated mixed sex sauna on board.

His instincts proved right. The place seemed deserted as he entered the men's changing room. He removed his sandals, jeans, and t-shirt, grabbed the towel and headed for the steam room.

That wall of heavy, wet heat almost felled him immediately. He groped his way around the curved , tiled benches, chose a spot, rolled out the towel and lay frown on his tummy. He realised the bench's shape must reflect the prow of the ship, and liked to think of the ice-cold north sea just feet away from his now red and profusely sweating cheeks.

Then came voices, male, speaking what he imagined must be Danish. Two muscular men walked in, white towels around their waists. As one, they stopped, removed the towels, spread the towels onto the bench two tiers below Simon's, and stretched out on their backs, head to head. They were both stark naked and clearly very happy to display their two splendid packages.

Simon glanced at them swiftly then turned his head so they should not think he was watching them. But their conversation was getting louder and suddenly he felt a tap on his should blade. "Pardon, you must know wearing of shorts is forbidden in here?" one of the men said in an absurdly stern voice.

"Oh, god, no I hadn't realised," Simon blurted. "I thought it was optional. I'll go and change."

It was horrible going back to the changing room in what seemed like ice-cold air, and when he got there two more men were stripping off. They might have been Danish, about his age but much better built, and, he could not help noticing, much better hung - a least in the flaccid state. 

Nevertheless he removed his swimming shorts. They were now looking at his pale, hairless body with what seemed to be a very tiny set of genitals, with great amusement and contempt. "Ya, you, miss, this is the men's changing room," one said, "You are in wrong place."

The other man was doubling up. "Shall we take her to where she needs to be?"

"Don't worry, we will not hurt you," one said. "Unless you struggle."

It flashed through SImon's mind that these might well be the same two men who'd been outside the room last night - chubby face's mates, in other words, here to teach him a lesson.

Poor Simon, he never had been much of a fighter. One twisted his arm behind his back, the other wrapped a towel around his middle, grabbed his other arm, and marched him out of the changing , down the corridor, stopping in from of the door of the female changing room.

WIth raised fist, one of the men banged heavily on this door, then without waiting for a reply, kicked it open. The scene was a scene out of some exotic harem-based erotic novel of the 19th century. At least a dozen young women were either standing naked or peeling off their underwear, but were sort of frozen in mid-peel. 

"This one belongs to you," said the tougher of the two men, in remarkably good English. "Do what you like with her but don't let her out."

Mouths wide open, they stared disbelievingly as one of the heavies gave Simon a heavy push between the should blades, propelling him into the room. At the same time the second one snatched the towel from around his waist, and gave him a swift kick in the buttocks for good measure.

Then they slammed the door shut.

It seemed some of the young women in that changing room were expecting the new arrival, because in all the commotion and shrieking - mostly shrieks of laughter, it should be said - three of the half-dressed ones grabbed the sprawling figure and dragged him over the slippery tiles toward site showers at the back. 

Just as he was getting to his feet, hands over his crotch, the stark naked Simon was floored again by a high pressure torrent of ice-cold water from the four shower heads. The girls - for some reason he though of them as viking girls - came under the showers, lifted him, and manoeuvred him towards a corner, where they been taunting him: "Oh, poor little boy, did the big men not want you? Was it your poor little pee-pee? Did they think you were a little lady-boy spying on them?"

At this one of them sort of flicked his penis with her fingers. It was so small and cold, nothing more really than a flap of skin on the neat tightly-packed little bag beneath. 

"Oh, how cute! How teeny-weeny! Like a baby, like my little baby brother! Look, everyone, he was a teeny-weenie weeny!" 

"What can we do with this? Nothing! Nothing!" one said, tugging at him with mock disgust. 

Two girls took an arm each and eased him to his feet. The third went behind him, put her hand between his thighs and grabbed his genitals, tugging them back hard under his buttocks, so that it seemed, from a front view , there was nothing there at all. 

"Take her back and show her to the others."

"Yeah! OK!"

As luck would have it another large group of women had come in for their saunas. It seemed the boat's entire complement of female students - except for his four friends - were early risers and liked to get their pores open to a routine.

Now Simon was shivering and angry but there was nothing he could do, these three girls were good and strong. For a a few deeply shaming minutes his apparently genderless naked body was displayed to a room full of 20 or more young women, most fully or partly-dressed. No-one seemed to be too worried, and certainly no-one tried to help him. 

Some began whistling and shouting insults and giggling. Some were reaching into their lockers for their camera phones. The noise was overwhelming, but when his main tormentor let go of his genitals, they sprung back into place, and the aroused member began its upward progress all over again. As it did so, his captors looked down over his shoulders with a new and different intent. The mockery had gone: their eyes gleamed.

With a sharp intake of breath, a surprised "Oh!", one shoved a hand down between her own legs. 

"Our girly boy is not such a girly boy it seems," said the one who had been holding him. "Maybe it was the magic effect of your hand," said another. 

Then they shut up. The whole room fell silent, and then there was a rustling of hands in bags and curses and then the locust-like sound of a dozen phones taking photos. A truly 21st century scene, Simon thought, in his pompous and detached way.

After that wonderful display, the viking girls flopped down on the bench, they let him go, and at least one was composing a very sarcastic text message to her boyfriend. 

"Come and sit on our laps," one said. So he did. 

"Lie across us!" said another, and soon, with his head resting on the naked thighs of one girl, his bottom nestled into the lap of another, his feet in the warm crotch of a third, he was being well looked after.

Heads moved down, lips opened and closed, he felt the tip of his member gently brushing against teeth and tongues. 

There were strange noises, soft cooing sounds, coming from one of these hard-fleshed viking girls, and they were beginning to turn him on. Especially when, looking up, he saw first the hard nipples of the girl he was lying on, quivering slightly on their firm, upward pointing breasts, and then turning saw the wide-open-eyes and mouths of the by now sizeable female audience.

Some of the girls wanted him to stay, some wanted his phone number, but he did not linger, and wrapping his towel around him, he went straight into the hot steam room to sweat it all out.

*****

The day went quickly, and the lights of the English coastline were already visible when he fell back into his cabin after a good dinner, alone, and more delightful flirting with the Latvian waitress (who now looked at him with a rather different eye, he thought, as though she'd been told).

He intended to start writing his article, but the memories of the previous evening came back to him with force. He was puzzled, he had not seen any of his four neighbours all day. Maybe they had stayed in one of the girls-only saunas, or maybe they had made a good job of avoiding him, out of embarrassment.

The ship, he knew, entered the estuary in the early hours and moored until daylight, when they would all disembark and go their separate ways. There were only six or seven hours left to do the thing he wished he had the nerve to do, to tap gently on their door.

In fact he did not need to. There was a tap at his door, and when he opened it there was no-one there, but an envelope on the floor. It contained a small, rather bad photo of his four friends, all staring at something, and on the back it said: "To be continued xxxx???"

A rush of joy, better than any drug, overtook him, and within minutes he was back on the bunk where he had already felt truly the luckiest man on the planet. Little did he know that he was about to get much luckier.

There was no time to waste. This time the girls had wine and snacks and music, as though they were going to have a house party. Simon did not realise that the music was on solely to drown out other sounds, sounds of extreme pleasure.

Those same hands started slowly, tentatively, to undress him, some starting at the top, others at the middle.

They left his white pants on, hoping for a repeat performance of last night's miracle.

"Where's my boy?" Leila asked, poking gently at the front of his knickers. "Is he home?"

This time Simon knew what to expect, and seemed better able to control himself - he could allow this phenomenon to occur in much slower motion, which made it even more strange and exciting. 

When the knicker-elastic crisis point was reached, he let go, and the same pale penis shot upwards, just as it had before.

Having been so patient, so transfixed, all four girls now lost their cool. Three lifted him off the bed, removed his useless knickers, while Leila began kissing his body, first around the nipples, then on the nipples, and then down the ribcage, rib by rib. Simon stood there, in a daze. Leila rested her soft cheek against his white stomach, and stroked the gentle swell of his paunch. 

"You drink too much, you will get beer bellies," she said.

"A beer belly," he corrected her. "But you are right, it isn't pretty."

"But it is all lovely," she said again, and oblivious of the six other eyes staring at her in amazement, she continued the downward blizzard of kisses, lingering over the navel for a while, and then nuzzling around the little ring of stubble at the base of his now much revived member.

In fact it looked like it might be going for another attempt at the record-book, but Leila did not touch it, either with lips or fingers.

She looked at it, as though it were a painting, and then said to the others, "Look, how it grows again!"

It was too much for Thalia, who was squeezing her knees together and looking up at the ceiling and laughing, and saying over and again, "Let's to bed, let's bed". 

She pulled down her jeans, and Francesca said, "Yeah, let's to bed - but let's all get naked first!"

"I told you this would happen", laughter Irma, and three girls started undressing each other with much hilarity, until they were wearing just their t-shirts and panties. They started kissing each other's bodies, as if mocking what Leila had just been doing to SImon.

And then Thalia made a lunge for Francesca's panties, and for a while there was a three-way wrestling match on the opposite bunk. All the while, Leila was still at work, now kissing SImon's upper thighs. Although she was yet to touch his penis, she did kiss his tight little scrotum, lightly, once on each side.

This really did the trick: a new record was achieved. Looking down. SImon once more could not believe how this girl, these girls, had aroused him so much more than he had ever known before. 

Now, again, his member was the focus of all four: and this time, knowing that time itself was short, they wasted not a second. Four hands went out, many more fingers wrapped around the shaft, moistened finger-pads touched the shiny glans, rubbed it a little, it was all short breaths, short exclamations, an "oh" and an "ooooh" and some "Oh-oh-ohs!"

And yet, with these little touches, gradually, they steered this flaming tip, now seemingly hard as recently-solidifed volcanic rock, they steered it towards their four now half open mouths, the small tips of their tongues now fleetingly visible.

Like the heads and beaks of birds feeding at table, they went down, those four heads, went down one after another, almost pecking at it, and then their moist lips surrounding the head, the top of the shaft, letting it pop out again, and then more of the shaft, up, out, on to the next one.

The head became even shinier, the glans with its own thick lip of skin, shining above the tight collar and tie of foreskin. But now they were passing it around, just like a spliff. It all became too much for Simon, and too much for all five of them. He was eased back onto the bunk. Various thighs were lifted over his torso, various abdomens passed in front of his gradually blurred vision, he felt softnesses landing on his forehead, dampness as well as softness on his chin, he noticed new scents, new smells, felt new moistness on his hair, again on his chin, on the bridge of his nose, as one by one the birds flew overhead, occasionally lowering themselves to his lips, his tongue.

And then it all went dark; he sensed two or three different bodies, all pressing down onto his head, his face, his chest, his loins. 

He heard one of the reaching for something, and then he felt fingers rolling a condom over his penis, and rolling it all the way down, and then words: "He's too long, it doesn't reach!"

"It will be ok, I will be ok," came the unmistakable voice of Leila.

The movement of bodies on this bunk, the movement of the SS Toksvig on the heaving North Sea...then light returned, reflecting off the nut-brown buttocks of...who? It was her, this shy girl, working rhythmically high above his crotch, just catching the tip of his penis, easing it in, lifting off again, and then allowing the next pair of buttocks to arrive and go rather further in this strange exercise. He enjoyed hearing those gentle sounds of hard flesh entering soft flesh, entering soft, wet, confined spaces.

They were all so gentle, these girls, so considerate, so beautiful, he was so grateful, so incredibly, utterly and eternally grateful.

*****

The SS Toksvig's horn sounded the reveille. Simon stirred in his bunk, then again jolted awake. It was nearly 9am, it was half an hour before final disembarkation. 

He had to pack - but before that, he thought, he should shower. There was a strange, unfamiliar smell under his bedcovers. Not being a fool, he quickly realised what it was and immediately developed a new erection. Those smells, that curious mixture of earth and animal aroma, honey and fox, almond and ammonia, were the only physical evidence of what had happened on the lower bunks of the next cabin.




North Sea Crossing Pt.0 2



He decided not to shower, packed, and joined the queues already forming to leave the ship. Many young female eyes turned to him, and many strange smiles were exchanged, and there was some blushing and sniggering.

He also saw chubby-face and his two mates and they turned their backs to him and huddled together, heads down, very conspicuously not noticing him.

Yes, he was truly the luckiest man to have ever crossed the North Sea, he decided. He'd never be the same again. He would write his silly article, and then he would write a much better piece - a personal memoir of this trip. And so it was.



North Shore



Warning. This entire story is about sex, desire, and love. A full one-quarter of the writing could be called sex scenes. This means, of course, that three-quarters cannot be called as such. Act as you see fit.

Finally, there are two sentences of Chinese spoken in the story. Since our heroine doesn't understand them, they remain untranslated. If you want to know what they mean, you will have to send Feedback. I almost always respond.

---

The trade winds drafted down the mountain valley, through the high rises of downtown, and into the little office where I sat working. The breeze tossed the light fabric of my skirt against my calves, tickling my skin and reminding me of the world outside the spreadsheet in front of me. I closed my brown and green swirling eyes to concentrate on the sensation. The breeze narrowed, focusing on a spot on my neck, bristling the tiny auburn hairs. A breath. A cool breath from my lover coming to sweep me away. She bent over, bringing her lips closer to my neck. I leaned back into her kiss, content and happy.

She?

---

A drop of sweat collected at the end of my nipple until it dropped from my dangling breast onto her stomach. A smile spread across her face and I collapsed back into her arms.

It was that image again. I shook my head of it and went back to comparing cereal box prices.

---

My mouth was full of the woman whose legs twitched around me. My tongue moved again and again over the hair and moisture. My heart raced with excitement and fear, but my hand was wrapped in hers, so strong and comforting, calming me.

"Did you want rice or pasta tonight?" my husband asked. "Hun?"

"I can do rice again if you want."

"Spaghetti it is."

---

I liked my therapist Chantrelle personally but I didn't really like seeing a therapist in general. She always seemed to understand what I was going through. I hated that. It would be nice to be a little different from all her other patients. Instead, I would walk into her office where her assistant would be expecting me. Chantrelle would greet me in her office with a smile and that mane of dark hair tied back in large braids. I would settle into her comfy burnt orange leather chair that you felt like you could slip out of at any moment and compare the freckles on my arm against the color of the leather. Then we'd talk.

It's hard to feel special with such a routine. Comforted and safe, sure, but not special and weird, which is how I wanted to feel. But, then, I was given her name by the gay and lesbian hotline I had called in a panic three months earlier, hoping they could make the images go away. Instead they gave me the phone number of a therapist who specialized in orientation issues, a former military psychologist who had dealt with a thousand don't ask don't tell cases. I almost expected them to say, "Welcome aboard," as they hung up. 

Now, here I was spending our money and telling someone I barely knew about the woman in my head, all the time feeling guiltier and guiltier. Not only was I now hiding the images from my husband, I was hiding the fact that I was in therapy as well. Chantrelle and I did get along great, though. She always cut to the point.

"So, Ashleigh, you've spent a couple months now telling me about these little movies in your head. What are you going to do about them?"

"I thought I would see a therapist."

She smiled. "And this therapist would wave her wand and make them go away?"

"My therapist would use fairy dust. Wands are so last year."

Chantrelle bounced her pen against the brown skirts covering her knees as she always did before she said something important. "Ashleigh, it's time for you to make a decision. Much as I like your money, you need to get out of that chair and act."

"What do you want me to do? Put the images together and post the movie on the Internet? Pale redhead gets dirty with girlfriend?"

"Why don't you do the obvious thing?"

"And what's that?" I stopped my hands from fiddling with the long lock of hair dangling around my bosom. "The obvious thing would be to find out if I want them to be more than images."

"I agree."

"But the only way to do that is to, you know, try it."

"Are you talking about sleeping with someone?"

I tossed the hair back over my shoulder. It's good I didn't have Chantrelle's pen, because I would have been playing the rhumba with how nervous this conversation made me.

"Ashleigh, when you say this, how does it make you feel?"

"Crazy."

"How?"

"Like I'm a horrible person." I saw my chest rising and falling faster than normal, the pale green blouse on white skin puffing in and out.

Chantrelle paused for a moment. "So you are thinking about doing it? You are thinking about trying to get picked up or something?"

"No way am I going to go to a bar to have a one night stand."

"You've thought this through. It's far more to you than images."

I didn't answer. I didn't want to say yet how I was finding my head turn when an attractive woman was near, how I imagined the feel on my thin bare legs of the visiting consultant's skirts when she brushed against me looking over my shoulder, how I could still smell the perfume of the woman who gave me my coffee every morning. I wasn't ready to say any of this.

"A relationship then," Chantrelle continued. "Is that what you are considering? It doesn't have to be meaningless, right? Find a girlfriend; find someone to move in with-"

"No!" I hadn't meant to yell, but my heart was racing so much I couldn't stop it.

"Why not? Unless you aren't sure you want to."

"Of course I want to!" Dammit, she had led me right into that. Okay, she was good at her job, but still. "You know I can't, Chantrelle, and you know why." This was why I had called the hotline. I knew I wanted more than images. I wanted to cheat on my husband with another woman.

She waited, letting me calm back down. "Ashleigh," she spoke slowly. "I need you to talk to me. You know better than I that this isn't a game. I need to know what you are thinking, why you are scared. Everyone has fantasies. We talked about this on day one. What is scaring you?"

Had I been praising her directness earlier? "It's, maybe it's that I, I think about doing what we are talking about. I don't hide anything important from Ken, but when I'm on business trips I start thinking about looking up info on the lesbian scene in the town. I find myself fiddling with my wedding ring." I looked down and found myself sliding my ring up and down my finger as I sat there. I had never done that a year ago. Chantrelle watched me gently slide the ring back into its rightful place. "I can list the names and open hours for a lesbian bar in a dozen cities off the top of my head. I've never been to one, but I know their names."

Chantrelle's voice seemed to deepen as she spoke next in a way I had not heard before. "Sex between women is some of the safest sex you can have," she said. "Few diseases, no pregnancy risk. Info on dental dams and other protection is easy to find."

"Are you telling me to cheat on my husband?!"

She said nothing.

"I will never ever cheat on Kenji."

She still refused to speak. I just had to watch her foot tap slowly in the air.

"I love him and I will not do that. I won't." I could see Ken's face as I sat there. His dark hair so full, the scruff on his broad chin, the soft full lips, and then the pain in his charcoal eyes when he discovered what I had done. No, I would never cause that sort of pain.

"I know you don't want to," she replied finally. "Then what will you do with your desires?"

Hide them; let them die; anything to keep me with Kenji. Didn't she get this?

"I will just live with them. I'm not a child. I have will power. I'll just live with the pictures in my head." And the desires. And the heart fluttering when someone attractive looked at me a little longer than seemed normal.

"Every day for the rest of your life, you will dream about having sex with a woman, and you will never actually do it," Chantrelle said.

"Love how supportive you are being. It's the only choice because I don't lie to Ken."

"It's a lousy choice, Ashleigh, and you know that. That's why you're here. Because you aren't sure you can keep bottling it up. As far as I can tell you've been happily married for six years, but you won't be if you just ignore all this. Your desires will continue and slowly but surely, you will come to blame Ken for trapping you. The marriage that you want to save by just bottling everything up will either end or be a fragment of what it once was." 

"You are a delightful person to talk to today. Can you audit me while you are at it? If that doesn't suck enough, you can do a pap smear. Ooh, ooh, no. Send me out to dinner with my boss."

As always she took my crap with ease. I'm not sure what I wanted her to do. Have her own brown freckles start glowing in anger? Why couldn't the hotline have recommended someone incompetent so I would have had an excuse to stop coming? I'm not a woman who revels in exploring my feelings. I'd rather have a cup of coffee and go do something.

"Alright then," Chantrelle started, "Let's go through the options. We've worked through having sex with another woman and not telling Ken about it," she replied. "That's out, right? You've rejected that. We've worked through not having sex, bottling it all up, and also not telling Ken, and that's out, too. So what's left?"

"Telling Ken," I admitted grudgingly. She was so fucking good at her job. I never could let her know I thought so. "I can't wait for that talk," I said instead. Would Ken ever touch me again if I told all of this to him? Maybe he would conclude I wasn't interested in men anymore, and yet his touches were one of the best things in my life, behind only his companionship.

"It's been obvious for several meetings that you needed to bring Ken into this, Ashleigh. Your great fear seems to be not having him in your life. If you can't get the other desires to go away, then you have to integrate them into your life, and Ken is your life. That's the starting point. Tell him."

I wanted to fight this solution, but it was so stupid obvious I knew not to waste our time doing so. "So what do I tell him?"

She tossed her hands up. "I have absolutely no idea."

I almost whined. "Don't make me figure it out, Chantrelle. I know this stuff is just your job, and I will be followed by someone trapped in someone else's body or whatever, but this is all I care about. You know I trust you. Just tell me how to do it right." Crap, if that wasn't an obvious admission of my respect.

"I really don't know, Ashleigh. All I know is that you have sexy images in your head that seem to be female. Only you know what you really want from this fantasy woman, from your husband. I can't tell you."

"Great." I looked up at the wall clock and listened to it tick. We had ten minutes left. "Can you at least ask me a leading question?"

She thought for a second and then said, "Is it okay if Ken is there?"

I stopped and looked up at her. Ken could be there? What-? How-? I'd always assumed Ken wouldn't be there. I mean, threesomes are things that drunk college kids and icky people do. But, but why not? I'd love that. I'd absolutely love that. I could have my pillar of support right there with me?! Really?!

We never got past that moment because I was out of her office as fast as I could run. I cornered Ken in an empty trailer at his construction site and told him I had just blown several thousand dollars on therapy for the last few months. I told him I had been dreaming about other women for over a year and I didn't know why. And I told him that I wanted him to be there when I was with her, whoever she was, for the first time in my life. And I guess he would have sex with her, too. We both would. And then we would see what it all meant because I just didn't know.

Ken had sat there just looking at me, reading me. His dark eyes scanned my face, looking over my thin nose and plum-colored lips, past my high cheekbones, and into my hazel eyes, looking for what was happening underneath all of that. He was the calmest person I had ever met, like the firewood to my flames. But he didn't fool me with his silence. He wasn't calm; his muscles were tensed as he wrestled for the right words, wrestled to understand what his wife was saying to him. My only hope was that he knew me; knew that I never acted like this. After longer than I could imagine he just made an observation, "It's important to you." I hadn't answered. I just cried on his shoulder until he took me home.

It was only in the car that I realized I might have just asked Ken to help me on the path to leaving him. Being forced to leave him.

"And then we would see what it all meant." Those were my exact words. But I knew what it meant. 

I was becoming Jeannette from my last job, my mentor and model. She had been viciously smart, horribly competent, and always had time to help me out. Then, at the age of 42, married with three children, she fell in love with a woman in her choir. Her entire family life came crashing around her head with a painful divorce and a son who wouldn't speak to her for a year. It had been five years since I left, and I knew things had come around for her and her family. Her son was back; she had never been so in love; and even her husband had remarried. But I still didn't want that to happen to me. I liked my life as it was. Of course, that's what she had told me as well before it started.

When I finally calmed down, I wasted $200 more on flowers for Chantrelle. I had no idea where Ken and I were going, but at least we were moving again.

In time, Ken and I slowly wrapped ourselves around this weird possibility, and we came to agreement about two things. First, it was us as a couple. Secondly, at least the first time it wouldn't be personal. It wouldn't be someone we knew or would see again. That would give me time to think without emotional baggage. I didn't really like this too much, since I didn't really get why you had sex with someone you didn't care for in some manner, but I got the logic. Us together; someone we didn't know. Those were the rules

---

Nine full months later that's where we still sat. How do you get involved on an island with a bisexual woman that we would never see again? I spent one night in a Waikiki bar hoping to meet a nice tourist, but instead of a lovely encounter between three people on one passionate, tropical night, I felt like some sort of predator trolling for prey. I went home having spoken to no one and wondering what sort of person I had become. It was just as well that my office shipped me all over the nation every week. I hated being away from Ken, but at least I didn't have to worry about making our new fantasy become real.

Finally, one beautiful Saturday night, a solution seemed to present itself. And of all the possible sources, it came from my annoying boss in an email.

Ashleigh,

Sorry but Roger insists you go. I told him how much you've been traveling blah blah blah, but no dice. He says he wants the best on site with him, so I suppose that's you. In short, you're going to Vegas next Thursday. And I probably shouldn't put this in writing, but if you want to spend a little extra, I'll probably sign the form. I hear the Venetian's nice.

Chuck

Vegas. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Wasn't that the slogan?

"Ken!"

I knew he was awake. The last time I'd seen him, he'd been looking scrumptious in a pair of pajama bottoms reading the latest issue of Auto Tuner, the old car mag that he had written for when he was the creator of some of the hottest beasts to be found in the import racing world. That's one thing I didn't get about all my fantasies. Ken still made me wet. A broad chest with the smoothest skin. Hands that were rough feeling and as strong and gentle as could be. And that damn chin. Rugged, dashing. It didn't make sense. He had just shaved an hour ago and I knew I would be sucking on that chin before the night was through. He better not have fallen asleep!

"Yes, Mrs.Misagi?" he asked with a wry smile, passing into our cluttered little office / project room / second bedroom.

Mrs. Misagi. I remembered standing in that translucent negligee on our wedding night with my long red hair and pale skin, surprising him as he came in with the bags. "Mrs. Misagi," he had said simply. We hadn't discussed whether or not I would change my name, but as soon as he said it, I knew O'Connell was gone. Then he'd dropped the bags where he stood and swept me off. My skin was a bit more tan now, but neither the hair nor my love of being Mrs. Misagi had changed.

"Kenji, I've got another trip next week-"

"I thought you told Chuck you needed to stay in at least one week!? You just got back from L.A. this morning!"

"Don't get mad yet."

"How long do I have to wait? There's a reason they send you out and not him."

"I want you to come with me."

"Come with you? Where?"

"Las Vegas."

"Vegas." He rubbed at newly squeaky clean chin. "I think I'm the only one left on this rock that hasn't been there."

"You know why, right?"

Kenji looked at me and knew but wouldn't say it.

"For our fantasy," I explained unnecessarily.

"The one?" I nodded and Kenji swallowed so slowly I could see his Adam's apple slide up and then back down. "I got ya. When?"

"I have to be on site all day Friday."

"How long do you think it will take?" he asked. "I mean to find someone."

"It's taken nine months and we haven't even spoken to a woman yet. I don't know. As long as it takes."

Ken pulled out his old notebook covered in drawings that he called a calendar for his business as an electrician. "There's no way I can leave until after Thursday. That's state inspection on the Wailapu project. But Rosaria can probably handle Friday and Saturday."

"She can't do Thursday, too?"

"In six months she'll be fixing my mistakes, but not yet."

Ken didn't make mistakes as far as I knew. "Then you'll just be a day after me."

He nodded. "So how do we find our mystery woman?"

"Bar?"

"I can't wait for that conversation. 'Hi, my name's Ken, and my wife and I have this fantasy of being with another woman, so....'"

"Well, what's your idea?"

"I don't know. Club?"

"Same thing as a bar except people are drunk and dancing instead of drunk and standing."

Kenji brushed his dark rebelling hair from his forehead and collapsed on the sofa. I realized the man had gone all clean cut on me in the last few weeks. His long hair was now gone so that the black locks just tossed around his ears. His usual scruff on the chin had vanished with it. I wasn't sure which I liked better, since I felt like eating him up however he looked. "Good God, it's hard enough to date when you're single," Ken continued. "How are we supposed to do it married?"

"Internet," I told him.

"Are you going to search for 'Bisexual Vegas Girls?' You'll just get porn."

"Craigslist."

"What's that?"

"How is life on Planet Kenji?"

"It's great, Mrs. Jetson. How's life in your flying car?"

"It's just a site with a bunch of ads listed by city."

"Ads like 'Want sexy Hawaiian couple for insanely nervous first time three'?"

"You never know."

We headed into Casual Encounters for Las Vegas but mostly found other couples like us, not our match. That had almost always been the case when I looked around previously, too.

"Do you think any of these people are real? Or serious?" Kenji asked as we perused an ad for a 21-year-old blonde wanting anyone, any time.

"I don't know." I suddenly felt exhausted. "Probably a few are and most aren't." I closed the browser window as forcefully as I could with a mouse. Whatever we thought of there'd be some reason it wouldn't work; it'd probably be like that until I died.




North Shore Ass Whore



Dan spent last weekend up at his parents' house in the suburbs. It was one of those dead weekends. Many of his friends were out of town, working, or too tired to go out. On Friday before he left, he called Steve Morgan's cell phone again in one last ditch effort to try to get something going, but was greeted only by voicemail. He hung up without leaving a message, threw some clothes in a backpack, and drove up to his parents'.

They were surprised to see him lounging on their couch in the television room when they returned from a dinner party later that evening, but were nonetheless thrilled at the prospect of having their baby boy home for the weekend. Dan joined his parents Saturday for breakfast and helped his mom around the yard with what was left of the morning. When he checked his voicemail around lunchtime, Steve had called.

"What's up? It's Steve. Got your first message and saw you called again. Sorry for not getting back to you. I'm up in the 'burbs this weekend. My parents are having an engagement party for Kari and her fiancé tomorrow, so I came up this morning to hang out with them. I'll give you a call next week."

"Hmph," Dan said to himself, deleting the message. Before he and his dad left for the club for golf and a few drinks, he tried Steve again.

"Hello?"

"Steve?"

"Yeah. Dan. What's goin' on?"

"Same as you, my friend. I'm in Winnetka for the weekend."

Steve laughed. "How funny. What are you up here for?"

"Nothing goin' on downtown, so I got out for the weekend."

"Yeah, I thought it was going to be kind of a dead weekend, so I came up today instead of tomorrow just to hang out."

"Let's grab a few drinks later. I'm going to the club with my dad in a little bit. Why don't you meet us there around seven or so."

"Well, I'm having dinner with my parents tonight. We're just going over to Hackney's, the one on Lake. Why don't you meet us over there after the club? We'll have dinner with my parents and maybe go to Meier's for a few drinks." Dan paused.

He hadn't seen Mrs. Morgan since their coupling in that suite at the Ritz so many months ago. He recalled the event vividly: the parting of the sexy top to reveal her artificially inflated tits; the smoothness of her shaved cunt as the wine bottle slipped between the folds of her lips; her red lips wrapped around his thick cock, saliva dripping down the shaft.

Absently, Dan reached for and readjusted his thickening cock. "Um."

"Come on! It won't be that bad. My parents are pretty cool. Mom's mellowed out a lot," Steven chided him.

"I know," Dan responded defensively. "It's not that. I just don't want to intrude on a family thing."

"Don't be ridiculous. It's just me and my parents. Kari and Jake won't be there, and Betsy doesn't get in until tomorrow morning. We'll be there around seven, maybe seven-thirty. See ya there," Steve finished, clicking off.

Dan stood there a minute, holding his Blackberry. More images raced through his brain. She bent over the bed, his cock thrusting into her from behind; her bald cunt lowering itself onto his shaft, each inch disappearing into her slowly; her blond hair spread out on the comforter, his cock squished between her saline-injected tits, her manicured nails and wedding and engagement rings just inches from his leaking cock.

But this could be awkward. How would Mrs. Morgan react when he appeared at Hackney's. Would she be embarrassed? Sheepish? Or would she play it off with her typical bitchiness? Probably the latter. 'This could be fun,' Dan thought to himself. He shrugged internally, and then bounded up the steps to his old bedroom, rummaged through his closet for clothes appropriate for the club, and changed.

* * *

Outside the club, Dan gave his dad a quick hug before jumping in his car. "Say hi to the Morgans for your mother and me, and be safe. If you drink too much, give us a call. One of us will come and get you."

"No problem, Dad. You guys have fun tonight. I'll probably be late, so I'll see you in the morning." Dan turned the key in the BMW's ignition, backed out of the parking space, and drove up to Lake Street, then over the Edens Expressway to Hackney's. He was running a little late; it was almost eight when he pulled into the parking lot. He saw the Morgans' Range Rover and pulled into an open stall two spaces down.

Entering the restaurant, he quickly found them in one of the side rooms; they and another couple were the only patrons in that room. As he approached the table, Mr. Morgan rose, extending his hand.

"Good to see you, Dan," he said heartily, vigorously pumping Dan's hand. Mr. Morgan was a tall, well-built man, graying at the temples. His grip was firm and confident. His cheeks were a little red, hinting at the fact that he had already downed a few cocktails.

"You, too, Mr. Morgan. It's been a while, huh?" he said, circling the table toward Mrs. Morgan. He flashed an innocent smile her way. She returned it with a fake one.

"Too long, kid," he heard behind him. "You oughta come see us more often."

"Hi, Mrs. Morgan," Dan said with a broad smile. "You look fantastic as ever."

"Thank you, Dan," she responded. The sarcasm dripped from her tongue, or so he thought. Perhaps he was just reading into things, knowing the things about her he knew, knowing that her husband and son didn't know them.

After giving her a chaste hug, but one that lingered just a little longer than necessary, Dan sat, his back to the wall. Steve sat across from him, Mr. Morgan to his left, Mrs. Morgan to his right.

"Let's get the waiter over here and get you a drink," Steve suggested, turning around and signaling the waiter. When he appeared, Dan ordered a drink and the Morgans began placing their dinner order. Dan added a simple cheeseburger to the order.

The Morgans and Dan engaged in small talk for a while, waiting for their meals, getting caught up with each other. How's work? Same old, same old. Any girlfriends? Here and there. How are your parents doing? Great; they asked me to say hello. That sort of thing. Though careful not to stare too long in Mrs. Morgan's direction, Dan could not help but drink in her beauty.

Throughout their conversation, she twirled a wineglass between her slender elegant fingers, tipped with a French manicure. Given the summer months, her lean, tanned and slightly freckled arms were bare to the conditioned air. Her blonde tresses were pulled back into a tight ponytail, revealing teardrop-shaped platinum earrings dangling from her earlobes. Dan had never seen her hair pulled back in such a manner, but liked it; it highlighted the high cheek bones and sensuous jaw line of her face. Her baby blue eyes danced from her husband to her son to her son's best friend as the conversation flowed, pausing more often than not on the young man seated to her left.

"Don't you agree, Donna?" she heard her husband ask.

"I'm sorry, honey. What did you say?" Mrs. Morgan raised her wineglass to her shiny red-stained lips. As she did, her wedding rings caught the light of the restaurant, sparkling in spite of the dimness.

"It's great to have all the kids home for the weekend, don't you agree?"

"Of course, honey," she responded, setting her empty wineglass on the table, lipstick smeared along the side of the rim closest to her. "It doesn't happen often enough, what with Betsy living in San Francisco now."

When their meals arrived, conversation was reduced to a minimum as the Morgans and their guest cleared their plates. Occasionally, Dan cast a sideways glance toward Mrs. Morgan, trying to be discreet but almost groaning in his throat. The top two buttons of her white cotton oxford blouse hinted at a respectable cleavage within, the fabric stretched tautly across her huge tits. Though it would require him to stare too long to confirm it, Dan thought he detected the slightest suggestion of thick nipples pressing through her bra, almost tenting the blouse. He shifted his legs in an effort to relieve his discomfort.

When Mrs. Morgan finished her meal, she began to rise. "Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen," she pleaded and walked from the table toward the rear of the restaurant.

"Women are incredible," Mr. Morgan intoned once she was out of earshot, taking a long pull from his scotch and soda. "If I had to go to the bathroom, I'd say, 'Excuse me, I gotta go to the bathroom.' But not women. They simply say 'Excuse me.'"

Both Steve and Dan chuckled at his observation, but Dan barely paid attention. Over the top of his glass, he watched Mrs. Morgan as she strode away from them. A conservative khaki skirt that stopped three-quarters down her thighs, swooshing slightly back and forth as she moved, hid her tight little bottom. Tan, lithe legs extended from beneath the skirt, ending in a pair of Prada slingback heels.

She soon returned amidst talk of the Cubs and the White Sox and the coming football season. The table ordered another round of drinks as their light conversation continued. When the drinks arrived, Mr. Morgan took another large gulp. He must have downed four or five drinks in Dan's presence, and that didn't count the two or three he probably had before Dan even arrived.

"I have to go the bathroom," he announced, standing up.

Mrs. Morgan merely rolled her eyes. "Thanks for the update, honey," she said, teasing him. "Where else would you disappear to?"

"I'll join you, Dad," Steve said, following his father to the bathroom.

When they were gone, Dan cleared his throat. "So," he began confidently. "How've you been, Mrs. Morgan?" His eyes bore into hers as the older woman brought her wineglass to her shiny full lips. He could see wariness, uncertainty, there.

Swallowing the thick, red liquid, she responded, "Lovely, Dan. I've been lovely." She paused, twirling the stem of the glass in her manicured fingers. She ignored him, her eyes focused on her fidgeting hands.

"Tell me, Mrs. Morgan, did you end up getting your asshole stretched that night?"

Dan's brazen tongue caused her to jump. She looked behind her to see if the couple sitting nearby had heard him; thankfully, they had left sometime during the Morgans' meal, leaving them alone in the room. When her gaze returned to the impetuous young man seated to her left, they were on fire. "Watch your mouth, Dan. Don't think for a minute that what happened gives you the right to disrespect me like that."

As she took another drink from her glass, Dan looked at her quizzically. "Disrespect you? I don't disrespect you, Mrs. Morgan," he said genuinely. He leaned forward, his right hand reaching beneath the table for her left, which rested in her lap. "Not at all. I respected you when you let me suck on your big fake tits."

Dan's hand found hers beneath the table. When their skin touched, Mrs. Morgan pulled back, the diamond of her engagement ring scraping along his palm.

"I respected you," Dan continued, "when you were sitting in my lap with a wine bottle shoved in your cunt."

"Fuck you, young man," she spat, the malevolence obvious in her eyes.

"Yes, I respected you then, too." He glanced toward the main part of the restaurant. Mr. Morgan and Steve had finished in the bathroom and sat at the bar, the father smoking a cigarette. Dan again reached for Mrs. Morgan's hand under the table, gripping it tightly, feeling the four-carat diamond press against his palm, her long nails bite into his skin. She resisted, but it was a weak effort.

"I respected you when you had my cock trapped between those things," he continued with a nod at the married woman's chest. "But you know when I really respected you, Mrs. Morgan?"

She turned her head from him, breaking eye contact, and didn't respond. She took another nervous sip of her wine, her eyes floating toward the ceiling as though she were praying that Dan would go away.

"Well, let me tell you. I respected you the most when you were bouncing around on my lap with my fingers in your hole while I was talking to your son on the phone."

"You are SUCH an asshole," she hissed through gritted teeth.

"You didn't think I was an asshole the last time I saw you."

Her sparkling blue eyes were softer now, but by no means loving. "That shouldn't have happened, Dan, and you being here like this is awkward. And then for you to sit here and say the things you just said?" She paused and shook her head, again looking to the ceiling. Her voice was barely audible: "Fucking asshole."

"You enjoyed it, though, didn't you Mrs. Morgan? Fucking me? Fucking someone so much younger than you? Your son's best friend, no less?"

Mrs. Morgan again looked at Dan, and then cast a glance toward the bar. Her husband was smoking another cigarette, her son beside him, as they sipped their cocktails, laughing at something the bartender had said.

"I'm going to fuck you again, Mrs. Morgan. You can be sure of that."

"Stop, Dan."

Dan paused, considering. "Tell you what. Steve and I are going to Meier's for a few drinks after dinner. I'll drop him off, and then come back later."

Mrs. Morgan shook her head, her ponytail swinging back and forth, but remained silent.

"Mrs. Morgan, I am going to fuck you in your own house, with your husband and son sleeping upstairs." As the wicked words spilled from his lips, Mrs. Morgan's eyes shifted back and forth between her family at the bar and this insolent young man whose hand was lightly rubbing her inner thigh.

Before she could respond, Mr. Morgan and Steve got up from the bar. Dan quickly withdrew his fingers from between Mrs. Morgan's thighs, instantly missing their warmth, their silky smoothness. She tried valiantly to hide her anxiety as they rejoined Dan and her at the table.

"Whaddya say, honey? Should we get the bill and head home?"

Mrs. Morgan simply nodded and her husband signaled the waiter for the check. "Come on. I'll take care of the bill, and meet you guys outside."

While Mr. Morgan waited for the check, Mrs. Morgan, Steve and Dan walked from Hackney's and across the parking lot toward their cars. As they approached, she dug in her purse for the keys to the Range Rover. "Damn," she muttered.

"What's wrong, Mom?" Steve asked, stopping beside the SUV. Dan continued to his car, parked on the other side of the Range Rover.

"I think I left my keys inside. Would you be a sweetie and go see if they're there?"

"Sure, Mom," Steve responded, trotting back to the restaurant, leaving his degenerate mother with his equally depraved best friend.

Mrs. Morgan slowly came around the front of the Range Rover, putting it between the restaurant and Dan's car. He stood at his open door, one foot resting on the door sill. Her heels clacking on the tarmac of the parking lot, Mrs. Morgan strode to where Dan was standing and stopped, her augmented tits just inches from the top of his muscular stomach.

She looked over her shoulder through the tinted windows of the Range Rover to make sure no one could see them. When she turned back to Dan, she placed one manicured hand behind his head and pulled him down to her, their lips meeting and mashing, her tongue darting between his lips and into his mouth. She cupped her free hand and rubbed Dan's growing cock through his pants.

She pulled back after a few seconds, releasing his cock, and put a manicured finger to his lips, wiping the remnants of her lip gloss from him. "Get him drunk. Have him back by midnight," she whispered. "You come back at one. I will fuck you like none of your little girlfriends ever has."

She again looked over her shoulder to see her husband and son coming across the parking lot. She moved away from Dan, the long, shiny nails of one hand tracing down his heaving chest, giving a slight tug at his belt buckle, and called out, "I found them, Steve."

"Good, 'cause I didn't," Dan heard, trying to catch his breath as he sat in his driver's seat. The Range Rover beeped twice as Mrs. Morgan hit the remote and climbed into the passenger seat, her skirt rising to expose more of her long, lean legs. She shot Dan a lust-filled glance as Steve came around the back of the cars and got in beside Dan.

* * *

Dan pulled into the Morgans' driveway at almost exactly midnight. Fifty yards in, it forked, the right fork leading to a courtyard in front of the Morgans' mansion, the left leading off to the side towards a detached coach house that the Morgans had converted into a four-car garage. Dan took the right fork to deposit Steve in front of the massive oak doors fronting the manor.

Getting Steve out of the bar had been no easy task. "Come on, just one more, then we'll go," he had complained.

Dan was having none of it. "Let's go, shithead. You'll thank me in the morning." He finally convinced Steve that his mother would be rather upset if he appeared at his sister's engagement party with a raging hangover.

Steve got out of the car with a promise to call the next week. Dan turned his car around in the courtyard and slowly made his way back toward town to the only open convenience store. He was, of course, stalling, as he had an hour to kill. After buying a Gatorade, he drove around for a while, ultimately ending up back near the Morgans' house.

He couldn't park on the street at this time of night without the police writing him a ticket, so he doused his lights and pulled into the driveway. He slowly rolled up the pea-gravel path and took the left fork, which led him back toward the old coach house-cum-garage. He circled around the side of the manor, following the driveway, and came to a stop underneath an ancient oak tree. Silently, he opened his door and exited the car, shutting the door behind him with only a barely audible click.

Being familiar with the Morgans' property, Dan easily made his way in the dark to a flagstone path that led from the driveway and through the back yard. It wound between the manor, landscaping and a swimming pool, ending in a large veranda littered with tables, chairs and lounges. Dan weaved between those obstacles before coming to a stop before double French doors, one of which was slightly ajar.

He slowly pushed the door open, cringing as he waited for a hinge to squeak. Hearing nothing, he pushed the door open further, stepped through, and found himself standing at one end of the Morgans' gourmet kitchen. Before he could move further into the house, Mrs. Morgan appeared in a doorway at the far end of the kitchen, her luscious body silhouetted against the light streaming in from the television room.

"You're late," she whispered, flicking a dimmer switch, turning the kitchen's overhead lights on low. She was still dressed as she had been at Hackney's, though her blouse was now untucked.

"Sorry. I--," Dan began before she interrupted him.

"Sshh. Not so loud." She crooked a finger at him, beckoning him toward her. As Dan approached, she moved aside, letting him pass into the television room. Her scent – Bulgari? – caught his olfactory attention as he brushed against the lovely woman's warm body.

Dan stopped short upon entering the room. Sprawled on the couch, snoring, was Mr. Morgan. The opening theme to M*A*S*H sounded from the plasma television mounted on the wall opposite the couch. Dan turned back to Mrs. Morgan and mouthed, "What the fuck?"

She waved him back into the kitchen and when they were out of sight of the television room, she turned back to him. Placing both hands, palms open, against his broad chest, Mrs. Morgan leaned into him and whispered in his ear. "Don't worry. He's passed out. He'll be there all night."

Dan's cock stirred as Mrs. Morgan's hot breath caressed his neck and inner ear. Her perfume wafted through his nostrils. He shuddered at the heat that flowed from the palms of her hands and through his shirt. He slipped a hand to her hip and pressed her against the kitchen counter, burying his face in her neck.




North Shore Ass Whore



Leaning back, Mrs. Morgan' wrapped a leg around Dan's calf and an arm around the back of his head, pulling him closer, her manicured nails scratching at his flesh. He kissed up her neck to the line of her jaw, across her cheeks, until their lips met in a lustful frenzy, her bright red lip gloss smearing itself between them.

"Sure you wanna do this, Mrs. Morgan?" Dan mumbled through their clamped lips.

"Mmm-hmm," she moaned back. "But not here," she whispered, pushing him away. Mrs. Morgan pushed herself away from the counter and, taking Dan by the hand, led him back through the television room, past her snoring husband, and down a long hallway that Dan knew led to the library. Upon entering the room, she clicked the heavy oak door shut and twisted a knob on the wall; lights eased on, casting a soft, faint glow across the room. 

The room's beat-tin ceiling hovered twenty feet over oaken floors. Bookcases and paneling hewn from the same material lined the walls. A fully stocked bar stood at one end of the room, a full length pool table at the other. In between were a number of deep brown leather couches and chairs and dark wood tables, one of which held chess pieces dating to the late nineteenth century cast from ebony and ivory. A painting, eight feet long and four feet tall, of an English fox hunt hung above a massive stone fireplace.

Dan walked past her to one of the soft leather couches and sank into it, waiting for Mrs. Morgan to make the first move. It didn't take long. Her heels cracking against the oak floor boards, the sound deadened as she reached the Persian rug, she sauntered over to the couch and stood before him, hands on hips that were cocked to one side. "Do you remember how I like to be fucked?" Mrs. Morgan inquired, her voice low and husky.

"I remember everything, Mrs. Morgan." Dan settled further back in the couch, hands in his lap, legs slightly spread.

"Tell me. How do I like it?" Her hips swung the other way and her store-bought tits bobbed with the movement.

"You like it . . . a little rough."

"Mmm," she responded through hooded eyelids. Her elegant hands traveled up her lithe torso to her saline-filled tits, her fingers running over the tight fabric that stretched across them. "And what do young men do with these?"

"Squeeze them . . . squish them."

"And these?" she inquired, the thumb and forefinger of each hand grasping at her distended nipples.

"Pinch . . . and twist . . . and pull." Dan rubbed the palm of his hand over his thickening shaft, coaxing it along his leg.

"And bite, right?" she asked, her eyes wide with false innocence.

"Right," Dan managed to respond as Mrs. Morgan's fingers released her nipples and popped the top-most button of her blouse. She stared intently into the young man's eyes as she pulled the remaining three buttons from their holes. Sensually, she shrugged the top off her shoulders and Dan watched as it fluttered to the imported rug beneath her Prada heels.

Mrs. Morgan reached behind her and quickly released the catches of her overworked bra. The straps slipped off her shoulders, but the cups caught on her overfilled flesh; a simple shake set the bra free and it, too, fell to the rug. Dan groaned at the exposure of her massive tits, a thick teat perched at the end of each.

With both hands, Mrs. Morgan reached behind her to unzip her skirt; the movement caused her wobbling tits to thrust forward. Dan couldn't tear his eyes away from the distended nipples; they begged to be sucked and twisted and bitten. He could feel the intense heat of his cockhead smoldering against his thigh.

His eyes traveled down the impious woman's taut, tanned stomach as she released the zipper on her skirt and it fell around her ankles. Mrs. Morgan was without a thong or panties of any sort, and his eyes feasted on her bare cunt, its full lips flowering outward.

"And what about this, Dan? What do you my boy-toys do with this little treat?" she questioned, her manicured fingers gliding over the tender edges of her pussy, dipping into the crevice formed by her lips. She extracted a small amount of fluid on one finger and rubbed it over her clit, a groan escaping her slender throat and shiny lips.

"Anything . . . they want?" Dan moaned, his palm now vigorously rubbing his cock through the constricting fabric of his pants.

A broad smile crossed Mrs. Morgan's face, flashing her brilliant white teeth. "Good booooy," she rewarded. She took a step toward him, then another, and brought first one then the other leg over Dan's reclined body, straddling him with her knees on either side of his hips. "And what are you going to do to my cunt?" she whispered, placing her full lips next to his ear, breathing hot breath.

"Fuck . . . it," he managed.

She chuckled before leaning back on her haunches, her tight ass resting on Dan's knees. With her left hand on his shoulder, Mrs. Morgan prompted Dan to lie down on the couch, moving with him. She kicked a leg over his prone body so that her damp cunt hovered over his fresh face.

Bracing herself on her arms, she looked down at her body, her massive tits swaying from her torso and her flowery cunt lips hanging just inches from his nose. "But first, young man, you're going to eat it." Without waiting for a response, Mrs. Morgan dropped her bald cunt to Dan's face, the tip of his nose parting the folds and quickly becoming drenched in her juices. She leaned forward a bit, dragging her exposed clit along his nose and over his lips.

Dan's wet tongue darted out, sliding along the baby-soft flesh that bordered her well-used hole. He dipped it between her loose folds and savored the taste of her fluids as they ran across his tongue. Mrs. Morgan moaned as his strong tongue searched for and located her inflamed clit, manipulating it with small, tight circular movements.

She let her elbows relax and dropped to her forearms, burying her classically beautiful face in Dan's clothed crotch. Baring her teeth, she pulled the button of his pants from its hole, a free hand drawing the zipper down. With a fervor, her left hand snaked its way into his boxers, her cool fingers closing around the overheated shaft, drawing a guttural but muffled moan from the young man beneath her.

Mrs. Morgan wasted little time pulling the burgeoning cock from the confines of Dan's boxers and, as soon as it was free, she dropped her wet, red lips around his head, swiping her tongue across the sensitive purple flesh, eliciting another muffled groan from between her legs.

Dan arched his back, sending his cock deep into Mrs. Morgan's hot mouth, and managed to wiggle his arms free, locking them around her waist, pulling her crotch tighter to his face. His tongue assaulted the married woman's sopping cunt lips and engorged clit, nibbling at the sensitive nub. Her fluids dripped from her hole and over his face, coating his cheeks in the viscous juice.

As he continued his assault on Mrs. Morgan's spoken-for clit, she developed a rhythm of her own, her soft, full lips gliding up and down the length of Dan's shaft. She gripped the length of him in her left hand, holding his cock steady and upright as her lips clung tightly to his pink flesh, pulling it taut on the downstroke and letting it slacken on the upstroke.

Dan groaned as the back of her engagement ring caught on the veins of his cock. His long, strong fingers squeezed her ass cheeks tighter, pulling her cunt harder on to his face, crushing her engorged clit between her pelvic bone and his chin. He pulled her ass cheeks apart, his fingers inching closer to her exposed asshole.

When he sunk his tongue deep between the bald folds of her cunt, grinding his chin up against her inflamed bud, Mrs. Morgan's body jerked and her feminine cum flowed from her hole and into his mouth, nearly choking him in the musky fluid. Dan's cock slipped from her mouth as she trembled through the mini orgasm, but her left hand remained tightly fisted around his cock, tugging and pulling it.

As her breathing returned to normal, Mrs. Morgan pushed herself off the couch and to her feet. Grabbing his hand, she pulled him from the couch and led him around it to the pool table.

"You're gonna fuck me right where my husband entertains his friends, young man."

Approaching the pool table, she turned and lifted her tight little ass cheeks to the mahogany side bumper, spreading her legs wide. Her wet cunt glistened in the dim light cast by the table lamps near the couch, beckoning Dan to move between her legs. As he did, Mrs. Morgan wrapped the fingers of her left hand around his bobbing shaft, stroking it smoothly, feeling the heat of his cockhead burn into her palm.

When she pulled him closer, placing the head of his cock at the slick opening of her cunt, Dan took the initiative and slid his length into her in one push, parting her soft cunt lips and taking her breath away. "Yeah," she hissed as the young man pulled out and rammed his cock back into her to the hilt. "That's the way . . . I like it."

When Dan drove into her cunt again, the force of his push slid her ass off the side bumper onto the playing surface, leaving a trail of cunt juice along the bumper. Mrs. Morgan placed her arms behind her, leaning back and bracing herself on widespread hands, her augmented tits jiggling on her tan chest.

Dan withdrew again. "How do you want it, Mrs. Morgan?" he inquired, just the tip of his cock remaining inside the older woman's cunt.

"Hard," she responded, her baby blue eyes, alight with lust, locked on his.

Grabbing on the side rail, Dan shoved his cock back into her yielding shaved cunt. Mrs. Morgan's eyes eased closed, a grunt escaped her slender throat, and the fake tits her husband paid for again wobbled atop her torso, mimicking Jell-o scooped from a bowl. "Like that?" Dan taunted, withdrawing again.

"Harder," she hissed, her bright eyes snapping open and burning into him.

Dan again slammed into the married woman but this time kept his cock buried in her, trapping her burning clit between their bodies. A mewling sound emanated from somewhere in her throat. "Rough enough?"

Mrs. Morgan's eyes fluttered open and a smile flitted across her sensuous mouth. "Faster, boy-toy," she demanded.

Easing the pressure on her inflamed clit, Dan withdrew until just the head of his cock remained ensconced between her slick folds, and then brutally pounded his cock back into her. He held it there only momentarily – to squash her trembling clit between their respective pelvic bones – before withdrawing and ramming back into her.

The force of Dan's thrusts, despite Mrs. Morgan bracing herself, started to slide her across the felt of the pool table. It bunched up behind her, threatening to rip. Not wanting his cock to slip from the smoldering depths of her cunt, he climbed on the pool table after her.

Mrs. Morgan rotated around so that she was lying length-wise along the table, her legs still spread lewdly, Dan's cock still buried in her cheating hole. Rising up above her, he let the full weight of his body fall, forcing his thick cock deep into her cunt, almost knocking the wind out of her.

Her legs pushed up on his thighs, her small, heel-clad feet bobbing behind him, Dan jackhammered into Mrs. Morgan's little body, forcing grunts from her lungs and throat. He leaned into her further and dropped his face toward one of her fake tits, sucking the nipple and a good amount of the flesh surrounding it into his hungry mouth, gently washing his tongue across the inflamed nipple.

Releasing it, he skipped the gentle licking of her other tit, instead trapping the nipple between his teeth and sucking hard. Burying his thick shaft in her, grinding her clit against their bodies, Dan scraped his teeth across the sensitive flesh of her throbbing nipple. "Rough enough now?" he taunted after spitting the nipple from his mouth.

"Fuck yeah," Mrs. Morgan groaned, her lithe tanned arms stretched above her head, her back arched forcing her titflesh toward the beat-tin ceiling. She thrust her hips at the invading cock, begging through action to be fucked harder, faster.

Dan returned his attention to the first nipple, at first gently licking it but then taking it between his teeth. Mrs. Morgan bucked as he increased the pressure on the tender flesh, compressing the nipple between his teeth, his cock burying itself repeatedly in her soaking cunt, crushing her clit between them.

Her body trembled at the abuse levied by the young man, the kid who was her son's best friend. An orgasm upon her, her legs shook and a heel from one of her feet slipped off and fell to the pool table before clattering to the floor. She pulled Dan's face tighter against her gigantic tits, her manicured nails scraping across his scalp, gripping his hair.

"Oh, gawd . . . I'm cumming," she moaned, her athletic little body shuddering as her cunt tightened around the young man's cock. "Harder . . . bite me harder!" Dan's teeth pinched at her sore nipple. "Aaaaawwwww!"

Mrs. Morgan rocketed through an orgasm, sweat pouring from her forehead and down her cheeks. Beneath her, the felt of the pool table was stained with her perspiration. She wished for a mirror on the ceiling right now. She wanted to see herself. She wanted to see her long blonde hair spread across the deep green fabric covering her husband's pool table. She wanted to see her lithe legs spread wide, her little manicured feet bobbing up and down, her heels banging into the young man's ass.

She wanted to see her elegant fingers clinging to the back of her boy-toy's head, pulling his face into the saline-filled tits that her husband had paid for. She wanted to see her son's best friend's tight ass pistoning up and down, knowing that on the other side of him, a thick, veiny cock was stretching her slutty cunt. She wanted to witness her own depravity, her own immorality, firsthand.

These thoughts somehow coursed through her brain as the orgasm quivered through her cunt, tingled in her nipples, and fired through various synapses in her brain. Mrs. Morgan was pulled from her reverie as the convulsing of her body slowed and Dan pulled his face from her massive tits and his cock from her sloppy hole.

Momentarily, her baby blue eyes eased open to the sight of Dan's cock just inches from her shiny red lips. He was standing over her awkwardly due to the presence of the light above the pool table, and was bending at the knees, his thick cock slowly descending toward her full lips, her own cunt juice dripping from the shiny head to land on her elegant chin.

She remained still, her eyes fixated on the shaft as the head disappeared from her view and brushed against her lips. Her lips parted almost involuntarily, and Dan dropped his hips a few inches as his shaft slipped into her warm, wet mouth, her lips closing tightly around him. "Feel better, Mrs. Morgan?" she heard from above her. With her mouth full, her lips stretched, she could only nod her head.

Dan raised himself up again, his cock popping from Mrs. Morgan's mouth, a red stain from her lipstick encircling his shaft just short of his pubic hair. He knelt and straddled her, resting his muscular ass on her taut stomach, his thick cock bobbing before him and right above her firm tits.

"Time for me to feel better then." He leaned forward so that his cock fell between Mrs. Morgan's over-inflated titflesh, the head buried right in the center of her cleavage. "Wrap those things around my cock, Mrs. Morgan," he commanded.

Mrs. Morgan's hands went to the sides of her tits and bunched the gelatinous flesh up around the thick pink shaft with the shiny purple head. Dan pushed forward, groaning as his flesh caught on hers and pulled back, causing his cockhead to shine even brighter, but his cock slipped up and out of the warm tunnel.

Mrs. Morgan slipped her hands up the steep sides of her tits and shoved them together, her fingers interlacing. Dan again drove forward and his cock remained firmly trapped between the married woman's enlarged tits. The perspiration slicked across her chest and her cunt juice dripping from his cock maintained an adequate amount of lubrication as he thrust into her makeshift fuck hole a few times.

Dan then looked down at Mrs. Morgan's chest to see his cock trapped there, and groaned out loud, his eyes screwing shut to block out the image that could coax the cum from his balls in a matter of seconds. Mrs. Morgan's saline-injected tits were crushed around and folded over the length of his shaft. Her thick, distended nipples poke out from between her long elegant fingers. Hovering not an inch above his thick, shiny cock were her French-manicured nails and absurdly large diamond ring, glittering in his eye.

Even after closing his eyes, Dan could not will the image away. He slowly slid his cock between the plastic orbs, shuddering each time his cockflesh was pulled taut by the friction between them.

"Open your eyes," he heard in a faint voice. He opened them and stared into Mrs. Morgan's beautiful face. Her eyes were aglow with lust and showed a sparkle of amusement. Her full red lips parted and her wet, pink tongue swept across them before she spoke again. "Not at my face, boy-toy," she added, dipping her chin toward her chest.

Reluctantly, Dan's eyes followed her lead and were again assaulted with the image of his cock trapped between her huge tits, her manicured hands and engagement ring floating above his shaft.

"I love your thick, young cock between my tits," she whispered in a gentle voice.

Dan slid the length of shaft up through her cleavage, his hairy balls smooshing against the underside of her mountainous tits.

Still softly, still warmly, she continued, "I love having young men between the tits my husband bought for me."

Groaning, he again pushed his thick shaft through the slick tunnel created by the firm mounds, the head of his cock bumping against the soft underside of her jaw.

"Know what I like best, though?" she taunted, smiling through her baby blue eyes.

"Ugh-uhn," he managed, shaking his head, driving his cock into her cleavage, her breastbone stimulating the underside of his veiny cock.

"I like having . . . Steve's best friend's cock . . . cumming all over . . . my face . . . and my tits." 

Dan's eyes nearly rolled up into his head as Mrs. Morgan released her grip on her tits. She wrapped her left hand around his trembling shaft and tugged gently but firmly. "Keep 'em open, boy-toy," she commanded, a wicked smile appearing on her lips.

Dan's eyes focused on his cock, this time trapped in the fist of his best friend's mom, her engagement ring staring him in the face.

"Watch as I stroke you, Dan . . . I know what you're looking at." Mrs. Morgan picked up the pace, her hand shucking back and forth over the length of his shaft. "I know you like having my hand wrapped around you . . . my diamond ring screaming at you."

She lifted her head and spit on his shaft, adding lubrication to her efforts. "Cum, boy-toy," she commanded, her hand almost a blur on the thick, young cock. "Cum on my married face!" Dan could take no more and his eyes slammed shut and he threw his head back. "Cum on my plastic tits, Dan . . . Cum on the tits Mr. Morgan paid for!"

Dan shoved his cock into Mrs. Morgan's fist and held it there. She gripped tightly at the base of his shaft, her thumb pulsing against the underside of his cock. She held him so his cockhead was lined up with her cleavage, chin, mouth and nose. In short, staccato strokes, she pulled on him and felt him jerk. She stared intently at the head of his cock, watched as it turned various shades of purple, went from dull to shiny to polished.

Suddenly, the tip opened. At first, a thick drop of white, viscous fluid spilled forth, splashing on her torso. But when Mrs. Morgan pushed against the base of Dan's cock and squeezed the underside of the shaft near the root, a thick stream of cum shot from the tip and landed rope-like across her nose, lips and chin. "Oh, fuck," Dan groaned, shoving his cock deeper into her tightly gripping fist.




North Shore Ass Whore



Another rope of sperm surged from the winking cock-hole, reaching to her chin but largely collecting between her wobbly tits. As a fourth stream spilled from Dan's balls, Mrs. Morgan still jerking roughly at the base of his cock, the cum that collected between her tits slid down to her neck and collarbone before dripping from her tanned shoulders and puddling on the green felt of the pool table.

Above her, Dan panted, sweat dripping from his nose and chiseled chest, as he caught his breath. His thick cock started to go limp in her stroking fist, and Mrs. Morgan released him, using her clean hand to wipe the cum from her face.

His breath returning to normal, his heart rate decreasing, Dan leaned forward, dragging the tip of his cock along her substantial cleavage. Her wet lips parted and took his soft shaft between her equally soft lips, sucking and nursing on it, savoring the taste of the remnants of cum that dripped from his hole.

Before he was hard again, her leaned back, again resting his ass on Mrs. Morgan's muscular stomach. He held up his hand for her to see: the Number 1 Yellow ball.

Without waiting for her to respond, Dan stretched an arm behind him and found her spread thighs. He rolled the ball up the inside of her left thigh, slowly and firmly, until it reached her splayed cunt lips, and from there he rolled it up the slick channel formed by her flowered lips to her inflamed clit.

Mrs. Morgan gasped at the coolness and hardness of the object, her eyes going wide not in fear but anticipation. "Nasty boy," she grinned.

"Nasty wife," Dan responded as the ivory orb, slick with her fluids, slipped from his hand and clattered to the felt-covered slate. He reached further behind him to find it and placed it between her flowered cunt lips and pushed. Beneath him, the slutty wife and his best friend's mother squirmed with some discomfort as the two-and-a-quarter inch sphere parted her lips and began to stretch her cunt lips wider than Dan ever could.

"Want me to stop?" Dan teased her, ceasing his efforts to push the ball into her sopping cunt.

"No." Her voice was hoarse.

He pushed the ball in a little further, though it was difficult. "You sure?"

Mrs. Morgan merely nodded her head, unable to speak.

He pushed the Number 1 ball harder and its apex slipped past her cuntal opening. She writhed beneath him, her massive tits wobbling on her chest, her thickened nipples bright red. "Uuuggghhh," she grunted. "Soooo . . . fucking . . . biiiiig. . . . Stretching . . . meeeee."

Dan's fingers slipped from the slick sphere up to her burning clit, all the more exposed as Mrs. Morgan's cunt lips were stretched taut. Trapping the engorged bud between two fingers, he began a slow circular motion as the mother of his childhood friend squirmed beneath his ministrations. As his fiddling increased in speed, so too did the pressure that his fingers exerted on her clit. "Oh my god," she moaned, her eyes screwed shut tightly. "Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmi."

Mrs. Morgan's hips took on a life of their own, bucking up against Dan's two-hundred pounds planted firmly on her stomach. She twisted her pelvic bone, trying to increase the intensity of the pressure on her burning clit.

"Oh fuck! O fuck! Ofuck! Ofck!" she groaned from deep in her throat, twisting her torso this way and that, her head thrown back. Her lithe body went rigid for a moment, before relaxing again in a frenzy of jerks and quakes and trembles.

The Number 1 Yellow ball slipped from her sopping hole as her cunt muscles relaxed and convulsed, relaxed and convulsed, alternately gripping the ball and trying to eject it from her abused cunt. It landed on the felt-covered slate with a thud before rolling a few inches away, leaving a trail of her feminine fluids behind it.

Dan remained atop Mrs. Morgan as she rode through her orgasm, his assaulting fingers keeping a steady beat across the tender flesh of her clit. When her body finally settled, porn-star tits still quivering atop her tiny torso, sweat streamed from her pores, leaving her naked body glistening from the light rack that hung above the pool table.

"You are one nasty young man, Dan," she breathed, her eyes still hooded in post-orgasmic bliss.

"You're pretty depraved yourself," he responded with a smile, climbing off the prone woman and from the pool table. He lent her a hand as she scooted her sweat- and fluid-soaked body to the edge of the pool table. On her feet, she bent to retrieve the Prada heel that had been kicked off earlier.

As she kicked the other one off and threw them both on the couch, Dan led Mrs. Morgan by the hand, her ostentatious diamond rings pressing into his palm, from the library and back down the hallway toward the television room. They padded quietly across the hardwood floors behind the couch upon which Mr. Morgan had passed out. When they entered the kitchen, Dan whispered to her, "Where's the olive oil?"

Mrs. Morgan pulled her hand from Dan's and entered a pantry off the kitchen, reappearing with a glass bottle bearing a Bertolli label. "Come on," she whispered, reaching for his hand to lead him back to the library.

But Dan avoided her grasp, instead taking the bottle from her. "No. Right here," he whispered back, unscrewing the cap.

"No, Dan. Not here." Her voice was barely audible as he poured a little of the oil into his hand, reaching behind her and spreading the slippery fluid across her tight ass cheeks. "I said no. Let's go." His fingers wormed their way between her tightly clenched cheeks, and the tip of an oily finger penetrated her puckered hole. "Please," she begged weakly. "Somewhere else. Just not right here."

Dan didn't respond to her. He merely turned her around and pushed her against the kitchen island. She braced herself, arms stretched before her, French manicured nails standing out against the dark granite countertop.

Dan stepped up behind his best friend's mom, tipping the bottle of olive oil over his cock, liberally coating the length of his shaft before dripping some over her upturned ass. With his free hand, he smoothed the oil along his own flesh and spread it toward her tight asshole. Mrs. Morgan groaned at his ministrations, her eyes fluttering; when they were open, she could look into the television room and see the top of her husband's head over the back of the couch.

When Dan slipped first one and then a second finger into her lubricated asshole, she let a groan escape her slender throat. "Oh, shit," she muttered. "Please, no." But her protestations were feigned. She reveled in this. Fidelity was something that Mrs. Morgan had long ago forsaken, but never before had she been bent over like this in her own house with her husband in the next room. Her already damp cunt moistened further at her own debauchery.

Dan remained behind the bent-over housewife, two fingers working oil into her tight asshole, stretching it, making sure that she would be able to accommodate his thick cock. With his free hand, he reached around and roughly massaged a hanging, plastic-filled tit, pinching the nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

Twisting her nipple counterclockwise, feeling Mrs. Morgan writhe beneath him, Dan placed the shiny head of cock at the entrance to her oil-slicked asshole and slowly pushed against her. She sucked in her breath as his head parted her gripping anal ring. When the thick mushroom head slipped past, hot alcohol-tinged air rushed from between her shiny lips. "Oohh, ffuucckk," she moaned, dropping her torso to the counter, her lean arms sliding out in front of her. Dan released his grip on her inflamed nipple, and her massive tits compressed against the cold granite, pushing her nipples inward.

Gripping her soft hips tightly in his hands, he pulled back just a little before pushing into Mrs. Morgan's asshole again. An inch or two slid in, causing the adulterous woman to groan from her throat. Back out and back in again. He was having trouble sliding the remainder of his cock into her.

He released one of her hips and reached for the bottle, pouring more oil along the length of his shaft when he pulled out again. Replacing it on the counter next to the heaving woman, her cheek pressed against the cold countertop, Dan put both of his hands on her tanned shoulders and pulled her back against him. This time he was rewarded as the remaining length of his cock slid into Mrs. Morgan's puckered anal hole, his pubic hair crushing against her upturned ass cheeks.

Having fully penetrated her, he began slowly slicing his cock in and out of her stretched asshole, holding tightly to her shoulders. In the background, he heard the theme song for Coach. The only other sounds in the kitchen were the respective grunts of the unlikely couple, the squeaking of Mrs. Morgan's massive, store-bought tits as they slid back and forth across the cool granite countertop and, occasionally, the scraping of her long nails or the clanking of her wedding rings against the granite.

Once he developed a rhythm, Mrs. Morgan moved an arm between her legs, her elegant fingers finding her exposed clit, manipulating it against the pads of two fingers. Behind her, Dan maintained a steady pace, burying his cock to the root on each penetration, as her breathing became ragged. Releasing a shoulder with one of his hands, he grabbed at the unfaithful mother's ponytail, pulling her made-up face from the counter and guiding her back on his cock.

"Oh, fuck," she grunted, somewhat startled by Dan's aggressiveness. The fingers of her ring hand continued to play over her inflamed clit and her hips jerked haphazardly against the shaft invading her from behind. He knew she was on the verge of orgasm and battered against her upturned ass with increased force; her ass cheeks rippled at each intrusion.

But without warning, Mrs. Morgan removed her hand from between her legs and pushed herself up from the counter, causing Dan's cock to disengage from her distended hole. "Let's go somewhere else," she panted. "This is frustrating."

Dan still had her pinned against the counter and wrapped his muscular arms around her torso, his searching fingers finding her thick nipples, brushing against them before lightly pinching them between forefingers and thumbs. "What's frustrating about it, Mrs. Morgan?" he inquired, breathing into her ear through a few stray hairs that had escaped her ponytail.

"I just . . . wanna moan . . . and groan . . . and scream," she managed, her breath beginning to return to normal.

"I didn't know you were a screamer," Dan responded, moving back a little, giving her room to maneuver.

Still facing away from him, her eyes locked on the top of her husband's head, Mrs. Morgan reached behind her with her left hand and took Dan's dripping, overheated shaft in her fist, stroking him. "I've got a young . . . fat . . . cock . . . in my ass. . . . How could I not . . . want to . . . scream?"

Dan groaned as Steve's mom's wedding rings slid across the ridges of his cock, but released her nipples and took a step backward. "Lead the way," he said, patting her lightly on the ass.

Mrs. Morgan moved around the counter and back toward the television room, pausing at the entrance to ensure that her husband was still asleep. Satisfied that he was, she turned back to Dan and indicated with a nod of the head that he should follow. The two moved silently through the television room and back down the hallway to the library, olive oil dripping from between her rubbery legs, from the tip of his bobbing cock.

She entered the library first and, without pausing, pranced across the floor to one of the leather couches. Behind her, Dan shut and locked the massive oak door and turned to where she had retreated.

Her knees planted firmly on the center cushion the couch, her torso draped across its back, her arms behind her, manicured nails pulling her tight ass cheeks apart, Mrs. Morgan leered at Dan over her tanned shoulder. "Get over here and fuck my asshole, young man," she snarled.

He was already moving toward her and did not break stride as the filthy words spilled across the lips of his best friend's nasty mother. He stepped up behind her and with one hand pointed the purple head of his cock toward Mrs. Morgan's stretched anal opening, his other hand holding him steady against her soft left hip.

As his cockhead touched her anal ring, Mrs. Morgan's pulling fingers inched closer to her asshole. The picture of his shiny head poised at the entrance to her asshole, with her long, French-manicured nails holding herself open for him, the diamond of her engagement ring sparkling in the dim light of the room, etched itself forever in Dan's catalog of mental imagery.

Groaning, he pushed forward, his thick cock sliding into her easily now. Once firmly seated, he raised a bare foot to the leather of the couch and placed both of his strong hands on her pliant hips, his cock matching the pace it had achieved in the kitchen.

"Oohh, ggaawwdd," she moaned. "Sooo much better." Mrs. Morgan jammed her hips back against the young man, cherishing the way his thick cock pulled at the elastic ring of her asshole, the sensations that shot through her cunt as his heavy balls slapped against her hairless lips, tickling her clit. She steadied herself and again brought a hand between her legs, rubbing her exposed clit, feeling her cunt juices spread themselves over her long fingers. "I love . . . your cock . . . stretching . . . my . . . asshole!"

Dan grunted at Mrs. Morgan's lewd tongue but maintained his pace, slicing his oily cock in and out of her tight ass. Dropping to his knees on the couch behind her, he pushed the lascivious woman's crotch against the back of the couch and reached around to cup her wobbling tits, trapping the thick, throbbing nipples between his knuckles, pinching them hard.

She yelped in surprise, winced in pain, but any protest was quieted as Dan buried his cock to his balls in her asshole and held it there, twisting his hips and stretching her now tender asshole even further. His left hand released the raw nipple from its grasp and dropped to her crotch, pushing her hand aside. He coated a few fingers with Mrs. Morgan's own juices and brought them back to the nipple, the lubricating fluid soothing against the sore flesh.

He did the same to her right nipple before brutally taking both nipples between his fingers and twisting them ninety degrees. Mrs. Morgan's hand quickly left her clit and she braced herself against the back of the couch, screaming out, "Oohh, ffuucckk!"

He placed his lips against her left ear, whispering hot breath. "Want me to stop, Mrs. Morgan?" He knew it was a needless request.

"Fuck . . . no," the corrupt wife and mother moaned, jamming her hips back against her son's best friend, trying to get more of his thick cock buried in her asshole.

His cock still slamming into her, Dan twisted Mrs. Morgan's obscenely thick nipples further, again whispering to her. "You're a little nipple whore, aren't you?"

When she responded only with grunts and groans, her slim hips still trying to coax more inches into her anal opening, Dan pulled down on her nipples, distorting her enormous tits as they were pulled away from her trim torso. "Tell me, Mrs. Morgan," he commanded, giving a harsh tug at the deformed mounds of flesh and saline.

"Yyeess," she muttered, burying her face in the back of the couch, lipstick smearing the soft leather. "Abuse my nipples."

His fingers still gripping the substantial teats, Dan used them as reigns to pull Mrs. Morgan's huge tits to the side of her body before leaning against her and pushing her torso against the back of the couch. The effect kept her mounds spread to the side and squished against the leather, plainly visible from behind.

Releasing her pained nipples and placing a hand between her shoulder blades to keep her there, Dan moved upright and resumed his battering of Mrs. Morgan's stretched asshole, his free hand slapping her tight ass cheeks alternately.

"You're a . . . nasty little . . . slut . . . aren't you . . . Mrs. Morgan?"

"Mmmm," was all he heard in response, her pretty face having been buried in her own hands, bracing herself against the brutal ass-fucking she was taking at the hands of her son's best friend.

He reached below her and his fingers brushed against her sloppy clit, the lubrication from her cunt coating them instantly. He strummed two fingers across her clit repeatedly and Mrs. Morgan sucked in her breath. Her body tried to heave and jerk at the illicit contact but was still held steady against the back of the couch.

"You gonna cum, Mrs. Morgan?" he taunted, his fingers speeding across her slippery clit.

"Mm-hm," she moaned.

"Gonna cum . . . on my fingers . . . you nasty . . . fuckin' . . . whore?"

Mrs. Morgan merely jerked beneath him.

"With my cock . . . in your ass?" he continued to goad.

Mrs. Morgan's head shot up from its resting place, her ponytail whipping back and slapping across Dan's muscular chest. A rush of breath swept across her lips. "Ooohhh, ffuucckk!" she spat, turning her head and presenting her pretty face to Dan. "Keep doing that . . . to my clit," she moaned, her breath erratic and her body convulsing beneath the broad, insistent hand that had her pinned to the couch.

Dan increased the speed of his fingers across her abused clit and his cock continued to penetrate her tender asshole as Mrs. Morgan's body heaved and shook and trembled beneath him before going rigid and motionless. Her head still turned toward him, Dan watched as her eyes screwed shut and her shiny red lips parted as if to scream. But no noise was forthcoming.

Instead, the slutty housewife began quivering and trembling again and her head fell to the back of the couch. "Uuuhhh, gggaaawwwddd," she grunted from deep in her throat, her body trying to thrash from side to side, her fake tits squeaking across the sweat-soaked leather of the couch.

Her hips bounced and jerked and jammed the elastic ring of her asshole against the sensitive underside of Dan's invading cock, bringing him to the edge of his own orgasm. The palm of one hand pushed Mrs. Morgan tighter into the back of the couch, the fingers of the other sinking into the soft, pliant flesh of one of her trim hips.

"Where . . . do you want . . . me to . . . cum?" he managed.

"In my . . . ass!" Mrs. Morgan groaned. "Dump your . . . boy-cum . . . deep in my . . . asshole!"

Jamming his cock back into her asshole, holding it there, grinding the underside of his cock against her, Dan's eyes slammed shut as cum spilled from his balls, coursed through the length of his shaft and splattered against the hot, oil-slicked walls of Mrs. Morgan's asshole. He jerked, then again, as his heavy balls ejected a second then third stream of cum, spitting the thick, stringy fluid from the tip of his cockhead.

Cum still dribbling from his cock, Dan pulled back allowing his shaft to slip from Mrs. Morgan's battered hole. He twisted around and fell into the back of the couch with a "Holy shit," his eyes closed as he attempted to regain his breath.

Mrs. Morgan peeled herself off the back of the couch and turned around to sit next to him, her body turned toward him and one leg tucked beneath her. When Dan recovered, he opened his eyes to find her staring at him.

"Happy now?" she asked, her sexy, sweat-tinged body quivering as the boy-cum leaked from her loosened asshole.

"Yeah," he breathed.

"Happy that you forced your best friend's mother to debase herself for your disgusting perversions?"

Dan couldn't tell if she was serious or not. In the end, he didn't care. "Yeah. I am."

Mrs. Morgan just shook her head. "You're still an asshole."

"And you're still an ass whore."

"Get out."

"Gladly. But I'll be back, Mrs. Morgan," he promised, rising from the couch to find his clothes. "I haven't exhausted my imagination with you just yet."



North Shore Coke Whore



At the request of a reader who was kind enough to offer both feedback and a plot suggestion, I have this to say.

* * *

The engine ticked lightly, rhythmically, having only recently completed a twenty mile journey. Rain dripped from the frame of the car, from the edges of its bumpers. The windows were blurred, save for the two arches where the wipers had recently swept drops from the tempered glass.

The car didn't belong there. Not in that parking lot. Not in that town.

The rain having passed, the titanium gloss of the newly acquired Mercedes S-class gleamed in the setting sun. Next to it, a rusty, seventies-vintage Ford Granada sat silent, its engine having long since cooled; its owner had pulled in hours ago.

Across the macadam parking lot – crumbled in places, weeds sprouting up through the cracks – was the front door of the tavern.

Frank's Tavern. Green Bay Road. North Chicago.

Like the weather-beaten Granada in the parking lot, Frank's owed it style to the seventies. It was dark and dank, some windows clouded from years of smoke and grime, others just simply blacked out. A long, scarred bar ran along one wall. Behind it, an elderly gentleman cleaned dirty, ten-ounce draft glasses, his furtive eyes occasionally scanning the patrons.

A few neon signs advertising alcoholic beverages – some of which were no longer available – along with heavily shaded overhead lighting provided scant light for the tables that were haphazardly arranged along the other walls.

From the rear of the tavern, the sound of a cue ball striking a blue-striped ball emanated throughout the space, somehow penetrating the smoke-laden and alcohol-tinged air.

In a corner, four aluminum-and-pleather chairs were set around a wobbly, Formica-topped table. A handbag – the latest offering from the Florence design house of Gucci – sat atop one of the chairs, and a sweating vodka gimlet floated on a pool of condensation on the table. The table was otherwise unoccupied.

Off to the side of the bar were the bathrooms. Behind a door marked with the universal symbol for 'male' stood Donna Morgan. She observed her image in the small mirror above the wall-mounted sink; the manicured index finger of her right hand traced the outlines of her left nostril before delving between her shiny, crimson-glossed lips.

"Mmm," came the rumbling from deep in her slender throat as her silky tongue slithered around her delicate finger.

She gingerly lifted the rolled twenty dollar bill from the edge of the sink, twirled it to make the roll tighter and bent at the waist, feeling her heavy, bra-encased breasts sway beneath her slim torso. She put one end of the tube to her right nostril and bent further, bringing the other end to the thin white line of powder that stood out against the faded porcelain.

Closing her open nostril with a finger tipped in bright red polish, she inhaled deeply, the cocaine disappearing into the tube, exiting deep in her nostril. She stood upright again, dropping the rolled currency, not caring that it unraveled in the sink. She tossed her head back and savored the sensation of the cocaine sliding through her nasal passage and down her slender throat.

She righted her head and leaned in closer to the mirror. Her bright blue eyes, softened by lightly powdered cheeks, sparkled in the harsh light cast from the bare light bulb above. She brought her left hand to her face, a manicured finger extended, and gently ran the nail along the edges of her right nostril.

The diamonds of her engagement and wedding rings gleamed in the stark light. A decadent sneer masked her classic beauty.

Donna stood upright again, her pink tongue darting from between her full lips and swiping at her still extended finger. She ran her tongue across her gums and gleaming teeth, feeling them go numb, and stepped back from the filthy sink.

Smoothing her palms down her ample chest, the corrupt wife and mother felt her nipples thicken and throb. Her vagina moistened and she rubbed her wool-clad thighs together, hoping to quell – if only temporarily – the smoldering heat building deep within her pelvic bone.

Her lithe body knew what was in store. Shortly, the conservative oxford cloth top that hid the saline-injected breasts would be torn from that lithe, little body, the ivory buttons clattering across the worn hardwood floor of some apartment. The elegant wool pants would be bunched in a ball before being thrown in a dust-filled corner. In all likelihood, the thong that wrapped around her trim waist and hairless crotch would never do so again and the clasp on her overworked bra would be rendered useless.

Donna Morgan was somewhat of a regular at Frank's. Once every two or three weeks, she would trek up to North Chicago from Winnetka, have a few drinks, and buy and eight-ball of cocaine to last her through her next visit.

More often than not, she received a discount for the eight-ball, paying only half-price. She used her sinful body, wicked mouth and utter depravity to make up the difference.

Not because her dealer required it of her, but because she enjoyed it, yearned for it. There were safer places for her to feed her habit, dealers more discreet and secure. But she came to Frank's nonetheless. Not for the atmosphere or even the blow, really. She came for the discount. For earning it.

Rubbing her thighs together again, feeling her fluids saturate her vagina, the thumbs and forefingers of each of Donna's dainty hands closed around her turgid nipples, pinching them lightly. In the mirror, she observed them elongate, tenting the fabric of her cotton top, casting a slight shadow against the bright white fabric. With a quick flick of each wrist, her lustful eyes nearly rolled into her head, her nipples twisted and deformed beneath the soon-to-be-discarded top.

A shudder having passed through her sexy body, satisfied for the moment, she released her nipples, smoothed the front of her top again, and departed the men's room, the door clanging shut behind her. She sauntered across the room toward the empty, cigarette-blemished table, her heels a barely audible crack against the grimy tiled floor of the tavern.

Looking for her companion, her dealer, she swiveled her head left and right, her lustrous blonde hair whispering against her shoulders, before spotting him leaning against the pool table, talking to another patron.

Donna continued back to the table and sat. She pulled her cell phone from the bag to see if she had missed any calls; she hadn't. She retrieved her drink from the table, crossed her lightly muscled legs, and leaned back. Taking a strong pull from the tumbler, her massive breasts pulled at the fabric of her shirt, her obscenely erect nipples readily apparent to anyone who glanced her way.

After a few minutes, her companion returned.

"Ready to go?" he grumbled, stuffing his wallet back into his grease-stained jeans.

"Where are we going?" Donna responded, a coy look passing across her face.

"You goin' straight home? That what yer tellin' me?"

"So what if I do?"

"Then you owe me another bill, that's so what if."

"And if I don't want to pay you another hundred?"

"Quit fuckin' around, slut. Let's go."

Donna stared at the man, her piercing eyes playful. After hesitating a moment, she gave him a curt nod, drained her drink down her throat and rose. She was a little unsteady atop the three-inch heels as the drug had rendered her joints weak, rubbery.

Her companion moved off, toward the door, and Donna, grabbing her purse, followed.

"Catch ya later, Frank," he called out, pushing the door open and stepping into the humid evening air.

Donna caught up with him then.

"Should I follow you?" she asked. "Where are we going tonight?"

"Don't you worry about where," the young man responded, turning to look at the little North Shore housewife. With no effort to conceal his lecherous thoughts, his eyes traveled down and back up Donna's sinuous body, pausing briefly at her protruding nipples. His cock stirred in his jeans, rubbing roughly against the denim and the cool steel of his zipper.

"How 'bout we just go in your car? You can drop me back here later," he suggested, though it was more of a plan set in stone than a suggestion.

"Okay," she allowed, her voice somewhat meek.

Donna led the twenty-year-old across the parking lot to the Mercedes, fishing the remote control from her purse and unlocking the doors.

"New car?" he asked, barely interested.

"Yes. We just got it two weeks ago." Donna moved around the car to the driver's side door as the young man opened his door and began to slide in.

"What's this 'we' crap, huh? You and your husband buy this thing?"

"Of course," she responded, tucking her sexy body behind the wheel, and inserted the key into the socket.

"He know you have one of his cars in North Chicago?"

Donna laughed, twisting the key to start the car. "I doubt it. I doubt it very much."

"He know you gotta black kid in your car?"

"Of course not," she began, putting the car in reverse and twisting her torso around to see out the rear window as she backed out of the parking spot. "Don't be ridiculous."

The boy's eyes floated to Donna's inflated chest again, to her engorged nipples. He brought his right arm across his muscular chest and closed two thick fingers on her right nipple. "Think he knows you gonna get fucked senseless tonight?" he asked rhetorically, roughly pinching the married woman's nipple and twisting it viciously.

Donna's right foot involuntarily goosed the gas pedal and a moan escaped her throat. The sudden acceleration pulled her nipple loose from the kid's grip and the pleasure – momentary but pleasing nonetheless – passed.

He laughed at her shameless display and straightened himself in the seat, looking out the window. "Take a left outta the lot and then a right at the second light," he commanded her.

Donna followed the young man's directions and headed north on Green Bay for a few minutes before turning right on Martin Luther King Jr. Drive. As she took the turn, she saw from the corner of her eye her passenger raise his hips slightly, tug the zipper of his jeans down, and reach in. A moment later, he fished his fat cock from his pants, letting it flop against his left thigh.

She turned her head, tearing her gleaming eyes from the road for a moment, taking in the length of cock that lay mere inches from her small hand, poised as it was on the car's gear selector.

"Take a left up here," he ordered, and Donna returned her vision to the roadway. Her hand, however, slipped from the gear selector, away from her, her manicured nails scraping along the walnut trim before brushing his knee. Slowly, her slender fingers walked up his thigh, closer to the thickening length of meat.

She slid the pads of her soft fingers lightly over the spongy head, her middle finger incidentally gathering a smear of pre-cum that leaked from the tip. When her fingers cleared the ridge of his cockhead, she dragged her bright red nails lightly up its length.

At her touch, the kid's cock twitched and elongated and thickened. He could feel the heat of it along his thigh, through the denim. He thoroughly enjoyed this woman, this arrogant little bitch from one of those wealthy suburbs south of the blighted neighborhoods of North Chicago. Her body was his playground.

"What do you want?" he asked her, his voice barely above a whisper.

"This," she said, matching his tone, her shiny nails scraping back down the overheated shaft.

"Why?"

Donna's heart pounded against her chest. "Because," she began, swallowing hard. "Because I love . . . I love cock."

The young man pointed in the direction of an upcoming street and Donna flashed her indicator for a right turn.

"Why's that?" he continued.

Donna glanced at him from the corner of her eye as she made the right turn. "Because I'm . . . a . . . because I'm a whore?"

"You askin', or you tellin'?"

"Telling. I'm telling you . . . I'm telling you I'm a whore," she confessed (not for the first time), her cool fingers wedging themselves beneath the heated flesh of his cock. She wrapped her fingers around the girth of him, fingertips not able to touch, and tugged gently at the hardening rod.

"Not just any whore, either, huh? Tell me, what kind of whore are you?"

She gulped hard, clearing a lump from her elegant throat. She knew what he wanted to hear. He always wanted to hear it. She figured it gave him some sense of power over her, a feeling of control. Yet it was the one thing she really detested saying. It lowered her even further than demeaning words like 'whore' and 'slut' and 'cunt.' She pulled at his cock harder now, felt it thicken in the palm of her delicate hand, felt the veins criss-crossing the dark flesh pulse beneath her fingertips as blood rushed through them.

"I'm a . . . a coke whore," she stuttered as the boy extended a thick finger, pointing at an illuminated house and driveway.

"In there," he commanded and she released his cock from her grip.

Following the finger, Donna glided the Mercedes into the driveway and shut off the engine. When he made no move to get out, she looked at him inquiringly.

"You wanna suck me here, or go inside?"

"Inside," she pleaded.

"Why not right here? What's wrong with right here in the driveway?"

She paused before answering him. The car was silent and then the rain began again. A drop then another appeared on the windshield, and then increased exponentially until there was a steady thumping of raindrops against the car's roof.

"I'd just rather go inside."

"Come on. Just one suck. Then we'll go inside."

Donna looked at him skeptically.

After a few moments of hesitation, she shifted her tight little bottom in the seat, took in her surroundings to ensure no one was approaching, and leaned over the center console. With a deft touch, her cool, manicured fingers again wrapped around the semi-soft, thick shaft resting against the kid's thigh, raising it to vertical.

With a last look around, Donna dipped her head. Her warm, smooth tongue snaked from her mouth and swiped across the spongy head of the young man's sweaty penis. His thick fingers entwined themselves in her golden tresses, pulling her full, crimson lips toward the shaft.

Eager to feel the overheated flesh bumping against the back of her throat, Donna parted her lips, dragging them over the smooth, purple flesh of his cockhead. She felt the tube twitch in her wet mouth and clamped her lips tightly around the veiny flesh as they crowned the head, pulling it taut as she slowly, inexorably, shoved her shiny red lips down his length.

When the cockhead slid against the back of her throat, Donna fought her gag impulse, swirled her tongue around the shaft, and pulled back, leaving a shiny trail of spittle in her wake.

Before she could slide the young man's lengthening cock back into her throat, he grabbed a handful of her blonde locks and pulled her sucking mouth off of him.

"Let's go inside, slut," he decided.

Stuffing his cock back into his jeans, he opened the car door and sauntered up the sidewalk, ignoring the rainstorm. Donna was quick to follow. He keyed the door, held it for the North Shore whore, and followed her in, the enticing scent of her perfume lingering in his nostrils. Closing it behind him, he took off the worn leather jacket and tossed it on the arm of the ratty couch that was pushed up against one wall of the bungalow's front room.

"Get me a beer from the fridge. I'll be in in a minute," he commanded, emptying his pockets.

Wordlessly, Donna stepped into the kitchen, her heels cracking along the scarred hardwood planks beneath her small feet. Approaching the refrigerator, she pulled the door open and bent at the waist to survey the selection. Mickey's Big Mouth, or Olde English 800. She had heard of neither.

As she straightened, she felt his presence behind her. Before she could turn, he stepped close to her, his sinewy arms snaking beneath hers, wrapping around her trim waist.

"How do you want it?" he whispered in her ear, his hot breath sending tingles up her spine. Awaiting her response, his hands slowly rose over her taut stomach and bulging breasts, his palms brushing against her aroused nipples, pausing there, enjoying the feeling of them rubbing against his calloused flesh.

Donna set the beer bottle on the counter and braced herself, one hand on the countertop and the other against the fingerprint-stained refrigerator. Her eyes eased shut as the young man's strong fingers closed on each of her meaty nipples; his grip was light.

"The same as always," she grunted, her mouth parched.

"You sure? Had a bad day today." As he said this, he suddenly increased the pressure he was applying to the married woman's swollen nipples. He twisted first one in a clockwise direction, then the other in the opposite direction.

Donna gasped at the abuse being levied upon her aching nipples, her body going momentarily rigid. "Yes," she whimpered, her head falling forward, resting against the freezer door.

"One last chance," he offered, savagely twisting her nipples in opposite directions.

Donna grunted as the pleasure-pain shot through her breasts and into her brain's pain receptors. She turned her head to look at the kid standing behind her, her piercing eyes alight with lust.

"I said yes!" she hissed. "I want . . . it . . . rough! Abuse . . . my little . . . body!"

The words had barely spilled from Donna's sensuous lips when the young man's thick fingers curled and gathered the fabric of her oxford in his fists. Quick jerking motions with each hand sent the buttons of her top flying. The man yanked the tattered top off her tanned shoulders, allowing it to drop to the filthy kitchen floor.

He pushed the older woman hard against the refrigerator, jamming her soft cheek against the freezer. He slid his hands between her heaving body and the cool, burnt-orange aluminum and found her bra-encased breasts. Ignoring the triple-clasp between her lightly freckled shoulder blades, the young man gripped the top edges of her bra cups and ripped the bra downward, causing her inflated breasts to spill over the tops.

"We off to a good start?" he taunted the woman. "This rough enough for you, Donna?"

"Mm-hm," she whimpered, the coolness of the refrigerator door soothing her throbbing nipples.

"Want me to call you 'Donna'?" he inquired in a low voice, again gripping the older woman's hardened buds – now bare to the stale air that permeated his little-used kitchen – between his fingers.

Pinned to the refrigerator, she remained motionless, silent save for her ragged breath.

The kid tugged at her left nipple, pulling the augmented breast to which it was attached form between her trim torso and the door of the refrigerator. She sobbed at the assault on the now tender teat.

"I said, you want me to call you 'Donna'?"

It was barely perceptible, but she shook her head.

The young man brought his lips to her ear and inhaled her scent. "What should I call you then?" He knew the answer; he was simply taunting the woman, appealing to her prurient desires.

While she hesitated yet again – he figured it was all part of her game, creating the ability to deny her own debauchery – he sunk his fingers into her overblown right breast and pulled it, too, to her side. He kept his waist at the upturned cheeks of her bottom, holding her there, and lightly ran his fingers along the sides of her bulging breasts, reveling in the exquisite sensations of her soft, supple flesh.

"Mrs. . .," he heard between pants. "Mrs. . . . Morgan."

"What!?!" he intoned, feigning shock. "You want me to call you by your husband's name?" As he spoke, the young man's hands slid down her torso, over the ridges of her rib cage, to the waist line of her wool tweed pants. He wedged them between her crotch and the refrigerator, finding her belt buckle and pulling it loose.




North Shore Coke Whore



"Yes," she moaned, shivering as the kid ran the tips of his finger along her waist line, goose bumps appearing on arms bronzed in the Florida sun the week before.

"Reminds you that you nothin' but a cheatin' little coke whore, huh?" he goaded her as he brutally yanked the front of her pants open and shoved them down her shapely thighs.

"Oh, gawd." Mrs. Morgan wiggled her hips sensuously, coaxing her pants further down her thighs. In a practiced move, she kicked first one and then the other heel from her manicured feet; the blood rushing through her ears drowned out the sound as they banged against the vintage oven.

"Reminds you that you shouldn't be here, doesn't it?" he continued, reaching over her shoulder to retrieve a kitchen knife from the counter.

Mrs. Morgan shivered when the cool blade contacted her hot flesh. Slowly, expertly it seemed, he maneuvered the blade beneath the rear strap of her strained bra and sliced through the silk fabric with ease before shoving it off her shoulders.

With his right hand, the kid stretched the silk of her thong and with his left, slid the blade beneath it. With a quick flick of his wrist, the ruined garment floated to the floor, leaving the married woman without clothing, bare to the lecherous eyes of her cocaine connection.

He tossed the knife back on the counter and whacked her right ass cheek with the open, calloused palm of his hand. "Turn around, Mrs. Morgan. I want you on your knees."

Donna pushed herself off the refrigerator and turned, ready to fall to her soft knees, but the young man caught her bouncing breasts in his palms, sliding them up and over the jutting mounds. He captured her protruding nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and squeezed, pinched. He then tugged the turgid buds downward, guiding her to her knees.

While he pulled the sweat-stained tee-shirt over his head, Donna's bright red nails found the button of his jeans and pulled it loose. She carefully, so as not to break a nail, pulled his zipper down and then tugged at the denim, forcing it over his trim waist and muscular thighs. The thick but not overly long tube sprang from the confines of his pants, bobbing before her pretty face as she dragged the material down his legs.

The kid stepped from his pooled jeans and kicked them out of the way. He then moved closer to the unfaithful woman that eagerly awaited the introduction of his thick cock to her warm mouth.

He put the palm of one hand on her smooth forehead and her bright blue eyes rolled up to look at him. Gently, he moved the back of her head against the refrigerator door and shuffled forward, the bright purple tip of his cock poised at her crimson-smeared lips.

"Open," he commanded.

Donna's sensuous lips parted and her jaw dropped. Her wet, pink tongue slid over her bottom teeth as her gaze remained fixed on the black kid standing above her. He leaned against the refrigerator, resting the head of his cock on her outstretched tongue.

Moving his hips forward, the head slid along her silky tongue and past her wide-stretched lips. Her upper lip grazed along the top edge of the thick shaft, leaving an red-lipstick streak as the cock invaded her mouth. Donna opened her jaw further to accommodate the kid and he pushed in further.

He stopped when the head of his cock bumped against the back of her throat. Her jaw still cranked open, she gagged slightly and he pulled back a little.

"Close."

Donna relaxed her jaw. Her full, shiny red lips closed around the thick shaft, molding themselves to it. Her silky tongue remained below the shaft, pressing it against the roof of her mouth.

The young man pushed forward again until he felt the head slid against the back of her throat. He paused, but only momentarily, before pushing in further. Her tightly gripping lips pulled his foreskin back, eliciting a groan from deep in his throat.

Beneath him, Donna tried but failed to control her gag reflex. Her slender throat constricted, attempting to prevent the entry of the black kid's veiny shaft. He put a hand on the top of her head, ensnaring his thick fingers in her golden tresses, holding her steady, and again pushed forward.

Donna's throat resisted him at first and he pushed harder, rewarded when she relaxed. An inch or two of his shaft slid past her tonsils and into her throat, but she immediately gagged again, the muscles contracting around the head of his cock.

"Oh, shit," he groaned. "Feels so . . . fuckin' . . . nice."

The kid pulled back and the lock of her lips around his shaft relaxed. She sucked in air as she fought the gag reflex. Saliva had collected in the well of her jaw and spilled over her stretched, crimson lips and down her chin before the young man pushed the length of his cock back into her mouth, back into her throat.

Her long, blonde hair still wrapped around the kid's fist, Donna raised her manicured hands to his thighs, attempting to control the depth of his penetration, but she was a small woman. He was not a small man.

He yanked hard on her head and her eyes, tearing from the gagging, floated up to his, pleading for him to be gentle.

"You said rough, Mrs. Morgan."

Without waiting for a response, the young man quickly plowed his cock back into her throat, her shiny lips stretched taut around his shaft.

"Yyeeaahh," he hissed.

When he pulled back out, Donna's full lips again relaxed and her collected spit poured from her mouth. It dripped from her chin to her heaving chest, coating her surgically enhanced breasts, leaving them slick and shiny. It collected at her nipples before falling to her thighs, oozing to the floor.

The young man reached to his left toward the countertop and into Donna's purse. He dug around until he found the vial of cocaine he had sold her at Frank's Tavern. He pulled it from the purse and jerked his hips, savagely sending the length of his thick, veiny cock into Donna's throat.

She gagged violently and he pulled back. Saliva cascaded from her pretty, sucking mouth, coating his shaft and dripping from his balls, from her chin, to fall to her heaving tits.

The drug dealer turned the vial upside down, Donna's tearing eyes watching his every move. He twisted the dispenser, then twisted it again, filling the chamber with blow. The head of his cock still buried in the adulterous woman's wet mouth, he put the vial to her left nostril, using one of his free fingers to close the right one.

Donna snorted hard and her eyes eased shut. "Mmmm," vibrated through the kid's shaft.

"Feel good, Mrs. Morgan . . . my little coke whore?"

She didn't respond, but instead slid her slender, manicured fingers around his hips to his ass cheeks. She cracked her jaw wide and dug her long nails into his flesh, pulling his cock into her. She gagged slightly as the thick shaft passed her tonsils but kept pulling, her esophagus relaxing, allowing the bloated cock head to enter.

She then swallowed, the muscles of her throat convulsing around the black shaft.

"Uuuggghhh," she heard the young man moan above her.

He pulled his hips back, dragging his cock along her silky tongue. Pre-cum leaked from its tip and soaked into her taste buds.

"Mmmmm," she moaned again.

The young man withdrew his fat cock from her mouth completely and Donna hunched forward, waiting for him to feed it back to her. Instead, he grabbed the shaft at the base and lifted. He then let it fall, where it made an audible slap against her forehead.

The shiny, deep purple mushroom head rested there for a moment, pre-cum oozing from the tip and collecting on Donna's forehead. When the young man tilted his hips forward, the cockhead dragged down the bridge of her nose, leaving a trail of pre-cum. He grabbed at the base again, leaned slightly away from her, and slapped the head of his cock against her crimson lips. They parted, attempting to capture the bloated and overheated bulb, but the young man stepped back from her.

He bent from his waist, his hands beneath her armpits, and lifted the corrupt wife and mother to her feet. Wordlessly, he guided her a few feet to the battered kitchen table and turned her against it, lifting her ass cheeks up on to it.

"Brace yourself, bitch. I'm gonna pound the crap outta your filthy, cheatin' cunt."

Following the young man's direction, Donna slid her lithe arms behind her, spreading her palms on the cheap tabletop, bracing herself.

Before her, the kid stepped between her tanned, widespread legs, the length of his thick shaft bobbing before him. Pre-cum leaked from the tip of his cock. As he stepped closer, the bulbous head hovering over Donna's inflamed cunt lips, a droplet of the fluid fell from the head and splattered on the creamy flesh just above her exposed clit.

"Want it, Mrs. Morgan?" he asked with a sneer, reaching out and grasping one of her throbbing nipples between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it savagely.

"Uuhhgg, yeah!" she grunted.

The young man leaned back and buckled his knees ever so slightly, dragging the head of his cock along the furrow of her shiny, bald cunt lips. Slowly, he pushed his hips forward, watching as his oversized purple cockhead parted the adulterous slut's silky lips. He stopped just as they threatened to swallow the mushroom-shaped tip.

"Sure?" he sought to confirm, the fingers of his free hand latching onto her other meaty nipple, not twisting, put pinching brutally. The darkened flesh flared red, goose bumps appearing across the areola.

"Please," she whimpered. Her eyes were screwed shut, her voice barely audible.

"Open your eyes," he commanded, flicking his hips at her, his fat cock beginning to shove her cunt walls aside. When she failed to abide, he stopped and withdrew, leaving just the very tip of his cockhead ensconced in her overheated hole.

He tugged violently on Donna's turgid nipples, distorting the saline-filled titflesh. "Open your eyes, cunt!" he hissed.

The command wasn't needed. Pain shot through her when the kid yanked her store-bought tits and her eyelids flew open, revealing her lust-drenched baby blue orbs.

"Good girl," he allowed, a condescending smile crossing his features, his large, strong hands closing on her pliant hips. "Good little wifey. Now watch as your little . . . married . . . cunt" – he bit hard on the word – "gets violated . . . by this . . . fat . . . cock!"

Donna's eyes barely shifted from his face to their joinder before the young man shoved his entire length into her dripping hole.

Her head snapped back, her blonde locks whipping, and her stomach rumbled and twisted and heaved. "Uuuugggghhhh!" she screamed, her engorged nipples still trapped between the kid's thick, dark fingers.

Just as quickly, he withdrew, his cock shiny again and dripping in her vaginal fluid.

Donna shuffled her hands closer to herself, trying to brace herself better for the next onslaught. Before she was stable, he slammed his meaty shaft into her again, causing her elbows to give out. She collapsed onto the plastic table top, her enormous tits rolling around her slim torso.

"That how you like it, Mrs. Morgan?" he inquired needlessly.

"Unh-uh," she groaned, twisting her hips against the table as the young man withdrew again. Her dainty feet lifted and she wrapped her legs, bent at the knees, around his muscular ass.

When he felt her soft heels bump into her firm ass cheeks, the young man forcefully hammered his cock back into the cheating hole. He held himself there, grinding his pubic bone against her exposed and blood-engorged clit.

"Your nasty little hole . . . is going to be gaping . . . when I'm done with you," he taunted through panted breath. "That what you want?"

Donna's eyes eased open and burned into the black kid hunched over her. She matched his hip movements, adding to the already intense pressure at her inflamed clit, and nodded her head. Her left hand, limp at her side, floated to her tits, lightly pinching and twisting first one and then the other hardened nipple between her fire-engine-red nails.

Above her, the young man watched her wanton display. His eyes focused on the fingers toying with her inflated titflesh and inflamed nipple and he withdrew his cock slowly, leaving just the tip buried in her.

"Slam it in," she mouthed, the tips of her manicured nails biting into the abused nipple. The obscene diamond of her engagement ring gleamed in the harsh light of the kitchen.

The kid's lips curled into an evil smirk. He flicked his hips several times, fucking the unfaithful woman with just his cockhead.

"Slam it in me!" she screamed, spittle flying from her soft, pink lips. She twisted her left nipple hard, distorting the surrounding flesh. The pleasure was exquisite, the pain excruciating.

But instead of crashing his hips against her pelvic bone, the kid pulled back. The head of his cock popped free, leaving behind a cavernous hole, its surrounding lips shiny and slick with her free-flowing cunt juice. She whimpered at the empty feeling, the soft heels of her small feet digging into his ass cheeks, attempting to pull his punishing shaft back into her yielding cunt.

He held firm, his cunt-juice-soaked shaft bobbing lightly at her stretched-out opening, swiping along her burning clit. Slowly, he reached out, gently pulling her pinching and twisting fingers from her ravaged nipple. He pulled her elegant hand toward him, manicured fingers pointing his way.

He held her hand in the palm of one hand, and with the fingers of the other, lightly gripped her engagement ring and wedding band, wiggling them. After a few twists, they slipped over her second knuckle, and then easily over her first. He held them in the palm of his hand.

"What . . . what are you doing?" she panted.

The kid's lecherous sneer remained.

He released her hand and his dark, thick fingers lifted the heavy platinum-and-diamond pieces from his other palm. He turned them around and around, noting the workmanship. His eyes then floated up to Donna's questioning face.

"You're a little cheating cunt, aren't you?" he asked. It was actually a question. He wanted an answer.

Donna merely nodded her head affirmatively.

"Taking strange cock into your nasty, stretched-out cunt, Mrs. Morgan?"

She lifted herself onto her elbows, her massive tits thrust forward, reddened nipples acting as beacons. She nodded her head again, her blond tresses whispering across her tanned shoulders.

"Then let's do this right."

Donna watched as the black kid – her drug dealer – set the engagement ring on the table next to her sweaty hip and placed the pave-encrusted wedding band against the tip of his cock. His cockhead was too broad to actually slip the small ring onto it, so he held it there. His eyes found hers – clouded with lust, for she knew what he was about to do – and he raised an eyebrow, inviting her objection.

None came.

Instead, her pink tongue darted from between her soft lips, wetting them in her saliva. She mouthed, "Fuck me," and nodded her head again.

Above her, the young man, his thick fingers still holding her wedding band against his mushroom head, leaned into her. She felt the cool metal and mineral and searing flesh of his cockhead against her sopping cunt lips. It was an odd sensation.

He removed his fingers and wiggled his hips a little. Her hairless lips parted, spreading over the dark purple head. The facets of the pave diamonds scraped lightly against the tender flesh of her labia.

"Fuck me," she whispered, her smoldering, lust-filled eyes locked on his.

He pushed forward slightly and her battered cunt lips completely swallowed his bloated cockhead. He stopped and then pulled back, felt the ring separate from the tip of cock. He pulled back a little more and knew that Donna's wedding band was now buried in her wickedly depraved cunt.

"Fuck me," she commanded, louder this time. Her nipples throbbed and she closed her thumbs and forefingers around them, pinching again, tugging at the engorged teats, pulling them away from her slim torso and ballooned tits.

The kid pushed his fat shaft back into her. His sensitive head bumped into the wedding band, the platinum and diamonds no longer cool. He pushed further, shoving the band further into her sloppy cunt, until his shaft was half buried in her. He then withdrew.

"Goddammit! Fuck me, you asshole! Fuck me!!!" she wailed.

The words had barely slipped from Donna's full, moistened lips when the young man jerked his hips forward and stuffed the entire length of his shaft in her overheated, saturated cunt.

"Ooooohhhhh, gggggaaaaawwwwwddddd!!!" she rumbled, her lithe torso twisting atop the table, trying to dislodge the thick shaft from her violated cunt while at the same time trying to pull it deeper within her.

Her vaginal walls strained at the sudden intrusion, twitched and convulsed as the small diamonds embedded in her wedding band scraped along the sensitive flesh. Her bright red nails dug into her swollen nipples, pinching and twisting and pulling and tugging. The hue of her abused teats soon matched the shade of her manicured nails.

The black kid pulled his cock from her sloppy folds, paused for a moment, and then crashed back into her. He felt her slick cunt walls contract around his battering shaft but didn't pause to enjoy it.

Instead, he began jackhammering the wealthy housewife. The kitchen table squeaked and groaned as it scooted across the floor at each thrust into her unfaithful hole. Her bright red nails nearly lost their death grip on her inflamed nipples as the surgically enhanced titflesh rolled and wobbled and jiggled atop her rib cage.

"How you like it now, slut?" he hissed at her, his cock brutally pounding into her. He bent at the waist, nudged one of her elegant hands aside with his nose, and trapped a tender nipple between his sucking lips.

"Oohh, fuck," she groaned, her back arched, shoving her inflated tits against him, trying to shove more of the oversized globe into his mouth. "So . . . fuckin' . . . good."

The adulterous woman, cocaine still flowing through her veins, lifted her tanned, lithe legs higher, crossing her ankles and squeezing them around the young man's waist, encouraging him to penetrate her deeper, harder.

"You like . . . havin' . . . this young . . . thick . . . cock . . . in you . . . Mrs. Morgan?" he breathed, sweat rolling down his cheeks and dripping to Donna's chest, lending a silky sheen to her wobbling, overblown tits.

"Yyeeaahh," she grunted as his teeth lightly bit down on her nipple, his tongue swirling around the aching bud, coating it with saliva, soothing it.

"Like that . . . wedding . . . band . . . shoved . . . in there?"

"Mm-hm," she managed.

"Make your . . . husband . . . proud . . . huh?"

"Aaaggghhh."

The groan came from deep in her throat, sending vibrations though her diaphragm. Her legs constricted around the young black kid's waist, holding him tight. He ground his pubic bone against her highly agitated clit again and her body went rigid for a moment.

Then she bucked once, mashing her fiery clit between their respective pelvic bones.

She released and her hips jerked in staccato bursts against him, sending her exposed clit crashing against him.

The muscles of her cunt then went slack. But only for a moment. Then they tightened around the invading, abusive shaft, contracting in pulses, attempting to suck the cum from deep in his swinging balls.

"Uuuggghhh . . . cumming . . . cumming," she moaned. Her eyes were screwed shut, her head lolling back and forth on the tabletop.

Her lithe body shook and quivered and quaked. In the black kid's mouth, her nipple throbbed against his tongue, its heat evident as he clamped down on it, biting into her raw and tender flesh. Her lithe legs, still perched on his back, silky heels digging into her firm ass cheeks, trembled.




North Shore Coke Whore



Above her, the young man remained relatively still. All that moved were his hips. They rotated in tight circles, clockwise then counterclockwise. They pulverized her clit between two, cunt-juice-soaked pubic bones.

And below him, Donna Morgan came and came and came. Unnatural sounds emanated from her slender throat as her body continued to shudder and tremble atop the table. Juice flowed from the weak seal her battered cunt formed around the kid's invading shaft; it pooled on the tabletop before dripping off the edges, splattering on the worn hardwood flooring.

"Where you . . . want me . . . to cum . . . whore?" he inquired as Donna's quivering body began to settle, as the convulsions in her cunt subsided.

"Inside me," she breathed. "Cum . . . inside me."

With effort, she lifted herself to her elbows, her sweat-soaked tits wobbling on her chest. Her nipples were a wreck: thickened; red and pink; glowing from their rawness.

She shifted her weight so that she was leaning on just one elbow, the saline packs injected beneath her titflesh rolling with her torso. She slid her free hand down her body, between their groins. Her slender fingers closed around the three or four inches of young meat that had been withdrawn from her now cavernous cunt, manicured nails scraping along the overheated tube of flesh.

She increased her grip on the shaft and vigorously stroked it, half the length still buried in her destroyed hole. Her eyes burned into his; though her cunt was satiated, her baby blues still dripped with unadulterated lust.

"Cum deep in my cunt," she demand, her fist streaking up and down the thick shaft. "I want to feel . . . your hot cum . . . deep inside me . . . coating that . . . wedding band."

The young man, knees weak and wobbly, watched Donna's brazen and wicked display. Her small white hand and bright red nails were but a blur as they stroked the base of his cock. The quick movement of her hand had set her enormous, fake tits wobbling on her tight chest.

The image seared itself into his brain, but her words sent him over the edge. Her debauchery, immorality. The very corruptness of this wealthy wife and mother.

"Cum in my cunt!" she hissed. "All over . . . my wedding . . . band . . . drown it!"

The young man's hips crashed into her, smashing her dainty hand between their pelvic bones. Her slender fingers squeezed tight around the base of his cock, the tip of her index finger pressing against the underside of his thick shaft.

He pulled back and Donna kept up the pressure, rubbing and squeezing and jerking.

"Give me your cum!" she screamed.

And he did. With the pad of her index finger jammed tightly against the sensitive underside of his cock, the young man's black balls lurched. They released scalding sperm which coursed up the length of his shaft. Deep within Donna's quivering cunt, the tip of his cock winked open and he shoved forward, embedding the full length of his shaft in her.

"Oh, fuck," he grunted. "Oh, fuck, you fuckin' cunt!"

When the deep purple cockhead banged against her wedding band, a torrent of cum spilled from his shaft, splattering against the stretched out walls of her cunt, coating the band in thick globs of sperm.

Still buried in her, his cock trembled and shook and lurched a second time and then a third, flooding her cavernous cunt hole with his cum. His strong hands, gripped tightly to her pliant hips, fingers sinking into her soft, supple flesh, lessened their hold on her as his orgasm subsided.

Panting, he nearly collapsed on the adulterous North Shore whore. He caught himself on his hands, palms down on the table, and remained there while he caught his breath.

"You are one . . . nasty . . . bitch, Mrs. Morgan," he managed, sweat dripping from his brow, splashing on the tanned and taut flesh of her stomach.

He pushed himself up and backed away from the prone woman, his softening cock slipping from her destroyed, bald cunt lips with an audible pop.

"Only with you," she muttered, her lithe body still lazily arranged on the young man's kitchen table, his thick cum beginning to leak from her gaping cunt.

He chuckled. "Yeah. Right. I doubt it, bitch."

The young man stepped to the refrigerator, pulled a cold beer from its confines and popped the top. He turned around to find Donna on her elbows again, her glimmering blue eyes dropping to the sticky shaft that hung limply against his thigh. He leaned against the Formica countertop.

He knew what she wanted. More of his fat cock. Probably wanted it buried in her rich-bitch asshole. But he wasn't going to give it to her. Not tonight, anyway.

"Go on," he said, tilting his head toward the living room and the run-down bungalow's front door. "Get the fuck outta here."

"Huh?" she asked, pushing ravaged body off the kitchen table.

"I said, get outta here. I'm done with you for now. Go home to your husband."

Donna's cheeks blushed a scarlet red, but she bent to pick up her clothes as the young man sauntered from the kitchen. As she pulled her pants over her panty-less and cum-filled cunt, she heard the shower turn on near the back of the house.

Embarrassed, ashamed, she slipped her tanned arms through the tattered oxford cloth blouse and held it closed over her cleavage. After slipping into her heels, Donna exited the bungalow into a torrential downpour. By the time she reached the door to her Mercedes, her blouse was soaked.

Sliding behind the wheel, she started the car to get the heat going. Her image in the rearview mirror caught her attention; hair drenched in sweat and rain; make-up ruined; her once crimson-streaked lips were now a soft, natural pink. She adjusted the mirror downward to her chest; her areola and thick nipples were clearly evident through the rain-soaked white fabric.

A smile of contentment creased her features as she put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway. 



North Shore Santa Whore



The incessant ringing of his Blackberry pulled Dan from a restless slumber. Eyes still closed, warding off the bright light that filtered through the shades, he clumsily felt around the bedside table until his fingers closed around the device.

"What?" he managed to grumble, his mouth parched from last night's Christmas celebration.

"Dude, are you up? I've been trying to call you for ten minutes." Steve.

"What . . . what are you talking about?" He had to swallow hard, his throat was so dry.

"I'll be there in ten minutes, maybe fifteen."

Dan's eyes eased open and he rolled to his side, the phone still at his ear.

"I . . . uh." His eyes danced about the room. "What are uh . . . what are you talking about?" He coughed to clear his throat.

"What!?! What the fuck is your problem? We're supposed to go Christmas shopping today."

"Yeah," Dan acknowledged sheepishly after a moment, his voice hoarse. "I may have forgotten."

"Oh, come on, man! I need your help. You said you'd help me find something for Karen."

"I know, I know. I'll be ready when you get here."

Dan hit the 'end' button and took a moment to look around the room. He stretched his body across the disheveled bed and sighed.

"What the fuck happened . . ." he began before his eyes fell upon the Santa cap that lay, crumbled in a ball, in front of his closet door. In the background, his ears pricked as the shower was turned off.

In a moment, the events of the night before flooded back into his memory. He collapsed to his back, stretching.

"God, how I love Christmas parties," he muttered to himself with a satisfied smile

* * *

Dan kicked a bit of slush from his shoes and pulled the lobby door open. A gust of warm, dry air rushed past him as he stepped into the building and began climbing the stairs. The muffled sounds of music and commingled conversations bounded off the walls of the stairwell, growing stronger as he ascended.

He reached the third floor and took the twenty or so steps to the door to Steve's apartment. He knocked once and, without waiting for an answer, turned the knob and pushed the door open. The music and the voices became clear and assaulted his tender-from-the-cold ears. Dan stepped into the kitchen to find nine or ten people surrounding the island.

"Dan!" one of them announced upon seeing him enter.

"What's goin' on, Jerry?" He grabbed his friend's hand and pulled him into a hug. "Been a long time, my friend."

Dan greeted the rest of the guests huddled in the kitchen for this, Steve's third annual Christmas party, then excused himself to get a drink. On the way to the dining room, where Steve had set up the bar, he waved to another group of partygoers in the living room.

"Hey, Mr. Sheridan!" He paused briefly to shake the hand of one of his parents' friends. "Lemme get a drink and I'll come back and catch up with you."

Dan continued to the dining room and stepped up to the bar beside Mr. and Mrs. Moore. "Fancy seein' you guys here," he said from the corner of his mouth.

Scott Moore turned toward the voice and a broad smile creased his distinguished features. He grabbed Dan's hand and pumped it twice. "Well, you don't say. How you been, kid?"

"Pretty good, pretty good," he responded, turning to Marianne Moore and extending his hand. "It's great to see you, Mrs. Moore."

"You, too, Dan," she said, leaning in for a kiss on the cheek.

"So, where're your parents?" the older man asked.

"New York for the weekend. Christmas shopping, I think," Dan responded, reaching for a tumbler.

Mr. Moore took the drink from his wife and poured some of the fluid down his throat. "Well, we're all out in the living room. Dick and Susie Sheridan are there, too. Pour yourself a drink and come out and join us. We'd love to hear how life's treating you."

"I'll do that," Dan promised, grabbing a pair of tongs and filling his glass with ice. As the Moores walked from the room, he watched the sway of Marianne Moore's behind as she trailed her husband.

Before Dan could tear his gaze from the tight, khaki-covered buns, a new image appeared: that of Donna Morgan.

Atop open-toed heels click-clacking against the hardwood floor, she strode purposefully into the dining room and toward the bar -- and Dan.

Her lustrous blonde hair cascaded across her shoulders and down her back, a perfect set-off against the bright red silk blouse that was wrapped around her torso. A black wool skirt, ending just above the knee, completed the ensemble. 

"Pervert," she muttered beneath her breath.

Dan poured a measure of Ketel One into the tumbler before responding to her taunt. "What was that for?" he asked, an amused expression on his clean-shaven face.

"That was for you being a pervert," Mrs. Morgan answered, pouring herself a glass of egg nog. "I saw you staring Marianne's ass. The drool was practically dripping from your chin."

Dan chuckled as he added tonic to the tumbler. "I only drool for you, Mrs. Morgan."

"Hmph."

"Yeah. Hmph. I've heard that sound from you before."

Donna Morgan glared at her son's best friend over the rim of her glass. Dan smirked back at her in response. "You know what I'm talking about, Mrs. Morgan."

"I don't know why I'm even standing here talking to you," she intoned, refilling her glass. She took a sip and turned on her heel, stomping from the dining room.

He smiled to himself as he squeezed a lime over his drink and then rejoined the party. 

* * *

Coming up on 10:30, Dan, now well-lubed, rattled the two or three ice cubes that remained in his empty glass and moved from the kitchen into the dining room. Before he reached a freshly cracked bottle of vodka, Mrs. Morgan glided into the room through the wide entrance leading in from the living room, barely acknowledging his presence.

As she poured another glass of egg nog for herself, Dan approached the table-cum-bar and scooped a few cubes from an ice bucket. Elvis' 'Blue Christmas' played from the stereo in the living room.

"And how is your evening going, Mrs. Morgan?" he asked, not looking at her, his eyes measuring the vodka as it flowed into his glass.

"Very well, Dan. And yours?" Her voice was curt.

"Couldn't be better." With a hiss, Dan opened a bottle of tonic, pouring it over the ice and vodka, the cubes cracking. "Looks like you're riding solo tonight. Where's Mr. Morgan?"

"Stuck in Boston."

"How terrible. And on a weekend, no less. How'd that happen?"

"Snow. He was supposed to get in last night but Logan was closed."

"What a shame. A beautiful woman like you should not be without an escort."

"Yes. Well."

"Yes. Well," he mocked.

Mrs. Morgan was nonplussed. One arm crossed beneath her enormous breasts, the elbow of the other resting on it, she brought the egg nog to her full, shiny lips and rolled her eyes. But she made no move to extricate herself from this conversation.

"I see you've been tucking that egg nog away tonight. Sure hope you're not driving."

"Of course not," she responded, taking another swig of the creamy drink.

"Room at the Ritz again, Mrs. Morgan?"

Over the rim of her glass, bright blue eyes bore into him, the ever-present hatred of the young man shooting from them like bullets.

"So," Dan began, turning slightly and looking through the door into the living room, then into the kitchen. The party was still going strong, most of the guests congregating in one of the two rooms. "Picked out your prey for tonight?"

"Go fuck yourself, Dan," Mrs. Morgan responded, downing the rest of her egg nog and refilling her glass.

He tut-tutted her. "Such foul language from such a classy woman. I'm shocked."

"I've got more class in my right pinky finger than you have in your whole body, young man," she hissed at him, leaning into him so that no one heard their conversation.

Dan's cock stirred within his pants as a saline-packed breast squished against his muscular bicep, but he just smiled. "Yeah, and you have more plastic in your left breast than you could find on a porn set."

Her cheeks flushed at the insult. But then again, she knew it wasn't really an insult. It was, in a very twisted way, a compliment, at least in the context of the lust-hate relationship that had developed between her and her son's best friend.

"Asshole," she muttered, turning away and marching from the room.

"Happy hunting," Dan called to her receding form. His eyes locked on her tight little swaying bottom as she went.

* * *

Around one o'clock, he glanced at his watch and stood on somewhat wobbly legs to leave. As he made his way toward the bathroom, Steve caught him by the arm.

"Hey, what are you doing tomorrow?"

"Football. Why?"

"Well, I gotta get a Christmas gift for Karen and I have no idea what to get her. You're pretty good with that kinda thing. Can you give me a hand?"

"Sure; no problem. What time?"

"I dunno. Ten? Eleven?"

"Ten's good. I wanna be back for the Bears' game. Swing by and pick me up."

"Great. Thanks, dude." Steve walked back toward the party in the kitchen and Dan continued down the darkened hallway toward the bathroom to relieve himself. After he washed his hands, he pulled the door open to find Donna Morgan leaning against the wall opposite the door, Nat King Cole drifting down the hallway. Her arms were crossed beneath her jutting breasts, pushing them up and together. Her right ankle was crossed over the left.

Dan paused, then moved to bypass her on his way to the front door, but she gently placed her hand on his chest, delicate fingers splayed, the bright red polish on her nails infinitely deeper in the darkness of the unlit hallway. With her other hand she slipped a key card into the breast pocket of his shirt.

"What's that?" he asked, knowing the answer.

Mrs. Morgan paused and looked down the hallway, ensuring that no one was watching them. "The key to my hotel room. Room 1347," she whispered, patting his chest and tweaking one of his nipples. She took a step down the hallway, away from him, but paused and turned on her heel.

"Oh, and by the way, asshole?" she intoned in a stage whisper, a trim eyebrow arched elegantly over a piercing eye. "You're my prey for tonight."

Before she could move away, Dan caught her by the arm and pulled her close. "I don't think so," he hissed in her ear. "You want me, you know where I live. I'll probably be up for an hour." He then eased himself past the older woman, slipping the key card into the neck of her blouse.

Five minutes later, having said his goodbyes and it-was-great-to-see-yous, Dan carefully descended the stairs and hailed a cab at the curb. Unseen to his eyes was Mrs. Morgan's similarly quick exit from the party. Bundled in her mink, she too caught a cab, but this one took her to the Ritz-Carlton.

* * *

Upon arriving home, Dan cranked up the heat and shed the clothes he had worn to Steve's party in favor of a tee-shirt and a pair of gray sweat shorts. Lounging on the couch, he flipped through the channels until he reached ESPN, then waited for clips from the Heisman press conference from earlier that evening. Yawning, he glanced at the clock on the DVD player and considered watching the highlights from his bed.

But before the decision had been made, his telephone chirped twice, indicating a call from the security gate below. A smile spread across his face and he rose from the couch, peeking out one of the windows at the gate.

Her feet stomping in open toed heels, the big mink wrapped tightly around her heavenly body, Mrs. Morgan waited for him to answer the phone.

Dan hit "send."

"Hello?"

"It's me." Her breath vaporized in the near-freezing mid-December air. Snowflakes were beginning to fall and the sidewalk upon which she stood was fading to white.

"Hi, Mrs. Morgan," he said, his voice all innocence as he continued to stare down at her. "Where are you?"

She looked up and saw him in the window. "Let me in, goddammit," she pleaded, her middle finger extending from the sleeve of the pelt.

Dan hit the "star" button and saw Mrs. Morgan quickly push through the gate and then disappear into the building's lobby. Ninety seconds later, he heard a faint ding signaling the arrival of the elevator on his floor and padded across the living room to the door.

He paused a moment, then opened it. Mrs. Morgan strode down the hallway toward him. He knew the treasures that lay beneath, but the heavy, shiny coat made her formless. Only her calves were visible, and they rippled with each step she took in her heels, her red toenails gleaming in the bright light of the hallway.

She pulled a hand from one of the coat's pockets and a Santa cap followed. When she reached the threshold, she stopped and smiled, her pure white teeth sparkling against the glossy red of full, pouty lips. She pulled the red cap, trimmed with white faux fur, over her bright golden locks. The furry ball hung across a tanned cheekbone and she tilted her head, looking at the top of the doorframe.

"What, no mistletoe?"

"Do I need it?" Dan asked, stepping back to let her in.

"Not with me," she responded boldly, entering his condominium. Leaving her coat on, she stopped to look around and then turned back to him as he shut and bolted the door. "Very nice. I've never been in here, only dropped Steve off a few times."

"First time for everything. You wanna drink?"

Mrs. Morgan shook her head and the white ball of fur swung playfully back and forth over her eyes. "I think I had enough."

Dan motioned her to the seating in the living area.

"So, who's your decorator?"

"My mom," he informed her, flopping onto the couch, muting the television.

"Figures," she muttered, folding herself into a lounge chair, the coat still wrapped around her luscious body. "No Christmas decorations, though. Santa won't like that."

Dan laughed shortly. "Santa goes to my parents' house. Not here."

Mrs. Morgan smirked and gracefully pushed herself out of the chair and stepped between the couch and the coffee table. "That, young man, is where you are mistaken."

Stepping between his legs, Mrs. Morgan's slight fingers worked the top button of the heavy mink until it popped free, and then worked on the next button. As she undid the remaining buttons, her bright red nails and the obscene diamond ring on her left ring finger glittered in the faint light provided by the can lights in the ceiling. When the last button came undone, she shrugged the gleaming black coat from her shoulders and it slid to a big, furry puddle at her feet, accompanied by a barely audible gasp from Dan's throat.

Mrs. Morgan stood before him. Her small feet were still encased in the black Gucci slides so inappropriate for December in Chicago. His eyes traveled up and over her calves, taking in the taut flesh of her long, trim legs, the effort she put forth at the health club evident in the slight musculature of her bare thighs, her frequent forays to the family home on Captiva Island revealed by the bronzed flesh.

A bright red babydoll just barely concealed her surely bald vagina. The same white faux fur that adorned her Santa cap ringed the bottom hem of the lingerie, and also the deeply cut neckline, highlighting a healthy cleavage. The silk material bulged over her augmented breasts and her perpetually thickened nipples pushed at the fabric. A long strand of pearls draped around her neck and disappeared beneath the babydoll, where they were squeezed between her breasts.

"Oh, lord," Dan muttered, his eyes now locked on the bright red gloss that was smeared across her lush lips.

Those lips turned up in a wicked smile. Mrs. Morgan bent at the knees and turned slightly to her left, revealing a full white cottontail appended to the rear of the babydoll, just at the small of her back. The rear of the babydoll rode up, exposing a thong that matched its hue. 

"The Lord can't help you now," she purred. "Merry Christmas."

Dan's cock thickened in his shorts and he leaned forward on the couch. His left hand almost trembling, he reached out and hooked two fingers in the leg of Mrs. Morgan's thong, right where her pubic hair would have been had she had any. Gently, so as to not tear the silk material, he pulled her toward him.

"And Merry Christmas to you, slut."

Mrs. Morgan allowed her lithe body to be pulled onto the young man's lap. She hooked her trim legs over his, straddling him, and ground her pelvic bone against his, feeling the heat of his cock through his shorts. Elegant fingers on his shoulders, she then leaned down and softly brushed her wet lips against his.

"And just how slutty are going to make me be tonight, young man?" she whispered, her hot breath caressing his lips, filling his now-dry mouth.

Beneath her, Dan shuddered as his hands slid up the cool flesh of her toned legs, encircling her pliant hips. An incomprehensible sound emanated from his throat and Mrs. Morgan slid her wet, pink tongue between his lips and into the hot cavern of his mouth, her tongue swirling around his with lustful abandon. Another unintelligible grunt.

"What's the matter, Dan?" she whispered again, squirming her body against his, her massive breasts flattening against his chest. "Cat got your tongue?"

Mrs. Morgan reached behind her and pushed the heels off her dainty feet and Dan didn't answer. He merely moaned into her mouth, his cock throbbing with the lustful sensation of her wet tongue assaulting his own.

Her manicured nails digging into his shoulders, Mrs. Morgan pushed herself up so that she stood on the couch, her small feet sinking into the leather cushions. Using two fingers of her left hand, she slid the crotch of the silk thong to the side, revealing her freshly waxed vagina, glistening in her own excitement.

"Or maybe the pussy's got your tongue." As the wicked words tumbled from her depraved lips, she placed her right hand on the back of Dan's head, her fingers grasping tightly at his close-cropped hair, her long nails digging into his scalp.

Dan was still non-responsive. Mrs. Morgan gently pulled his head toward her sodden vagina but stopped when the tip of his nose bumped up against her clitoris. She pulled his head first right then left, then right again and his nose played over the inflamed bud once, twice.

She pulled back on his hair and tilted his head back slightly. His eyes, clouded with lust -- a sinful lust for his best friend's mother -- floated up her taut belly. Above him, he could see her eyes, just barely visible over the bulge of her breasts, sparkling with amusement.

She raised an eyebrow and then roughly pulled his face into her crotch. His thick tongue slithered from between his lips and lapped at her silky labia, the syrupy fluid of her vagina collecting in the well of his mouth before he swallowed. He then flattened his tongue against her hardened clitoris.

"Oh, gawd," he heard her murmur above him.

Keeping pressure against her clit, Dan swirled his tongue over the slick protrusion and Mrs. Morgan's lithe legs trembled. She kicked her right leg over the back of the couch, her small foot barely touching the floor behind, and brutally pulled the back of his head against her squelching cunt, forcing him to twist his head around awkwardly.

"Eat it, pervert!" she hissed, pulling him tight against her sodden crotch, her massive tits bunched up in the cheap babydoll, threatening to spill over the inadequate cups. "That's right, eat it! Get your tongue in there!"

The veins in Dan's neck pulsed at the uncomfortable position and he twisted the rest of his body around, one hand snaking beneath her taut thigh to grab hold of her ass. He dipped his head slightly, sinking his hot tongue deep into the folds of her dripping cunt.

Satisfied that the young man wasn't going to turn his attention elsewhere, Mrs. Morgan leaned back slightly and braced one hand against the back rail of the couch, her overstuffed tits wobbling proudly beneath the slutty Mrs. Claus outfit.




North Shore Santa Whore



She shifted her pelvis a little and Dan's free hand slipped between her damp thighs. He lifted his head and swiped his tongue over her swollen clit as one finger, then another, forced their way past her full labia.

"Gooood booooy," she cooed, luxuriating in the dual sensations of her cuntal walls being stretched and his smooth tongue easing itself over her inflamed clit.

As a third finger slithered into her depths, Dan abruptly sucked the protruding bud between his teeth and held it there, his tongue roughly flicking it back and forth.

Mrs. Morgan, balanced precariously as she was on the back of the couch, nearly fell.

"Oh, fuck," she screamed, her body tensing as Dan eased a fourth finger into her overused cunt. "Ooohhh ffuucckkk!!!!"

The elbow of the arm bracing her buckled and the depraved woman fell backward along the back of the couch, her elegant hands flying to her heaving chest, her long, slender fingers tweaking her pulsing nipples through the cheap fabric.

Dan continued the brutal assault on the unfaithful woman's tender clit while he flexed the four fingers buried in her convulsing cunt. He jammed his face against her pubic bone, his teeth nibbling at the base of her clit while his tongue beat against the pulsing bud.

"Aaaggghhhh," she wailed, long, manicured nails clawing at the babydoll, trying to free her aching nipples from the thin material.

Dan let his wrist drop, forcing his fingers down, stretching her labia wide, while his fingers spread deep in her sodden hole, the soft walls of her cunt yielding to the pressure.

Mrs. Morgan's lithe body convulsed once then tensed. "Uuuuugggggghhhhh!!!!!" she moaned.

Dan felt her cuntal walls contract around his fingers as a massive orgasm washed over her forty-seven-year-old body. She bucked her hips into his face, crushing his nose against her distended clit, bringing tears to his eyes.

Her luscious body quivered and shook as Dan eased the pressure on her clit and her fingers relaxed, releasing their death grip on the faux fur neckline of the babydoll.

"Holy shit," she breathed, leaning to her left so that she rolled back to the couch. Catching her breath, Mrs. Morgan scooted her ass into the corner of the couch and spread her legs slightly, a manicured finger drifting down between her legs to soothe her pulsing clit.

Dan too sat back on the couch and wiped Mrs. Morgan's cunt juice from his face with the back of his hand. He then pulled his shirt over his head and lifted his ass from the cushion, sliding his shorts down over his muscular thighs. "My turn, Mrs. Morgan."

"Yeah, right," she whispered, pushing herself off the couch.

Dan's face clouded over in confusion as he watched the degenerate woman perch herself atop his coffee table. She leaned toward him and pushed him back into the couch, lifting her dainty feet to either side of his knees.

"Just sit back and relax," she ordered.

She leaned back, bracing herself with her right arm and gathered the babydoll up around her waist with her free hand. The thong still pulled to the side, her bald cunt shone in the faint light of the room, her abused labia now loosened and red and puffy. Gently, she eased the thong back in place. She chuckled at his expression.

"What? You want some of this?" she teased him, three manicured fingers slightly tapping her clit through the thong.

Dan's voice caught so he simply nodded his head.

"Oh yeah? Well, what are you going to do to get it?"

His brow furrowed.

"You don't think I just give this up for free, do you?" she taunted.

A bemused expression crossed his face and he swallowed. "Uh, yeah, that's exactly. . . ."

Before Dan could finish his sentence, Mrs. Morgan leaned forward and slapped him lightly on the cheek. She pointed a manicured finger in his face scoldingly. "Not for free. I always get something."

"Uh . . . well . . . what do you want?"

Satisfied, Mrs. Morgan leaned back again. "Grab the bottle from my purse," she ordered him, her fingers tracing circles against her taut stomach, easing toward her bulginig breasts. Dan leaned over, felt around the big bag, and pulled a bottle of KY Warming Fluid from it. He showed it to her.

"I wanna see you stroke it," she announced. "Stroke it for me."

Dan was nonplussed. "I don't wanna stroke it. I want YOU to stroke it."

Mrs. Morgan dropped her feet from the edge of the couch and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Her store-bought tits squeezed together to form a deep cleavage, almost falling from the babydoll, and she put a slender finger in his face again.

"I don't CARE what you want! This isn't about YOU! It's about ME! Now, stroke it!"

Dan fumbled with the top and, releasing it, poured a few drops along the length of his shaft.

"More."

"Huh?"

"What are you, deaf? I said, MORE!"

Dan followed the hedonistic woman's direction and liberally coated the length of his meaty shaft with the lubrication. His strong fingers then closed around the shiny, dripping cock, gently easing up and down the length, forcing the veins to pop.

Mrs. Morgan leaned back again and ran bright red manicured nails across the silky thong covering her well-used cunt. She shivered as a sharp nail scraped across her clit. "Gooood boy," she rewarded him, her bright blue eyes locked on his pulsing shaft as he stroked it.

The pads of her fingers rubbed harder against her clit, their speed increasing, and a dark patch began to spread across the fabric.

"Show me how hard it gets, young man," she whispered, her world nothing now except for the thick tower of young cock glistening before her. "That's it."

Her hips bucked as the pressure of her fingers increased. She slid a manicured nail down the furrow of her hole, pushing the fabric into the folds of her cunt, and she gasped at the unnatural intrusion.

"Faster," she ordered, her voice cracking.

Dan increased the speed of his fist and it flew up and down his shaft, working the lubrication into the overheated flesh.

"Yeah," she moaned before ripping the thong to the left, bearing her glistening bald cunt to his leering eyes. The soft tips of her fingers now slid directly across her fiery clit and she shuddered, her eyes hooded with animal lust, but the fabric slid back. Frustrated, she gathered it in her fist and ripped the thong from her thighs, leaving it hanging around a trembling knee.

Dan groaned at her wanton display, his fist almost a blur as it sped up and down his shaft. Pre-cum bubbled up from the tip of his cock and slid down its length, adding to the lubrication. "Pull your tits out," he mumbled.

Mrs. Morgan jerked as she slid two long fingers into her dripping hole. "Shut . . . up!" she groaned.

Abruptly, she sat up, her fingers still plunging her cunt. With her free hand, she pulled the strand of pearls up and over her head. She laid them gently across the tops of her heaving tits and leaned back again. The strand slowly slid down the slick fabric covering her taut stomach, the clinking of the pearls like a slinky as they rolled slowly downward.

"Oh fuck," Dan moaned. His wrist was getting tired, his flesh dry and overheated. He reached for the bottle of lubrication and then changed the angle of his stroking.

Mrs. Morgan pulled her fingers from her depths, now wet and shiny with her own fluids. Her thumb hooked the strand of pearls and pulled it downward, toward her dripping hole. She pushed two or three pearls from the strand into her gaping wetness.

Dan whimpered at the debauchery that was Mrs. Morgan.

She continued to push the pearls into her until half the strand had disappeared. What remained inadvertently slid off her bare pelvis and hung from her cunt, just barely touching the floor between them.

Dan's hand relaxed around his cock and he leaned forward, intent on assisting Mrs. Morgan in her wickedness.

But she pushed him away, back into the couch. "Keep . . . stroking . . . pervert."

Dan resumed his assault, his fist tighter now around his shaft. Before him, Mrs. Morgan's slender fingers gathered a few more pearls and eased them between her loosened labia. She pulled a few more up, the clanking of the gems the only sound he heard over his labored breathing.

As she pushed the last of the pearls into her nasty cunt, her fingers danced across the inflamed bud of her clit, the bright red nails and grotesquely large diamond a blur as she brought herself close to orgasm.

Dan's body trembled against the cushions of the couch, pre-cum flowing liberally from the tip of his dripping shaft. His eyes floated up from Mrs. Morgan's hairless cunt, over the bright red babydoll, to her angelic face now with a sheen of sweat shining across her forehead and flushed cheeks.

"What . . . what are you . . . doing?" Dan intoned, his voice just above a whisper.

She smiled at him, bright white teeth gleaming over glossy red lips. Her eyes were alive with lust and she shifted her hips a little, three fingers dipping into her hot cunt, pushing the strand deeper.

"Giving you . . . your Christmas . . . present," she moaned, her hips twitching as her fingers retreated, grazing across her fattened clit.

Dan shuddered but his brow furrowed.

She crooked a finger at him, finally beckoning him off the couch.

He pushed himself forward, almost going to his knees, but Mrs. Morgan's long fingers closed around his bicep, pulling him over her. He stood, bent at the waist.

"Come closer," she whispered, lecherousness evident in her tone and her sparkling blue orbs. "I have something I want to tell you."

Dan bent further, bringing his face close to hers. She put her hands on his cheeks and kissed him gently, her soft lips so lustful against his.

"On your knees," she ordered him. "Between my legs."

Dan went to his knees, his cock bobbing above the hot wet flesh of her pelvis.

Reaching between them, her fingers closed around the young, hot flesh of his cock. She tugged gently while whispering into his ear. "I want you to FUCK me."

Dan shivered as her hot breath caressed his inner ear.

She positioned the head of his cock against her clit and released it, her soft hand sliding around his strong hip to his ass. She pulled the young man against her, causing the oily cockhead to slide up her clit, his heavy balls slapping against her cunt lips, and then released him, the shaft sliding back down the furrow of her cunt.

"Know what I celebrated two weeks ago?" she asked, her voice soft, her eyes amused.

Trembling, Dan just shook his head.

"My anniversary," she announced, her voice still low. Her elegant fingers gripped his hip, pushed him away slightly to allow his cockhead to drag across her clit and down the channel of her cunt. She left it to rest there.

"Do you want to know what Mr. Morgan bought me?"

"Oh, gawd," Dan moaned, his eyes screwed shut, anxious to bury his cock in his best friend's mom. "I don't . . . I don't care . . . just wanna . . . fuck you."

Mrs. Morgan ignored him. She slid both hands along his hips to his ass cheeks. She flexed her fingers, the bright red nails digging into the firm flesh.

Dan's eyes eased open and a wicked smile formed on Mrs. Morgan's features. Slight crow's feet appeared at the corners of her sensuous mouth. She lifted her legs high, higher, and Dan's cockhead burrowed itself into the sopping folds of her cunt.

"PEARLS!" she nearly screamed, at the same time yanking the young man's hips into her, impaling her cheating cunt on the fat shaft.

"Uuuuggggghhhhh!!!" Dan groaned as the full length of his cock was forcefully buried in Mrs. Morgan's scaldingly hot hole.

"That's right, pervert," she grunted, the wind almost knocked from her lungs.

Dan pulled back and slammed back into her, her wetness causing a wet slapping sound as their pelvic bones met in a violent collision.

"You're fucking . . . my anniversary present . . . even deeper . . . into my nasty . . . cheating . . . fuck . . . hole!" she screamed, the young man above her trembling with lust as he drove his cock brutally into her wet, yielding cunt.

Dan pushed himself up so that he was upright and his hands closed around Mrs. Morgan's thighs. He pulled her roughly against him, toward the edge of the coffee table, to get a better angle on her spasming vagina. Her taut legs were held tightly against his chest, knees bent and calves over his shoulders.

"Merry . . . fuckin' . . . Christmas," she spat, lust pouring from her eyes as Dan pummeled her spoken-for cunt.

"You . . . are so . . . fuckin' . . . filthy," Dan spat back, his hips pistoning back and forth in quick, violent jabs, spearing the older woman along the full length of him, his cockhead crashing into the warm hardness of the pearls.

Her quaking legs still pinned against his chest, Dan leaned forward and grabbed the faux fur trim at the neck of her babydoll. He pulled the fabric toward him, rendering it taut. And then, with animal lust, he ripped the front of the lingerie open.

"Yessss," she hissed, overcome with lust at being taken so viciously by her son's best friend.

Mrs. Morgan's massive tits popped free, wobbling uncontrollably atop her trim, tanned torso. Her areolas were crinkled and goosebumped, the nipples hard and erect, almost red from the pinching and pulling she had levied on them before.

Dan leaned further into her, gathering the housewife's wobblers in his palms. His cock still piercing the tender flesh of her cunt, he squeezed the overinflated globes brutally, her titflesh oozing between his fingers. Her engorged nipples spiked into his palms and he released the flesh, his fingers closing around what he knew to be Mrs. Morgan's pleasure centers.

"Squeeze them," she panted, her luscious body jerking up and down on the coffee table in time with the young man's thrusts.

Dan smiled almost cruelly, taking her teats in his fingers and pinching them only lightly, knowing she wanted more, knowing she wanted her nipples abused.

"Noooo," she whimpered, tossing her head from side to side, sweat flying from her golden locks. "Harder," she implored him.

Dan stepped it up slowly, twisting the sensitive nipples slightly, enjoying the agony of suspense in her lustful eyes.

Mrs. Morgan's strong legs locked tighter around his neck, almost causing his eyes to bulge. "Harder, I said," she mewled. "You know . . . how I . . . like it!"

Without warning, Dan pushed the cheating woman's legs from his shoulders, spreading her wide. He released her turgid nipples, leaned across her body and pushed the augmented tits together, nipples nearly touching. He sucked first one and then the other into his hot, wet mouth, nipping at the tender flesh, feeling it pulse between his lips, between his teeth.

"Yesssssssssssss!!!!" she hissed again, her slick-with-sweat arms crossing behind his neck, pulling him tighter into the mountains of titflesh. "Harder . . . bite . . . them . . . harder!"

Dan obliged her. His strong fingers fought to keep her sweaty tits piled up against each other as he abused Mrs. Morgan's nipples, his teeth closing against the rubbery flesh of not just one but both thick teats.

"Oohh, mooooore," she pleaded, her small feet rising involuntarily around his pounding hips, ankles locked, her soft heels crashing into his ass, urging him to fuck her harder. She released him only long enough to allow his cock to retreat five or six inches from the quivering fuck hole. A quarter of the strand of pearls was dragged out with his cock, the strand having wrapped itself around the crown of his cock. She then kicked him back into her again.

"Oh, shit," Dan grunted. Pushing back into the overheated wetness, Dan felt the pearls wrap tighter around his shaft, constricting the flow of blood like a python to a mouse. When he pulled back out, the pearls rolled up the length of his shaft before catching just below his head. His eyes rolled up and into the back of his head. He paused when he felt his balls lurch beneath him.

"Keep . . . fucking . . . me," the immoral wife begged, her tender heels beating into his firm ass.

Under control again, Dan slammed his length back into her only to feel the strand wrap tighter around his shaft. He held himself in her, crushing Mrs. Morgan's twitching clit between their bodies. Wanting her to cum, he cruelly wiggled his pelvic bone against hers, grinding down on her clit, while at the same time pulling his head back, stretching her meaty nipples away from her surgically enhanced tits, distorting them.

"Aaaaaaggggggggghhhhhhh!!!!!" the unfaithful woman screamed, her body tensing below him.

Dan jerked his hips, but only a little, fearful of unloading his cum in her cunt too soon, and Mrs. Morgan quivered beneath him. Her hands released their grip on his head and flew to the edge of the coffee table, knuckles white and straining. Her head thrashed back and forth. She slammed her hips against the young man, increasing the pressure on her clit, as a second orgasm of the night washed over her lithe body.

"Oh, fuck," she breathed, her breath still ragged but normalizing. Her long, slender fingers relaxed and her arms closed around the back of Dan's head again, pulling his face into hers, their lips meeting, softly at first, then more urgently. Her wet, pink tongue slid into his mouth, searching for his.

"Did you cum?" she moaned into him.

"Un-uh."

"No? I thought . . . I thought I felt you," she breathed, her chest heaving, her oversized tits pushing into his sweaty chest.

"Almost," Dan said, pushing himself off his best friend's mother. "Look at this."

He pulled back and Mrs. Morgan groaned as his fat cockhead was pulled slowly from her stretched labia. She pushed herself up onto her elbows and looked between them. The strand of pearls had nearly knotted itself around the shiny purple head of Dan's cock.

Mrs. Morgan laughed aloud and reached between them, gently coaxing the pearls from around each other, freeing the strand from the young man's shaft. "Bad pearls," she chastised.

Dan twisted at the waist and grabbed the bottle of lubricant from the couch. When he turned back around, Mrs. Morgan was slowly pulling the gems from her sloppy hole. He grabbed her gently by the wrist.

"Un-uh," he said. "NOW it's my turn."

Mrs. Morgan gave him a wicked smile in return, leaning back on her elbows.

Dan slowly began pushing the pearls back inside her. When the last one disappeared, he pushed two fingers into her bald cunt, forcing the strand deeper inside her. He then poured a generous helping of the lubrication onto his fingers and another amount along the length of his shaft.

"Here's to your anniversary, you little cheating whore," he said, forcing two fingers into Mrs. Morgan's asshole.

"Oh, fuck," she gasped at the unexpected intrusion, her hips wiggling, trying to force his fingers deeper.

"You want it in your ass, Mrs. Morgan?" he taunted her.

Her soulful eyes hooded, she bit her lush lip and nodded her head.

"Thought so," Dan muttered, removing his fingers from the pulsing hole. He poured more lubricant along them before gently easing them back into her anus. The pads of the fingers of his free hand rested on her engorged clit, slowly manipulating it.

"Ready?" he questioned her, the fingers in her ass flexing. The wrinkles that pointed the path to her asshole disappeared as he spread his fingers wide.

"Mm-hm," she whimpered, rotating her pliant hips atop the coffee table.

Dan poured another dose of oil along the length of his cock and positioned the shiny, blood-engorged head at the entrance to her butthole.

"Anniversary gift filling your nasty cunt, son's best friend filling your filthy asshole. You should be ashamed of yourself," Dan scolded her, shoving the entire length of his cock into her well-oiled asshole.

"Uugghh," she grunted, twisting her pelvis at him, trying to accommodate the full girth of the young man's shaft as it brutally invaded her.




North Shore Santa Whore



He pulled back, leaving just the head of his cock hidden in her anus, and squirted more lubricant along his shaft. His fingers went to work on her clit as he slammed back into her asshole.

"Ooohhh fuuuuuck!" Mrs. Morgan moaned, her distended nipples pulsing with the competing spectacles of her smoldering clit being manipulated and her tender asshole being pummeled. She arched her back off the coffee table and jerked her undulating pelvis at the young man, forcing his thick shaft deeper.

Dan bent over Mrs. Morgan's quivering frame, his hands gripping her sweaty shoulders, holding her in place as his fat cock continued its assault on her battered asshole.

She groaned at the sudden absence of pressure on her engorged clit, but her fingers soon replaced his, the bright red nails but a blur as they danced across the sore protrusion.

Dan dropped his chin to look between them and his cock pulsed. The image of his veiny cock slicing in and out of his best friend's mother's asshole while her diamond-encrusted fingers manipulated her own clit was almost too much, and he felt his balls tighten as they swung against Mrs. Morgan's asscheeks.

Her gleaming eyes followed his gaze and a smirk formed on her gleaming lips.

"Like what you see, young man?" she inquired needlessly.

"Mm-hm," he whimpered. He released his grip on the woman's shoulders and his strong fingers closed around her nipples, twisting them lightly.

"Like burying that fat . . . young . . . cock . . . in Mrs. Morgan's . . . ASSHOLE?" she spat, clenching her ass around the young man's invading shaft.

"Uuuggghhh," he grunted as he felt her asshole tighten around his girth, sweat now dripping off his nose. He nearly toppled over backward, but his fingers remained locked on Mrs. Morgan's inflamed nipples, tugging them violently.

Mrs. Morgan yelped at the excruciating pain but her dripping cunt moistened further, easing the friction of her manicured fingers as they continued to speed back and forth over her abused clit. She wrapped her quivering legs around the young man, supple heels again prodding him on, forcing him deeper. Her ass lifted off the coffee table and Dan released her nipples, clamping her quaking thighs against his chest once again.

Her overinflated tits rolled up her torso toward her chin and Mrs. Morgan's dripping fingers abandoned her spasming cunt for her sore nipples, her feminine juices soothing the raw teats. As the bright red nails closed around the inflamed buds, she clenched her asshole again drawing a groan from deep within Dan's throat.

The violent pistoning of his hips grew erratic, as did his breath. His eyes screwed shut and his balls lurched beneath him.

"Cum . . . for . . . me . . . pervert," Mrs. Morgan panted. "Cum . . . all over . . . my . . . slut . . . body!"

"Oh gawd o gawd o fuck."

His body jerked once and then again. He abruptly pulled his hips back, tearing the blood-engorged cock from Mrs. Morgan's now-gaping asshole. He shoved the quivering shaft up the channel of her cunt, the hardened nub of her clit coursing along the underside of his shaft.

Mrs. Morgan's hands flew between them, two fingers dipping into the saturated folds of her sodden cunt. She fished the strand of pearls from deep within her and quickly wrapped it around the length of Dan's pulsing shaft. Her left fist closed around the meaty tube, the fingers of her right gently massaging his hanging nut sac.

Gasping for breath, Dan leaned back on his haunches and looked between their two sweaty bodies. Mrs. Morgan's tightly gripping fist raced up and down his twitching, oily cock, the bright red nails and obscene diamond contrasting smudges. Her slender fingers forced the pearls against his flesh, into the sensitive underside at the base of his shaft, rolling back and forth.

"Oh fuck," he croaked. "Gonna . . . cum!"

Mrs. Morgan's neck strained as she kept her head elevated off the coffee table. Her bright eyes, hooded in lust, gazed between her wobbling, bloated cleavage to the smooth cockhead aimed directly up her body, poised to fire a bullet of cum right into her mouth.

"Shoot . . . that cum . . . all . . . over . . . me!" she demanded. "Cover me with it!"

She groaned as the slit at the apex of the young man's cock winked open, followed not a moment later by a thick rope of sperm that flew up her body, casting a line of pearlescent fluid from her belly button to the bottoms of her trembling tits.

Her elegant fingers brutally yanked on Dan's shaft, compressing the pearls against the steaming flesh. A second jet of cum was spit from the fat cock, flying through the air and splattering against her stomach and the underside of the store-bought monsters mounted to her heaving chest.

Dan's muscular body spasmed as a third stream of sperm spewed from his cockhead, pooling on Mrs. Morgan's taut, tanned stomach, filling her belly button. Her fingers desperately tugged at the trembling shaft and he shuddered as a final glob of cum leaked from the slit at the head of his cock, falling to her hairless cunt with an audible plop.

Dan collapsed against the couch, the strand of pearls unwinding from his slimy shaft and clattering to the floor between his knees. "Fuckin' incredible," he breathed, wiping sweat from his brow as his breathing began to slow.

Donna Morgan remained prone on the table, elegant manicured fingers of one hand lazily tracing circles in the young man's cum that coated her wobbling tits, the other gently tweaking a still hardened nipple.

"Like I said, Merry Christmas, pervert," she intoned.

* * *

Dan rolled his head toward the bathroom door as it cracked open.

"What are doing up?" she scowled, a look of scorn crossing her freshly scrubbed face. She eased through the doorway, a large white bath sheet wrapped around her trim torso, concealing her bulging tits.

"Morning to you."

She rolled her bright blue eyes but decided to ignore his sarcasm. "Did I hear a phone?"

"Mm-hm."

She merely raised an eyebrow, pausing to lean against the doorframe. She crossed her arms beneath the store-bought balloons that had been bolted to her chest; her nipples, thickened as always, mounded the fabric.

"Steve," Dan responded to her unasked question.

She nodded her head curtly, a bead of water releasing from a few stray strands of platinum before coursing down her collarbone and disappearing beneath the towel. "What'd he want?"

"We were supposed to go shopping this morning. To find something for Karen."

Mrs. Morgan rolled her eyes. "She's such a little slut."

Dan laughed at the irony. "You just spent the night fucking your son's best friend while your husband is stuck in an airport. So who's the true slut, Mrs. Morgan?"

She blushed at the insult. But again, it wasn't really an insult.

Dan kicked the sheets from his body, revealing his limp but growing cock resting against his thigh. A sly smile parted Mrs. Morgan's full lips and she pushed herself off the doorframe, the towel coming loose and falling to the thick carpeting.

Dan's hand felt around the side table for his Blackberry, his eyes locked on Mrs. Morgan's lush body as she sauntered across the bedroom toward him. Her swollen tits wobbled on her slight frame, the bloated nipples pointing toward him, toward her prey.

She climbed onto the bed and crawled her way up while Dan dialed the phone.

"Hey, what's up?" he said into the mouthpiece as Mrs. Morgan engulfed the head of his cock in her warm, silky mouth.

"I . . . ugh . . . I'm gonna wanna . . . wanna take a shower," he breathed, her manicured fingers massaging his full balls. "Uh . . . just buzz me when you get here . . . and I'll . . . I'll let you up . . . That cool?"

Mrs. Morgan didn't hear her son's response or Dan's. He had involuntarily bucked his cock into her wet mouth, sending the thick shaft and rubbery head to the back of her throat, triggering a gag reaction. She was catching her breath when Dan hung up the phone.

"We don't have much time, Mrs. Morgan. Wrap that fist around me and jerk me off into your slutty little mouth before your son gets here."



North Shore Whore



One Saturday afternoon in September 2004, Dan was lying on his couch watching college football when his phone rang. A friend of his from work was on the other end. "Dan, this is Scott, what's up?"

"Just watching the end of the USC game. What are you doing?"

"I've been in the office all day and need to meet Lauren for dinner at 8 or so. Wanna grab a few drinks with me before."

"Mmm, sure. I'm supposed to meet a few friends later. Mind if I have 'em meet us?"

"Not at all. Why don't you meet me at Gibson's? We're having dinner at Hugo's." Hugo's Frog Bar was right behind Gibson's.

"Sure. Give me half-an-hour or so. I need jump in the shower and then grab a cab. Should be down there by 6:30 or so."

"See you there." Dan got up from the couch, took a shower, and hailed a cab to Gibson's. Gibson's was located in what has become known as the Viagra Triangle. It, and many of the bars and restaurants near it, was frequented by forty-something's looking for love. Or sex, whatever was convenient. Gibson's was particularly renowned for catering to older men looking for younger women, and older women for younger men.

As the cab neared Gibson's, Dan called one of his friends that he was supposed to meet that night, but got his voicemail. "Steve, this is Dan. I'm meeting a friend from work at Gibson's for a few drinks. Meet me there at around 7:30 or so. Oh, and call Jeff and let him know. See you later." Dan folded his phone as the cab pulled up to the curb in front of Gibson's.

Scott already had a high table, drink in hand, when Dan entered. "Long day at the office?" Dan said, taking a seat.

"Not really. I just went in for a few hours."

When a waitress appeared, Dan ordered a Stoli and tonic. "What do you have going on?" he asked Scott when the waitress left.

"Nothing much. I just have a big report due in New York Monday morning, and I wanted to take a last look before I e.mailed it over."

Dan and Scott spent the next half-an-hour or so talking about office gossip, complaining about high-maintenance clients, and people-watching. Even though it was still early, the Gibson's regulars (or at least Dan assumed they were regulars) were all present, staking out their turf. It was comical to watch, really.

Dan was about to respond to something Scott had said when something – someone – caught his eye. At one end of the bar, he saw Donna Morgan. He had known Mrs. Morgan for upwards of ten years. He and her son, Steve, went to high school together and had run with the same crowd. They still did; in fact, Dan had just left a voicemail message for her son. The Morgans lived down the street from Dan's family in Winnetka, and he and Steve had been best friends in junior high and high school. They drifted apart some during college, but still maintained a very close friendship.

Their friendship when they were younger had been such that Steve sometimes accompanied Dan's family to their house in Beaver Creek, and Dan on occasion traveled to Naples, Florida with the Morgan family. Dan had always found Mrs. Morgan extremely beautiful, in the trophy wife sort of way, but she was a complete bitch, cold and aloof. She acted as though everything was a bother to her, like she was way above everyone surrounding her. When he and Steve were growing up, she couldn't be bothered to drive them to the mall or pick them up from football practice. The PTA? Forget it; not in a million years. She'd rather be shopping on Oak Street and downing bottles of wine with her friends at Tavern-on-Rush or Bistro 110.

Part of that was her upbringing; her father had been a top personal injury attorney in Chicago. Rumor had it that her trust, which she received when she turned twenty-five, was in the eight-figures. Another part was her husband. Mrs. Morgan was clearly a trophy wife. Dan didn't really know her age, but with Steve being her son, and based on how good she looked, he guessed she was in her mid-forties. Mr. Morgan, on the other hand, was in his late-fifties, at best. He was in venture capital, and provided very well for the family.

At the end of the day, being born into money and then marrying it all over had given Mrs. Morgan a serious superiority complex. Dan remembers that when they were growing up, she would barely acknowledge Steve's friends when they were around the house. She would breeze in after shopping all day, and march through the house, bags in hand, with barely a hello. Given their financial security, the Morgans had full-time help; in Dan's view, Mrs. Morgan did not treat them very well, but instead ordered them around with a distinct lack of respect and compassion. All in all, Mrs. Morgan was a fucking cunt.

Despite this, she was absolutely stunning; no one could rightly deny that. Looking at her across the bar, Dan estimated her height at five-feet-eight-or-nine inches. She had long, dirty blonde hair that flowed over her shoulders and hung a few inches past. Dan cannot recall ever seeing her hair in anything so pedestrian as a ponytail; rather, it looked like she went to stylist every day, and that night was no exception. As rude as she typically was, Mrs. Morgan usually kept her eyes averted from anything as bothersome as Steve's friends, so Dan could not really recall ever seeing any magic or brightness in them, and only knew that they were a shade of blue. This night was a little different; he could see life there. She was enjoying herself.

The small crowd between Dan and Mrs. Morgan parted, giving him a more complete view of her. 'Wow,' he thought. He had to revise her estimate of her height, because she was in three-inch open-toed heels crafted in black patent leather; her toenails gleamed with red polish. As his eyes traveled up her lean, lightly muscled legs – one straight and the other cocked at the knee – he noticed no telltale signs of stockings or pantyhose.

A tasteful black skirt hung from her trim waist, falling two or three inches above her knees. A white knit top clung to her upper body. It was sleeveless, and had a button in front to keep the two sides together. Dan had never seen a top like this, and didn't know what to call it. Whatever it was, it exposed a large part of her flat, tanned stomach. The button – there was only one – joined the lapels at her breast line. It must have been a strong button; Dan had never noticed before, but Mrs. Morgan's breasts were quite large, a large C-cup or a small D-cup, at least. He could see her nipples tenting the fabric. A large diamond pendant hung from her neck and fell between her cleavage. When she turned away from him for a moment to order another drink, Dan was treated to a tight little ass hiding beneath that skirt.

When her drink arrived, Mrs. Morgan brought the low-ball, now filled with a brownish liquid, to her red-painted lips just as Dan turned back to Steve. He saw her French-manicured nails gripping the glass, and her wedding rings sparkled in the faint light of the bar. "Yeah," he said, answering Steve. "I worked on that account for a few months about two years ago, before I got pulled back to Chicago. Not fun. The client wants miracles, and thinks it can happen overnight."

As their conversation continued, Dan's eyes strayed back to Mrs. Morgan. He was alarmed to see her staring at him, her drink paused right before her lips. Dan thought he could see the color drain from her deeply tanned cheeks. After a moment, she appeared to regain her composure, and put her drink to her lips, placing it back on the bar after taking a strong pull.. She leaned over to the person she was talking to, placing a hand on his arm, and walked away from the bar towards the main entrance. As she did so, she beckoned for Dan to follow, crooking a manicured finger at him.

"Gimme a minute, Steve, I've gotta say hi to someone." Dan met her at the main entrance. "Mrs. Morgan, so good to see you," he said with mock sincerity, holding out his hand. He really did hate her. He would kiss some of his friends' moms on the cheek when seeing them, but not Mrs. Morgan. You'd probably get slapped for messing up her make up.

"You, too, Dan," she responded with the same artificiality, taking the offered hand. Rather than continuing, she just stared at him.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Morgan? You summoned me over here." Sarcasm dripped from his voice.

"I . . . I didn't want you saying anything . . . to Steve, I mean. Well, er, anyone, for that matter." The usual confidence was missing. Dan knew what was going on: Mrs. Morgan was on the prowl. Needless to say, this surprised him. He couldn't image this bitch being friendly enough so that anyone would want to deal with her. And despite her beautiful face and sexy body, he had never really imagined her having sex. Her holier-than-thou attitude – which is to say 'bitchy attitude' – did not inspire such thoughts.

"What do you mean, 'say anything'? You're here having a drink. What's there to say?" Before she could respond, Dan continued to play with her, looking around the bar area of the restaurant. "Where's Mr. Morgan? I'd like to say hello to him. It's been at least six months since I've seen him."

"He's not here. He's traveling this weekend," she said, too quickly. "I came downtown to do some shopping, and then met some girlfriends for a few drinks before I go home."

"Girlfriends?" Dan inquired, continuing the game and looking around the space where Mrs. Morgan had been standing. "I don't see any 'girlfriends.' Just that guy you were talking to." Dan nodded his head towards a kid about his age – mid-twenties or so – dressed up for a night on the town in black pants and a silk shirt. 'Probably a trader,' Dan thought. 'What a fuckin' shithead.'

"They're not here yet. They're coming soon."

Dan returned his gaze to Mrs. Morgan. "Really? I'm sorry, Mrs. Morgan. I thought you said you 'met' some girlfriends here. 'Met,' of course, implies past tense, something that has already occurred. Not something that is going to occur in the future."

Mrs. Morgan just stared at him. He could almost feel her hatred of him for intruding on her like this. "I meant I came here to meet them." She paused. "They're not here yet. They will be soon. In the future." She was mocking him. What a fucking bitch.

"Well, enjoy your evening, Mrs. Morgan." As he began to walk back towards Steve, he turned. "Hey, when they get here, why don't you introduce me? Maybe they know my mom, too." Dan smirked and walked away. He knew there were no girlfriends; Mrs. Morgan had to be squirming now. "Sorry about that, Steve. A friend's mom I haven't seen in a while."

Dan watched as Mrs. Morgan made her way back to the bar. Unfortunately for her, Trader Boy had found another mark. She grabbed her drink and took a long pull from it. He expected her to leave then, to find a new hunting ground, but she didn't. She resumed her pose against the bar, but faced away from Dan. 'Does she think that if she can't see me, I can't see her? Wouldn't surprise me, she's so self-centered.'

Dan pulled out his cell phone and dialed Steve, again getting his voicemail. "Hey, it's me again. Cancel those last plans. I've gotta run home for a few minutes after this. Why don't we meet at North Side in Bucktown around 9:00 or so? Call me and let me know. Call Jeff, too." The last thing Dan wanted was for Steve to walk in here and see his mom playing the role of cougar. He hung up his phone and he and Scott resumed their conversation. As 8:00 approached, Steve paid the tab and got up to leave. Dan did, too, taking a last glance towards Mrs. Morgan. She saw him in a mirror behind the bar, and turned to look at him, and then again beckoned him with a long, manicured finger.

"Steve, I'm gonna say goodbye to this lady. I'll see you Monday, huh?"

"You bet."

"Say hi to Lauren for me."

This time, Dan joined Mrs. Morgan at the bar. "Care to join me for a drink?" she asked.

"While you wait for your friends, you mean?"

"Yes, while I wait for my friends. That's what I mean." She sure was confrontational, especially for a married woman found in a bar with a twenty-something on her arm.

"Well, I can't stay long. I'm meeting Jeff and Steve in a little bit. You know Steve, your son?" She flagged the bartender and ordered two of what she was drinking, single barrel bourbon.

"Of course. Don't be an ass."

"Sorry. Just wanted to make sure. It's like I've never seen you before, so I guess I'm just making sure I have all the facts straight."

Mrs. Morgan again just stared at him, not responding. After a minute, she placed her hand on Dan's arm. Dan looked down to see her long fingers rubbing his skin, her diamond rings shining in the bar's light. Past her hand, her tanned stomach was exposed to his gaze. Dan felt his cock stir in his pants. "It's getting crowded in here, Dan. Why don't we go somewhere quieter and talk?"

Dan raised an eyebrow. "Quieter, Mrs. Morgan? Or more private?"

Mrs. Morgan paused before answering. "More private," she whispered, squeezing Dan's arm for emphasis.

"What's the plan here, Mrs. Morgan. I catch you on the prowl, and now you'll buy my silence? Is that it?"

"No, that's not it. Not at all. I'm not buying anything, except a drink for you."

"Well, let's think about this. You're at a bar here in the Viagra Triangle without your husband, who is traveling. You're talking to this young guy, laughing and flirting, touching him. You see me and go absolutely pale. You then tell me that you're meeting your girlfriends here, but you want to leave with me and go somewhere private – even though you're meeting your friends here. Sounds like you're trying to buy my silence, Mrs. Morgan. And, by the way, Steve was supposed to meet me here, but I called him a few minutes ago and told him I'd meet he and Jeff somewhere else in a little bit."

Mrs. Morgan's eyes went wide at this, and were then cast downward. She could not imagine the shame if her son had seen her here, hitting on a young man the same age as him. "That would have been embarrassing," she muttered.

"I'm sure. So, do I have it right, Mrs. Morgan," Dan asked, as she continued to stroke his arm with her long nails.

She now dropped the pretense. "In part. The only part you have wrong is my trying to buy your silence. I didn't suggest somewhere quieter – more private – to buy your silence," she said, dropping her voice. She leaned in to his ear. "I want somewhere more private where I can fuck the shit out of you." Her hot breath in his ear and her filthy mouth sent Dan's blood flooding his cock. "I came downtown tonight to find a no-strings fuck with a young cock. You fit the bill. Ready?" she finished, moving away from his ear.

Dan lifted his glass to his mouth, and took a pull of the bourbon into his mouth. He gazed around the bar, thinking, and set his glass down. He then took Mrs. Morgan's hand in his, leading her from Gibson's. "Is my condo private enough? It's only a fifteen minute cab ride."

"Probably. But the Ritz is only a five minute cab ride. I have a suite there." As they exited Gibson's the doorman offered to hail a cab for them, and they stood on the curb waiting. "Dan, do you remember Christina?"

"Steve's old girlfriend?" Mrs. Morgan nodded. "Of course. They dated for a while in high school and during our freshman year at college. She and I went to school together."

"What do you know about her?"

"Enough. Why?"

"Why did she and Steve break up?" Dan had the feeling that Mrs. Morgan knew the answer to these questions, but was asking them for a purpose.

"She cheated on him. You know that. Listen, Christina's a slut. Or she was. Maybe still is, I don't know. I haven't seen her in a few years. Last I heard, she was in South Beach. I'm the reason they broke up. Well, not the reason, but during our freshman year, the first semester we were there, she hooked up with two or three different guys a week. It was ridiculous. She and Steve were still dating. I told her to stop or I'd tell Steve. She said she would, but nothing changed, so I told him. That's when they broke up. She never had a boyfriend in college after that. She just slept with a new guy or two every week. She's got to be the biggest whore Winnetka ever produced."

"I doubt that," Mrs. Morgan replied matter-of-factly.

"You don't know Christina then."

"Well, you don't know me."

Dan didn't know what to make of that, when a cab pulled up for them. He held the driver's side door for Mrs. Morgan and let her in, going around to get in the other side. He slid in as Mrs. Morgan directed the driver to the Ritz-Carlton behind Water Tower Place.

"What's that mean?"

She didn't even pretend to not understand. Her hand floated across the seat to Dan, causing him to shudder as her nails lightly raked his thigh through his pants. "It means that I'm much sluttier than Christina, that's what it means," she said, sidling over to him.

"That's . . . that's ridiculous. I've never heard of anyone messing around with you. I hadn't even thought it was possible."

"Of course you never heard anything like that. I don't fuck my neighbors, Dan. I'm not stupid." Mrs. Morgan continued to stroke Dan's thigh, but her hand strayed further and further towards his crotch with each upward movement. "I drive out to places like Fox Lake and go to Wokini's. Or Hunter's in Highwood. Sometimes, I'll go to the Two Two Lounge or Toby's Tavern in North Chicago."

Dan's eyes opened wide. "North Chicago?" he muttered in complete shock.

"Hmm-mmm."

"A real equal opportunity woman, aren't you?"

"Woman?" she asked rhetorically as her fingers finally found the thickening length of Dan's shaft as it grew down his pants leg. "Mmmm, very nice," she interruputed herself. Whispering in Dan's ear, she continued, "Equal opportunity whore is probably more accurate. White, black, brown, yellow. I don't care, as long as they're a rough fuck, and only if they're young. I love young cock."

"Never would . . . have occurred . . . to me," Dan managed to get out, his breath ragged now from Mrs. Morgan's manipulation of his cock.

Mrs. Morgan could feel the heat of Dan's cock through his pants as the cab pulled under the Ritz's portico. "The last time I was here, two weeks ago in fact, I received very disapproving looks from the doormen and the concierge," she said with a smirk, getting out of the cab.

"Why's that?" Dan said as he followed her out of the cab, adjusting his cock to a more comfortable position.

After they made their way through the revolving doors, Mrs. Morgan leaned into him and whispered, "It seems they didn't like me bringing the twenty-year-old busboy from Hugo's back here." Dan's heart skipped a beat.

Exiting the elevator, Mrs. Morgan strutted across the lobby, imperial as ever, to the concierge's desk and ordered a bottle of wine to be brought up to her suite. She and Dan then boarded an elevator to the twentieth floor. When the doors swooshed shut, and they were alone, Mrs. Morgan leaned into Dan.

"This is going to be fun," she giggled, one of her hands gripping Dan's belt buckle and pulling him towards her, the other wrapping around the back of his head. "I've never fucked one of Steve's friends before." Mrs. Morgan pulled Dan's face towards her own, her shiny red lips parting to allow her hot, pink tongue to escape. Then their lips touched, and Mrs. Morgan's tongue slipped into her son's best friend's mouth, probing. Dan was quick to respond; he let Mrs. Morgan's tongue find his as he placed on hand on her trim hip, pulling her closer to him. Their lips – and bodies – parted as the doors of the elevator opened on the twentieth floor.

They entered the suite and Mrs. Morgan began turning on lights throughout the suite. "Make yourself comfortable, Dan. I'll join you in a second." Dan took a seat on the couch in the living room. A moment later, Mrs. Morgan entered the living room again, strutting toward him with her sexy, trim hips swaying. She joined him on the couch, tucking a leg underneath her, and turned toward him and began to speak. "So, Daniel . . . ." A knock on the door interrupted her. "Be a dear and get that, wouldn't you?"




North Shore Whore



"Of course." Dan rose from the couch and opened the door to room service.

"Chateauneuf du Pape, sir. Vintage 1989. Shall I open the bottle for you, Mr. Morgan?"

"No, thank you. I can manage. Just leave the corkscrew with me. And I'm not Mr. Morgan," Dan said, smiling. "I'm just here with his slutty wife." The sommelier, taken aback, simply nodded and marched back toward the service elevator. Dan returned to the living room to open the bottle.

Mrs. Morgan gave him a disapproving look. "You shouldn't say things like that, Dan. My husband and I stay here sometimes when we need a weekend in the city."

"Well," Dan said lightly as he popped the cork and poured a glass for each of them, "since you're no stranger here on your own, I'm sure my announcement was no surprise." Dan handed a glass to Mrs. Morgan as he sat back down. By the time his butt hit the cushion, Mrs. Morgan had downed her glass and held her hand out for another; Dan gave her annoyed look.

"Don't look at me like that," she scolded, getting up and walking toward the bedroom. "Your best friend's mom will be spreading her legs for you shortly. The least you can do is to pour another glass of fortification for me while I freshen up."

While Mrs. Morgan was in her bathroom, Dan poured her another glass. "You don't seem to need any fortification, Mrs. Morgan," he yelled into her.

"True as that may be," she yelled back, "it loosens my inhibitions. And stop calling me 'Mrs. Morgan.' If you're going to fuck me, then call me 'Donna.' All my other boy-toys do."

A moment later, Mrs. Morgan appeared in the doorway, looking no different than when she went in. She again swayed her way over to the couch, but this time sat in Dan's lap, leaning back against the arm of the couch. She draped her arms around his neck and kissed him hard on the lips. "Hmm," she moaned as her tongue snaked its way past his lips, over his teeth. "You taste wonderful," she said, pulling away from him.

Dan's right hand encircled Mrs. Morgan's lithe body, and brought her close, nibbling at her neck and ear, causing her to giggle. She reached behind her for her wineglass, causing her large breasts to thrust up, and brought the glass to her red lips as Dan continued to lick and kiss her neck. His hand slid up her firm stomach and fiddled with the pearl button of her knit top; with little manipulation, it slipped through the buttonhole, the two sides of the top spreading to reveal her large breasts.

"Oh my," Dan whispered, his fingers roaming over the counters of one firm mound, brushing over the nipple. It was evident that she sunbathed in a bikini; her breasts were surrounded by a crisp tan-line. Mrs. Morgan reached behind her again to put down her wineglass; her movement caused her breast to slip from under Dan's hand. Dan looked up at her face to see her smirking at him.

"What's the matter, young man? Haven't you ever felt a girl up before?"

"Of course. They're just so amazing. I didn't expect your breasts to be. . ." Dan stopped himself.

"They're not breasts to you. They're tits. My husband calls them breasts, my fuck-toys call them tits or some other crude term. And what? You didn't expect such amazing tits on a woman my age? Didn't expect your friend's mom to have a pair of 36D's mounted to her chest? Don't worry, Dan. I'm not that old, and they're not real. My husband bought them for me, but many young men use them," she said as Dan's hand gently resumed its massaging of her left tit. Dan leaned forward and took the ever-lengthening nipple of the right monster into his mouth, sucking gently. "You needn't be so gentle, Dan. Remember, they're fake. If you break one, I'll simply get it fixed. Besides, I'm very, very nipple-sensitive. I like my nipples to be played with roughly."

Dan continued to lick Mrs. Morgan's nipples, switching from one to the next, causing her to squirm in his lap. Her right hand wormed its way around the back of his head, pulling it harder into the tit he was sucking; he could feel her long nails through his hair. Dan increased the sucking pressure on her nipple, and could hear Mrs. Morgan's breath quicken.

His right hand, which had been massaging her free tit, made its way back to her waist, taking in the texture of her tight, tanned skin, the muscles of her stomach evident beneath. It stopped only momentarily at her waist before continuing downward. Dan savored the firm-yet-supple quality of her thigh beneath her skirt. When his hand found the hem of skirt – which, with her squirming on his lap, was a very short trip – Mrs. Morgan shifted to allow Dan to pull it up further. His hands traveled along the insides of her thighs. Dan moaned into the fake tit he was nursing, marveling at the utter smoothness of her skin.

When he reached her cunt, Dan felt her intense heat first, and then the moisture coating the outer lips. Mrs. Morgan was not wearing any panties, and her cunt was shaved bald. Dan removed his mouth from the inch-long nipple, a string of his saliva connecting his lips to the engorged teat. "Always go without panties, Mrs. Morgan?" he muttered, before attaching his lips to the other nipple, sucking vigorously.

"I told you to stop calling me 'Mrs. Morgan.' And besides, I don't wear panties; only thongs. But I took them off when I was in the bathroom, to make it easier for you to get into this mommy's pussy. That's how I 'freshen up.'"

Dan's right hand continued to run along Mrs. Morgan's outer cunt lips. "I'd rather call you Mrs. Morgan. That way I know I'm fucking someone's wife." He dipped a finger inside her to gather some lubrication, and then began a gentle manipulation of her inflamed clit.

When his fingers found her bud, Dan heard a sharp intake of breath. "Oh, god," she moaned. Dan continued to rub her fiery clit and soon Mrs. Morgan was bucking on his lap, her tight ass slamming back down on his crotch, agitating his aching cock. He sucked harder on her nipple, drawing it between his teeth. "Oohh, fuuck," she hissed. "Bite it, Dan. Bite it!"

The ringing of a cell phone stopped her short. Dan recognized the ring as his, and leaned forward to grab his phone from the coffee table. Looking at the Caller ID display, he saw it was Steve. With Steve's lovely mother sitting on his lap, her massive, store-bought tits just inches from his face, Dan hit "Send" on his phone – one of the fingers that had just been inside Steve's mom's cunt did the job – and put it to his ear. "What's up," he said, looking up at Mrs. Morgan with a gleam in his eye. She mouthed the words, 'Who is it?' a questioning expression in her baby blue eyes. He didn't respond, not to her anyway. "Sounds good to me, Steve. That should be fun." Mrs. Morgan scrambled off his lap and moved to the other side of the couch. Her top was still spread, revealing the oversized breasts riding high on her torso. She pulled her top together and her skirt down in some feigned display of modesty, but Dan could still see her distended nipples poking through the top. "Uuhh, give me forty-five minutes or so. I'll meet you guys there." And he hung up the phone.

"You didn't have to answer that," she spat at him. He could see venom in her eyes.

"What's the big deal? He can't see you through the phone. You weren't talking. Calm down." Mrs. Morgan rose from the couch and topped off her wineglass, finishing the bottle. "Get back over here," Dan commanded, reaching out for her hand. With a sly smile, Mrs. Morgan set her wineglass and the bottle on the side table and again went to sit on Dan's lap. Before she could, however, Dan grabbed her hips and twisted her so she was facing away from him. He grabbed the hem of her skirt and pulled it down to her ankles. When she stepped out of the puddled garment, Dan pulled her down against him. Mrs. Morgan's firm, tanned ass planted itself on his crotch, and she looked over her shoulder at him, sweeping her long blonde hair from her eyes. "Are we getting down to business now, young man?" she taunted.

Dan reached up her torso for leverage and pulled her toward him, so she was leaning back against him. "From now on, Mrs. Morgan, I only want to hear nastiness from your filthy mouth. Got it?" She did not respond as his arms encircled her body and quickly found her giant breasts. He gently blew hot breath into her left ear as his large hands began firmly squeezing Mrs. Morgan's larger fake tits. Relaxing again, she rolled her head back on Dan's shoulder; she raised one of her arms and placed it around Dan's neck, pulling herself tighter against her son's best friend.

"So, you like fucking other men's wives? Is that it, Dan?" she murmured into his ear. Dan's hands remained on her tits, squeezing and kneading them. He pushed them together and stared amazed into the cleavage of this married slut. His thumb and forefinger on each hand found her nipples, and gently squeezed, causing her to gasp in pleasure.

"Absolutely," he breathed. "There's nothing sluttier than a cheating housewife." He increased the pressure on her nipples, alternately pinching and twisting them. Mrs. Morgan stopped gasping, and began panting and bucking her hips up and down, slamming her fit ass onto Dan's still-clothed cock.

"Then there . . . you have it. . . . I told you . . . I was the . . . biggest slut . . . Winnetka has ever . . . seen." After a few more minutes of this nipple play, Dan allowed one hand to slide – ever so slowly – down Mrs. Morgan's taut stomach. He slowed his advance even more when he reached the hairless outer region, and Mrs. Morgan begged. "Please," she whimpered. "Please rub my clit. I need to cum."

Dan's fingers continued their advance towards Mrs. Morgan's glistening cunt and her burning clit. He let two fingers slide across her lips, straddling and consciously avoiding her clit. She whimpered some more. He dipped a finger, then a second, between her splayed cunt lips, again lubricating them with her copious fluids. Extracting them from her hot, unfaithful hole, Dan allowed his fingers to slide back up and make contact with her clit. Mrs. Morgan shuddered at the contact, and Dan felt her pull herself closer to him as her hips bucked up, trying to increase the pressure on her swollen clit. Dan did it for her, increasing both the pressure and speed at which his fingers danced over her exposed bud. His other hand maintained its vigil on one of her nipples, pinching, pulling, twisting.

Mrs. Morgan's breathing increased, and she began to moan, her head lolling back and forth. She was starting to sweat, and her hair clung to Dan's cheek each time her head rolled against his.

Dan sensed that Mrs. Morgan was nearing orgasm when she suddenly clasped a dainty, manicured hand over the hand that was rubbing her cunt. "Enough," she breathed. "I don't want to cum yet. I need something in me. Fuck me." Mrs. Morgan tried to climb off Dan's lap, but he held her tight.

"I'm not even undressed yet," he whispered hotly into her ear, reaching for the wine bottle that stood on the side table. "But I'll get something in you, you fuckin' slut."

Mrs. Morgan saw Dan reach for the wine bottle, and let out a low, guttural laugh. "My, my. You are a perverted young man, aren't you?" she asked rhetorically. Holding the bottle about halfway down the neck, Dan brought it between her legs and let the top part of the neck nestle between her sopping cunt lips. He slid it up and down to lubricate it, occasionally angling the mouth against her clit. Each time the now-warm glass nudged against her distended clit, she shuddered and let loose a soft whimper.

"Put it in me, Dan," she whispered, her face buried now in the crook of his neck, her red-painted lips brushing against his ear, blowing hot breath. "Slide that bottle into my cheating cunt." Dan could feel her sweat drip down her back and begin to moisten his shirt. He slowly lowered the bottle down her slick cunt lips until he felt the mouth sink a little between her lips, then slowly pulled it up and into her tight cunt. Mrs. Morgan gasped at the penetration. He twisted the bottle a little, working it into the adulterous hole. When he felt his hand bump up against her outer lips, he removed his right hand from Mrs. Morgan's tortured nipple and grabbed lower down the bottle.

His right hand now forcing the wine bottle further into Mrs. Morgan's cunt, his left hand found the nipple his right had been abusing. The significant lubrication still remaining on his fingers soothed the red-hot nipple, and Mrs. Morgan sighed in what almost sounded like relief.

When Dan had about six or seven inches of the bottle jammed in Mrs. Morgan's cunt – when her hole was stretched out about as far as it would go without causing either pain or damage – he began a slow in-and-out motion, quickening his pace with each stroke. Soon, Mrs. Morgan's slim hips were bucking wildly against the bottle, and her breathing increased to a feverish tempo. Sweat poured more freely from her body now; looking down past her jutting tits, Dan could see a slight sheen of perspiration layering her tight stomach and lithe legs.

"Oh, god, oh, god. I'm going to cum. Keep going, Dan. Just like that! Yes, yes, yes!" Mrs. Morgan's body stiffened, and her thrusting came to an abrupt halt. Her back arched up and away from him. Her grip around his neck increased, threatening to cut off his air supply. Dan could feel her cunt muscles trying to pull more of the bottle inside her. After eight or nine seconds, Mrs. Morgan's body slammed back down against Dan's, her body now relaxed from the orgasm that had overcome her. Dan could tell that the orgasm continued; the bottle lodged deep in her cunt continued to move and undulate with no input from him. "Jesus Christ," she breathed through clenched teeth. "Uuugghhh."

Mrs. Morgan finally relaxed completely; Dan could feel her hot, sweaty body go limp against him, and her stranglehold on his neck slackened. Her lips found his ear and she blew hot breath, sending a shiver up Dan's spine. "You are so fucking naughty, Dan. I wish I would have known sooner; I would have been fucking you when you were in high school," she whispered.

"Statutory rape, Mrs. Morgan," he whispered back, pulling the bottle from her sloppy cunt and letting it fall to the floor. "You think Steve seeing you in Gibson's tonight would have been embarrassing. Imagine getting cuffed for fucking a teenager," Dan said, the fingers of his right hand gently manipulating her burning clit while those of his left continued to toy with one of her nipples.

"Hasn't happened yet." Mrs. Morgan lifted herself from Dan's lap and dropped to her knees before the couch, slipping her sleeveless top off, letting it fall to the ground behind her. On her haunches now, she reached for the zipper on his pants, and Dan enjoyed the firm, gelatin-feel of her tits as they squished against his knees. He instantly spread his legs to give her access. Dan watched as her French-manicured nails found his zipper, expertly pulling it down. She used her thumb and forefinger to release the button above the zipper, and parted the tops of his pants. She raised herself off her haunches, and smiled lewdly up at him.

"Can I play with your cock, young man?" Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Morgan's hand snaked inside his boxers. Dan moaned and closed his eyes as he felt her long, cool fingers wrap around his overheated cock. But as soon as she had made contact, she removed her hand. She tugged hard at Dan's pants, and he got the hint. As he lifted his rear off the cushion, Mrs. Morgan pulled his pants and boxers down in one, clean effort. She bent further down to pull off his shoes and slid the pants over his feet, but her eyes never left the cock that stood upright, waiting for her attention.

Having cast Dan's pants aside, Mrs. Morgan moved again between his legs. Her left hand encircled the erect shaft. She appeared to be studying it; her eyes were looking right at Dan's face, but he could tell her focus was elsewhere. "God, I love young cock," she said, almost to herself. Her hand began to slowly jerk his cock up and down; Dan could feel her wedding rings catch on the ridges of his cock. It turned him on immensely, and Mrs. Morgan's eyes went wide when the head of his cock turned instantly purple. "You're not coming yet?" she said sternly.

Dan could barely speak. "Of course . . . not. I'm not done . . . with you yet."

"Good," she replied with an evil grin. She then spit a wad of saliva at the head of Dan's cock. When it began to drip down the shaft, she used her long, elegant fingers to smooth it around, and began violently shucking his cock up and down, staring with rapt attention as Dan's cockhead again turned that angry shade of purple. "Hmmm. Interesting," she murmured.

"What," Dan choked out.

"Well," she said, tilting her head from side to side, examining the engorged shaft in her hand, "usually, the tip gets purple and shiny and bloated right before it cums. Are you gonna cum just from a hand job, young man?" she asked in a reprimanding voice. Dan just shook his head. "What is it then?" She let up her ferocious stroking of his cock to give Dan a chance to answer, and looked Dan straight in the eyes.

But he wasn't looking at her. His eyes were focused on the hand that tightly gripped the base of his shaft, pre-cum dripping over it, coating her wedding rings. "It's your rings," Dan panted. "Seeing your hand wrapped around my cock, with your wedding rings, drives me up a fucking wall."

A wicked grin crossed Mrs. Morgan's face as she immediately resumed the brutal handjob she was giving her son's best friend. "Really," she said, drawing it out. "So I just need to make sure I keep my hand just . . . like . . . this . . ." she rotated her hand around his cock so her four-carat engagement ring faced him, "and I can keep your cock on the edge of cumming all night?" Dan groaned and his body started to quake, but Mrs. Morgan maintained her rapid stroking of the young cock. "Bottles, wedding rings. There's no question: you are a real pervert, young man." She felt his cock begin to twitch in her hand, and she quickly released it, not wanting him to cum just yet. She let his breathing return somewhat to normal, and waited for some of the purple to drain from his cock.

Then, with no warning, Mrs. Morgan dipped her head and took the first two or three inches of Dan's cock in her hot, inviting mouth. Holding the root of the shaft between the fingers of her left hand, she bobbed her head up and down, taking more of the shaft in her scorching mouth with each turn. Occasionally, she would pause, and bathe the cockhead with her tongue, relishing the flavor of his pre-cum washing over her tongue. But at all times, she made sure her engagement and wedding rings were staring Dan in the face; she even moved them around, hoping the light from the nightstand would catch them and cause them to sparkle for him.

Under her continued ministrations, Dan's breathing increased, and his chest heaved up and down, raggedly. Saliva poured from Mrs. Morgan's mouth, almost cascading down the length of Dan's shaft, soaking and matting his pubic hair; her rings were awash in the combined fluids from her mouth and his cock.

Sensing he was about to cum in her mouth, Mrs. Morgan removed her crimson lips from his cock, and got to her feet. "Come with me, young man. Let's finish this in the bedroom. I want to feel this cock," she said, tugging gently on the stiff rod, "punishing my married hole."

With Mrs. Morgan pulling on his shaft, Dan could hardly ignore her command. He rose from the couch and followed her as she padded into the suite's bedroom, watching her tanned ass sway from side to side. As she approached the bed, Dan caught up with her. Stepping right up against her ass when she was the foot of the bed, his cock jamming itself between her ass cheeks, Dan wrapped one hand around her waist and, with his other hand, bent her over the bed.




North Shore Whore



Mrs. Morgan trilled with delight. "Ooohhh. You're going to fuck me like a dog?" she inquired needlessly, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. Mrs. Morgan's arms stretched out in front of her to brace herself, and she shifted her small feet further apart. "My favorite. I love getting it from behind, not being able to see who's fucking me. Sometimes I let Mr. Morgan fuck me doggystyle, but I imagine it's a sailor from Great Lakes back there, fucking me with his fat, black cock." Dan moaned at Mrs. Morgan's filthiness. He took the root of his cock in one hand, and pressed down on the small of her back with the other. Seating the head of his cock firmly between his best friend's mom's cunt lips, Dan pushed forward, feeling the searing heat of her cunt engulf his cockhead and then the first three inches of his shaft. "There you go, young man. Get it in there. Mmmm." He pulled back a little, and then roughly pushed forward again. Mrs. Morgan's vagina, loosened by the bottle-fucking, easily accepted Dan's remaining six inches and, with a grunt, Dan had fully penetrated this cheating little slut.

Mrs. Morgan looked over her shoulder at him, her baby blue eyes gleaming with lust, and egged him on. "You like fucking cheating whores, Dan, hmm?" she taunted. She reached behind her with her left hand, and smacked her ass cheek with it, jamming her ass back at him. "Fuck me, Dan. Look at your young cock sliding in my bald cunt, my asshole spread open for you. Treat me like a whore, Dan! I told you, I like being pounded; I want it rough. Fuck the shit out of me."

Dan wasted no time giving Mrs. Morgan what she wanted, what she begged for, what she had ventured downtown for. He withdrew his cock until just the head remained ensconced in her hole, and then slammed back into her, feeling her soft yet firm ass checks flatten his pubic hair. She still had her head turned, her lust-filled eyes boring into his. Through clenched teeth, she said, "Harder, Dan! Fuck my married hole harder! Look at my rings, Dan."

Dan's gaze remained on Mrs. Morgan's ass, where her left hand had stayed after she spanked herself. Her fingers were outstretched, and were edging closer to her puckered little asshole. He shuddered and almost came when the tip of her manicured ring finger scraped against the tender flesh of her asshole. "Spit on it, Dan," she hissed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Spit on my asshole." Dan leaned over a little and let his spit drip from his mouth and fall between her asscheeks.

Her ring finger spread the saliva around, lubricating both itself and her anal opening. Dan watched as she slowly but steadily penetrated her own asshole. She worked it in and out, and rotated it around, forcing the hole to widen. Soon, Mrs. Morgan's ring finger was buried in her asshole all the way to the rings. "You like that, Dan? You like watching me fingerfuck my own asshole?"

As Dan continued to pound the unfaithful wife and mother from behind, the force of his thrusts inched her forward. He soon found himself leaning over the bed just to remain inside her tight, spoken-for cunt. Climbing on the bed after her, Dan slammed his pelvis forward and into her depths with such force that it knocked Mrs. Morgan flat on her front, her finger slipping from her tight anal opening.

Dan rolled off to the side next to her, and pulled her on top of him. After getting her little feet under her, Mrs. Morgan rose up and, grabbing the cockshaft in her left hand, planted the head between her shiny, bare cunt lips. "Watch, Dan. Watch as I feed your thick, young cock to my hungry, cheating hole." Dan stared at her left hand grasping his overheated shaft, her rings sparkling as she rubbed the head along her cunt lips.

Feeling the intense heat of it part her tender lips, Mrs. Morgan immediately let her weight fall, grunting at the sudden and forceful penetration of her loosened hole. She used her powerful legs to raise herself from the invading phallus, but let her muscles go slack, once again causing her aching cunt to be violently penetrated. "Oh, fuck . . . that's good. . . . What an . . . awesome cock . . . awesome young cock."

Mrs. Morgan's legs soon tired of this athleticism, and she pulled her legs out from under her. Placing her hands on Dan's chest, she ground her slick crotch against his. Dan's pelvic bone crushed her sensitive clit between them, and she began to pant. Still rotating her slim hips against the young man below her, Mrs. Morgan dropped her face down and slid her warm, pink tongue between Dan's lips, feeling his tongue meet hers in a deep, lust-filled kiss. She could hear him moan into her mouth; the knowledge that her forty-six-year-old body – augmented, but still forty-six – could still enliven men nearly half her age brought her untold pleasure.

Pulling her mouth away from his, Mrs. Morgan moved up his body a little, planting her fabulous tits right before his face. "Suck," she demanded. Dan shifted his head and took her left nipple between his lips. He roughly sucked the nipple into his mouth, scraping it with his teeth. "Harder, Dan. Bite it . . . no, bite it, goddammit!" When she felt Dan's teeth clamp down on her raw nipple, she let out a piercing shriek.

Mrs. Morgan continued to rock her adulterous pelvis against the young man's cunt-pounding shaft. The thick cock splitting her open, combined with the pressure his teeth were exerting on one of her nipples, caused her to increase the pace of her rocking. Her clit, trapped between them, was being crushed, manipulated, abused. "I'm going to cum, Dan. I'm going to cum. My dripping . . . cheating . . . hole . . . is going to cum . . . all over . . . your young cock!" Mrs. Morgan rotated her slender hips around one more time, and her body went stiff. She let out a short squeal before it caught in her throat. Her body collapsed on top of Dan's, and he could feel her saline-filled tits flatten against his chest.

Mrs. Morgan's body continued to shake and undulate on top of him as she settled down from her second orgasm of the night. Not giving her too much time to catch her breath, Dan rolled the disloyal housewife onto her back and came up on top of her. Using his legs, he nudged hers apart, giving him access to her now-slack, bald cunt. His cock, still rock hard, pointed the way, and he deftly slid deep inside Mrs. Morgan for the third time that evening. "You want more, Mrs. Morgan? You still want this cock in you, fucking your married hole?"

He pounded her a few times to establish a rhythm, and then leaned back on his haunches. From this position, he could see Mrs. Morgan's sexy little body shiver and shake with his every thrust. He watched as her store-bought tits rolled around her muscular torso, her nipples glowing almost red in the faint light of the room. "God, I love those tits, Mrs. Morgan. Fucking incredible."

Mrs. Morgan reached her hands up and cupped her tits, tweaking the abused nipples. "Most of the boys like 'em," she intoned. She pushed them together, and then let them go; they barely moved, instead wobbling just a little from the force of Dan's thrusts.

Dying to grab them again, to squeeze them, Dan leaned forward and placed one hand on each quivering mound, gripping them firmly in his big, strong hands. So tight was his grip that he saw Mrs. Morgan wince, and the saline-packed appendages oozed between his fingers.

Mrs. Morgan was thrusting her sexy hips back at him, urging him to fuck her harder. "Come on, Dan. You ready to cum yet? Cum for me, Dan! I want to feel your young cock fill my cheating hole with sperm. Cum in me. Don't you wanna cum inside Steve's mom's cunt?"

Dan dropped himself down, and contorted his body such that he could again take a distended and raw nipple in his mouth. The thickness of it, its length, excited him toward animal lust. "I wanna fuck these things," he growled, pulling out of the older lady's pussy. As his cock slipped from the hot folds, he looked down to see Mrs. Morgan's hairless cunt lips hanging open, her own juices leaking from her hole and saturating the comforter underneath them.

Dan scrambled up Mrs. Morgan's body and let his thick cock fall between the fake tits that her husband bought for her. He settled his ass on her lightly muscled ribcage and looked down to see her French-manicured fingers push the squishy titflesh up and around the shaft of his cock. "I love getting tittyfucked," she whispered. She spit on his cock once then again; Dan reached behind him and dipped his fingers in her still-gaping cunt, and added her own juices to his cock for further lubrication.

He started thrusting his cock up through the heated cleavage, his mind burning with lust. On his upstrokes, his cock head, bloated and shiny, bumped against Mrs. Morgan's chin or lips; when she timed it right, the head would slip between her lips or over her outstretched tongue.

"I love having cock between these fake tits," she snarled. "Especially when they cum all over my pretty married face and the tits my husband bought for his own pleasure."

As Mrs. Morgan's filthy mouth penetrated his ears and overloaded his brain, Dan's eyes were focused on his cock, trapped between his friend's mom's massive tits. Her extended nipples poked from between her fingers as she tightly clasped her titflesh around his shaft. Her manicured nails shone in the light of the room, but not as brightly as the wedding rings that hovered right above his cock.

"He thinks that he's the only one who gets pleasure from these tits. Fucking idiot," she grunted. Dan was really jamming his cock between her tits hard; sitting on her ribcage as he was made it hard for her to breath. "These tits have seen more young cock than a high school urinal."

Mrs. Morgan's continued taunting of him, and his view of his cock jamming up and down between her amazing tits, right below the platinum engagement and wedding rings, was too much for Dan. Pre-cum was leaking liberally from the tip of his cock now, and with one final shove between the nasty housewife's tits, Dan's balls began to empty themselves. Hot cum shot up his shaft and out the head of his cock, and he groaned from the bottom of his throat.

The first shot hit Mrs. Morgan right in the chin and flowed down along her neck, collecting along her collarbone, before dripping onto the comforter. She was ready for the second spurt, and tucked in her chin into her chest, mouth open, so that it squirted right into her mouth. "Oh, yeah, shoot your cum in my slutty mouth," she moaned, swallowing quickly.

Mrs. Morgan released her tits and, with her left hand, firmly grasped the base of Dan's cock, fiercely jacking it back and forth. His third load of ejaculate, stimulated by her rough treatment and the sight of her wedding-ring-clad hand wrapped around his twitching shaft, missed her mouth entirely and instead shot up to the bridge of her nose. Rope-like, it continued down one side of her nose to her cheek.

Though Dan was largely spent, Mrs. Morgan continued to jack him, attempting to coax more cum from his shaft. She pulled him closer, placing the head of his cock on her outstretched tongue, and was rewarded with the slow flow of one final deposit in her mouth. Satisfied that Dan's balls were now empty, the housewife released his cock from her tight grip. As Dan climbed off her, he heard his cell phone ring in the other room. Looking at the alarm clock next to the bed, he exclaimed, "Oh, shit," and ran into the living room. It was almost 9:30.

Mrs. Morgan remained stretched out on the bed. From the other room, she heard Dan's half of the conversation. "Hey . . . Yeah, I'm coming. I'll be there in fifteen minutes . . . No, I was just having a drink with an old friend . . . What? . . . Alright, alright, alright . . . I was fucking an old friend . . . Just give me twenty minutes," he finished, as he walked into the bedroom, pulling on his pants.

"Steve?" Mrs. Morgan inquired, with her legs still spread wide; she was wiping cum from her face as she asked this.

"Mmm-hmm. I gotta go. Your son and Jeff have been waiting for me," he said, pulling on his shirt and slipping on his shoes. He walked over to the bed and leaned over to give her a kiss, but stopped short. Her pussy was still wet with her own juices; the cuntlips were folded out and flattened. Dan could see stray streaks of sperm on her chin, lips, nose and cheek. There was no question her body had been used hard this evening. "Jeez, you're a mess, Mrs. Morgan." Her nipples still glowed red from the abuse Dan had levied on them at her demand. Instead of kissing her luscious, red lips, Dan leaned down and took a raw nipple in his mouth, gently bathing it with his tongue, soothing it with his saliva. Releasing the nipple, he walked toward the door. "Maybe I'll stop by in few hours," he said, pausing at the door. "We can have another round."

"Don't bother," Mrs. Morgan chortled with a snotty sneer crossing her lips. "By then, I will have showered, gotten dressed, and gone to Jilly's or the Red Head or somewhere else. By midnight, I'll have another boy-toy with a fat cock buried in me. But this time, it'll be stretching my asshole wiiiiiide open." Mrs. Morgan rolled over, and Dan left her suite to meet her son and Jeff for a few drinks.



North Shore



Fuck. Here I was beginning to blame Ken when he'd done nothing wrong. It wasn't his fault we were idiots on this whole threesome idea. Damn Chantrelle.

Wait a sec. If we had absolutely no clue what we were doing, then we obviously just needed to find someone who did. "We need a professional," I told Ken. "And you know what other than gambling is legal in Vegas." I opened the browser again and typed "Vegas escorts" into the search engine.

"You are not serious. You want to hire someone we've never met and have sex with them?"

"It makes sense. We're the No Clue Gang, while it's her job. We agreed we want it to be non-personal, which, by the way, means that we've never met them before," I pointed out by poking him in the leg. "How much more 'no strings' can you get than an escort?"

"No. Okay, for the first time tonight, I know something you don't about this. I've never been there but guys talk. You can walk down the strip and people will shove flyers into your hand for a girl in your room in 15 minutes. These must be poor women from over the border or something who may or may not even be here by choice. It's gross. We don't want any part of that."

"That really happens?"

Ken just nodded.

"Of course, you're right. You're always right. I guess we'll just wander around the city until some woman throws herself at us. It's worked so well for the last nine months."

"I know, Ashleigh. It's just..."

I agreed with Ken as I almost always did. I just didn't have any more ideas of what to do. Since us doing the smart thing wasn't working, it was time to do something stupid.

"There is the other end of the spectrum," Ken said, leaning towards the computer.

"Huh?"

"The super-expensive escorts. Click on that link there," he said, pointing. A well-designed web site with a picture of a stunning Caucasian brunette in a leopard dress came up. There were links to various categories of women. Blonde, brunette, ebony, Asian. "How about there?" Kenji asked pointing at the words "The Best". Thumbnails of about fifteen women came up, each one sexy in their own way, if maybe going a bit overboard with the "come do me" look. I selected the top one, a redhead like me but way better stacked. Wait, if I wore a D, she was a... whoa.

"Jazz," the ad read. "Available for men. Outcall. Stays possible with previous arrangement. I will pamper you like a woman should then blast you off to the moon, but be careful, fellas. Everyone comes back for more. You've been warned."

Ken had pulled up a chair and was reading intently. Well, maybe he wasn't exactly reading because Jazz was about to fall out of her dress.

"What do you think?" I asked.

"Nah, I've got a redhead. Besides even I can tell she's half plastic. We can go to a toy store for a Barbi Doll."

I had to smile. Jazz' bosom was doing more for me than it was for Ken. He'd always been a leg man. "What's her rate?"

"Seems you have to call."

The next woman had dark dark mocha skin that just glowed. She did it for both of us. But she had a posted rate which knocked us backwards. "2 hours - $1200. No over night," it said.

"Okay," Ken said. "Here's our plan. You and I play together continuously right until she knocks on the door. We're right on the edge. She comes in. Bam! Finger here, lick this, enter that, orgasms all around. Five, ten minutes tops. Not more than $50."

"I don't think we get a discount for being lame."

"Rip."

"But expensive is better, right? The higher she charges, the more likely she's doing this by choice, because it's great money. If we are going to do this at all, it has to be like that," I told Ken.

"Yeah...."

"And we need more than two hours. We need a night." I could agree with Ken about the non-personal thing, but if I was going to do this, I was going to take some time with it. I didn't know what I was looking for, but it wasn't doing someone in a back alley in ten minutes.

"You – we - want the most expensive woman we can find," Ken replied.

"Right. On the entire site. No matter what. Getting this right is more important than money." I offered him my hand, which he slowly shook. "If we like her, I mean."

I got all excited by "Jade" who said she was Thai, Korean, and German and looked a little like my favorite barrista with the perfume who always seemed to have an extra smile for me on the way to work. Nuun was the person I had noted if the "non-personal" restriction ever came off. I couldn't be with her, but maybe I could be with her distant Vegas cousin. She too only had a phone number and only offered hourly rates as well, though.

Kenji kept getting excited about various women and I couldn't get the connection for a bit. Then I realized they usually looked a lot like the models in the auto-tuning world. The girls he dated before me. I still never really believed that. What did I have that he liked so much? He was a wanted man, though getting close to 40. I was just me.

At the very bottom of the site was an ad different from the rest. No picture. No leather or lace. Just two Japanese, or Chinese, characters, kanji. I couldn't read them, but I'd been around Ken's family enough to know what I was seeing. I clicked on the ad, which couldn't have been simpler.

"I am what you desire. One night only. $10,000."

Just that, an email, and two more words, "I'm professional."

"Is she Japanese?" I asked.

"The characters read more Chinese to me. I have no idea how you'd say them, but the first means... uhhh... expensive. And the second is phoenix, like the bird. It's common to wish that a woman become a phoenix. Boys are dragons; girls are phoenixes."

"'Expensive' is a weird first name."

"She's earned it. You wanted the most expensive woman we could find. Here she is. 'What you desire – the professional.'"

"I wonder if anyone ever hires her," I wondered aloud.

"That's a three month salary for me. She'd only need 4-5 nights a year if she fetches that much. I wonder what she knows that we don't."

I thought about Kenji in bed. He knew a lot. "Let's find out. Let's just write her and see what happens."

"It's a quarter of our savings, Ashleigh."

"More after my therapy," I reminded him. "But we'll earn it back."

Something about the ad had my heart beating. The truth was that I didn't care about being teased or the color of her skin or the size of her chest. That's what all the other women offered. I only cared about our person being good at what she did. This ad promised professionalism, leaving everything else a mystery. Isn't that what real life is like? I hadn't grown up knowing I would love a man who looked like Kenji, who built hotrods, or who lived in the middle of the Pacific. All that had been unknown. The same was true in this case. I wasn't looking for a blonde or a Latina or any category of woman. I only wanted to understand how it felt to be with another woman, and that's what the phoenix was promising. Desire.

Kenji sighed. "Let's hit the email then."

I started to type, slowly at first, then faster.

"Dear Ms. Phoenix,

We saw your ad on the web site. We would like to know more about you. My husband and I are coming to Las Vegas next week and maybe we'd be a match with the services you offer. We don't know what we are doing and you must, based on your rate. We'd like to learn more about you, and we will tell you more about us. Of course, discretion is important. This trip is for both of us. As a couple. I'm sure you know what I mean by that. OK. Thank you. Please be polite if this isn't your area of expertise. We are lost.

Lost Couple"

"How's that look?" I asked.

"Hit send and we'll see."

I stared at the send button on the screen, feeling my finger tapping on the mouse, trying to decide if I really wanted to email an escort. What had happened to innocent Ashleigh? I felt Ken's lips kiss my hair and his strong hands rest lightly on my shoulders. Time to do something stupid. I clicked.

"Do you think she will be nice?" I asked.

"It's her job."

"If she's horrible to us, what can we do? We aren't going to complain."

"She's probably booked anyway. It's really short notice."

"Maybe we should call Jade. She's nice, isn't she?"

"Yes, very, but it's one AM there and she only had the phone number. She's either asleep or working. Bed?"

I nodded and caressed Ken's arms. I knew I was doing something dumb - to risk Ken for this. What would the Phoenix be like? Would I like her? Would she like me? Would it matter?

"I don't want to sleep with someone who doesn't like me, Ken."

"Yeah. But we can't find out what she thinks tonight. Tomorrow maybe. At least I like you."

I grinned and stood, wrapping my hands around his neck. "Te adoro, Antonio. I think you are pretty cute, too."

"Aw, shucks, sweetie," Ken replied playing along immediately in our game. "Just how cute do you think I am?"

"Kiss on the lips cute."

"Really? I think you are nibble on the ear cute."

"Biting the shoulder cute."

"Unhook the bra cute."

"You like to move fast, stranger. Hands on your ass cute."

"Licking your calves cute."

That one always got me. "Cock in my mouth cute."

"Grrr... Sucking your clit until you scream cute."

"Fucking until we catch the bed on fire cute."

"That does it!" Ken declared as he scooped my thin body up in his arms running for the bedroom. I was already imagining the taste of his skin as we went down the hall. His tongue on the back of my knee like I loved. His come falling onto my ass cheeks. His way of sliding in me from tip to bottom over and over. 

We spent over two hours in each other's bodies that night, tasting one another, drinking one another. I had started fast by engulfing Ken in my mouth, running my tongue up and down his length until he exploded. Then the tenderness started with Ken's lips covering every inch of me. When I escaped his oral caresses, I straddled the back of his legs, rubbing my mound against him, as I massaged his back, searching for every tense muscle in his hard-working body. Then I had lain on my stomach with Ken lifting my rear into the air. His mouth fell between my thighs and he feasted on me from behind until my thighs quivered and I begged to hold him in my arms. During the kisses, he pushed deep into me. Oh, I had cried out as we took each other. I cried out for him and me and for this freedom together. Soon our sweaty bodies were rolling back and forth with grins from ear to ear, our orgasms lifting us higher and higher.

I loved this man.

---

I woke up when the light was just starting to cross our bedroom. I gently moved Kenji's hand off my breast and padded off to wash my face. I wasn't as disheveled as I thought. My hair fell to my shoulder blades with only a little frizz. My pubic hair didn't look as matted as it felt from all the liquids sliding around last night.

I stopped and looked at that triangle.

With luck, I was going to be with another woman soon. She would want to, to eat me out. And I'd do the same to her with Ken there. How would I do it? Would she lie on her back for me? Would she get on her hands and knees like I had done last night with Ken? Maybe I would sit somewhere, like on a sofa, and she would stand, straddling my face.

I should shave. Don't women who do this a lot shave there? Or am I supposed to be all athletic and in a muscle shirt. I smiled at the dumb stereotypes floating across my mind. I had long hair, painted nails, and loved wearing a short skirt. I also was cynical, could run a good six miles on the treadmill, and had slugged a guy in college who wouldn't back off – slicing his cheek with a fingernail in the process. Did that make me butch or femme?

A tongue was sliding up the pale skin of my arm. I could feel her long hair tickling my back as she tasted me.

How many times had I touched myself thinking about these images, these feelings? How many times had I collapsed in the shower, alone, sobbing because these images would never be real? If they were real, it meant I was leaving the one I loved. How many times had I felt ashamed because I had begun to forget which part of my life was more important? Images on the cutting room floor. That's what the pictures were. Little clips of another life, another possibility. When would I start finding images of Ken lying next to them?

I pulled on some sweats and walked to the computer. An email waited for me from a "Gui-Feng."

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Misagi,

Your email was rather excited and I'm pleased to hear from the two of you. I believe I can satisfy your requirements as you mention them. Before I speak to prospective customers, I always ask for a small token to show that you are truly interested in my services and not just getting a thrill by writing to an escort. Because I have done nothing for you, I cannot ask for anything for myself. Therefore, I request that you make a $100 donation to the charity of your choice. Send me the receipt and we will start talking for real. If you are not sure if your charity can provide an immediate receipt, I have provided a list of several of my favorite organizations for you to choose from. The donation will be subtracted from the rate that was advertised.

I know this is terribly unfriendly, but it is far too easy for people to send an email who have no real interest.

Thank you for contacting me about my services.

Gui-Feng

The first shock was the beginning. How the hell had she known our names? We'd only signed "lost couple." Then I looked at my email address and sitting right there was "Kenji and Ashleigh Misagi." Crap, I wasn't good at this stuff.

Then there was the rest. Still no picture, no offers, nothing. Except a request to give money. Bit I had declared it was time to do something stupid, so without a second thought I started browsing her list of charities and made a donation to a children's hospital. The receipt went to Gui-Feng, and I went off to find Kenji making breakfast in his underwear.

---

It wasn't until the 3rd quarter of Ken's football game and my 15th email check that the response came:

Ashleigh and Kenji (or is it Ken?),

You aren't my usual customers, and I'm really pleased to hear from you. I think I can help the two of you out. We are all lost sometime, aren't we?

I have attached a couple pics of myself this time. Thank your husband for his patience.

As you know, this is really short notice and so we are going to have to get working immediately. I've penciled in Saturday night as our night. Will that be OK with you? I need to talk to both of you as soon as I can, so I put my phone number below. It's real. Call me before 8:00 your time. I am going to ask very personal questions, so be ready.

Call me,

Gui-Feng

"I've penciled in Saturday night as our night." I was actually going to have a night! I scrolled down to see my date.

Fuck.

Holy fuck.

Surely she was airbrushed or something. No one's skin is that perfect. I enlarged the first picture, the headshot, up to fill my screen and just stared. Would a woman who looked like this want to kiss me? Why didn't she rule the world or something? High cheek bones, dark, luscious eyes, blossoming cheeks, such delicate ears. My finger traced along her lips, so full and ripe and dark, so ready to be kissed. Could it be that I might kiss lips such as those? This was ridiculous. 

"Is that her?"

It was Kenji's voice but it sounded like something was stuck in his throat.

"She's beautiful," I replied.

"Yeah."

I turned to find Kenji staring at the picture as intensely as I had. I looked back and forth between the two of them. Kenji was attractive enough for her. Had I made a mistake here?

"There's a second picture," I told him.

This time she was draped in a dark green evening gown, sitting on a bar stool in some busy club. A bubble of light surrounded her and all the other patrons gave plenty of space. She owned the room, as she should. One leg was on the top rung of her stool, causing the dress to fall open along her never-ending legs. In all my time at the gym I had never seen legs so slender and perfectly formed. I had long legs like her, but not like that.

I was biting on her ankle.

This time I grabbed the image and kept it there, not letting it go.

I was biting on her ankle.

"She has a good photographer," Ken said with his trademark understatement.

"She's a goddess, Ken."

"That probably makes the photographer's job easier."

"Why isn't she married to some billionaire instead of doing what she does?"

"Maybe this way it's a few nights a year with someone she doesn't love rather than every night."

I closed the picture, breaking the spell, or at least weakening it. "She wants us to call her."

"Call her?"

"Today."

"Why?"

"Says we have work to do," I explained.

"Oh," he laughed. "Well, if Venus tells you to call...."

Gui-Feng's pictures had had an effect on Ken. This was the first time he'd shown any enthusiasm for the project. "Then that's what you do," I finished.

---

"Hi, is this Ashleigh?"

I froze. She was real. I was talking to her. I was going to have a night!

"Ashleigh?"

Damn, her voice was warm and friendly. She sounded like Ms. Shaughnessy in 9th grade. My favorite teacher. Everyone's favorite teacher.

"This is Gui-Feng. Don't worry, I wouldn't let anyone else answer."

I finally made my mouth move. "Okay."

She gave a small laugh. "Thank you for calling, Ashleigh. It's nice to hear a female voice in this job. Is Ken on the line, too?"

"Ken? Oh, no, he's sitting next to me." I clutched his hand tightly.

"Good, I need to talk to both of you."

"When do we pay?"

"If you are content after this call, you would pay half. The other half will be paid on Saturday. Do you have $5000 available to send to me? I only accept direct wire deposit."

Wow, she certainly had things worked out. But as Ken had said, she only needed a few nights a year. She could be as exact as she pleased and if someone didn't bite, so what? Good for her. "Well, it's Sunday, so we'd have to send it to you tomorrow."

"That's fine."

"We'll do it. I promise."

"I believe you."

"Don't people not pay all the time?" I asked.

"Yes. After today, I've raised $35,600 for charity so far. And remember before you start doing the math, most people opt out."

I chuckled. It hadn't taken too long to do that math. 356 customers. I wondered how many had decided to go through. If they had, she would have earned over 3 and a half million.

"Six years, since you are calculating it out," she interrupted. "And, no, I won't give you the percentage of actual customers. It's small enough for me."

I was about to apologize, but I could hear a slight smile in her voice. And the fact that she could tell what I was doing immediately made me realize I was dealing with someone with intelligence. Someone who deserved more than a half-assed apology.

"Ashleigh, I need to talk to you alone. I need you to tell me about things you wouldn't even tell Ken. Can you do this?"

"I can hear her," Ken said and, letting go of my hand, disappeared.

"You know this is very strange, Gui-Feng. We are paying you all this money and so far we just do what you tell us." I hadn't meant it to sound quite like that.

"Ashleigh, I don't want you to do anything today, next Saturday with me, ever, that you don't truly want to do. I'm taking charge now because this is my job, and... this is all new for you, right?"

"Very."

"How much of it? Have you hired someone like me before? Have you ever been with a woman before?"

"Neither."

"Not even a kiss?"

"Not that type of kiss, no."

"Then why are you calling me? Why are you doing this thing that makes you so scared that you can't speak on the phone? You tell CFOs what to do. "

"We didn't know how to make the fantasy come true," I explained. Wait. How did she know what I did for a living?




North Shore



"What fantasy exactly? A fantasy of the two of you with another woman?"

"Yes."

"Maybe it's a fantasy of just you with another woman?"

"No, well, I mean, that's how it started. But I want Ken there." I found myself pacing in a tiny circle as I cradled the phone.

"Why?"

Good question. Was it for comfort? "I- I- I like him."

"I hope so," she said with a clear smile on the other end. "Is he there for you or there for himself?"

I don't know. "I wanted him there."

"You wanted him to make love to someone else while you watched, or to watch you?" Gui-Feng asked. "People have this fantasy a lot."

"I, um, I want us there. This is important to me, and I share anything that's important with him. Know what I mean?"

She paused. "Ashleigh, why don't you try to meet someone somewhere else? Why pay?"

"We didn't know how."

"You'd figure it out in more time. There are swingers groups, personals online, interested friends. A close friend you can trust."

I don't have any close friends. Not in several years. That's what I almost said. "We wanted to keep it non-personal."

"You wanted sex to be non-personal?"

A smile escaped my lips because that's how I had always felt about our rule. How could sex not be personal?

"Ashleigh, this is your fantasy, not Ken's, right?"

My smile broadened. "I think it's Ken's fantasy now. I mean, don't men want to sleep with as many women as they can? And two women at once is the ultimate, right? He likes your pictures, Gui-Feng," I confessed mischievously.

"Can you tell me about the fantasy? In detail?"

Tell this stranger, despite her beautiful voice, intelligence, and never-ending legs, about my deepest fantasy? No.

"Ashleigh, this is why you called me."

"You sound like my therapist."

"You've gotten therapy about this."

Okay, this was getting personal. I had thought her personal questions would be about whether or not I was ready to go down on her, not this.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I kept having these images, these thoughts of me and another woman. They wouldn't go away."

"Okay."

She seemed to expect more. "So, I called a hotline."

"Ashleigh! Everyone has fantasies. Nothing's strange about that. I had a dream last night about listening to a Yanni concert, but that doesn't mean I'm going to go buy his box set. Why did you need a hotline just because of a dream?"

"Gui-Feng, they won't go away. It's been a year and a half. Every day I have some thought of me with someone else. Me with someone who isn't my husband. That's not good."

"I bet some people who are very happy have a fleeting thought of someone else all the time. Supposedly, that's how men live their entire lives."

"But I didn't want them to be fantasies. I wanted them-" Why had I spent all my time with Chantrelle? I could have just rung up an escort.

"You called a lesbian hotline, didn't you? Not a marital one, sex therapy, or a friend or anything else. That's what you are scared of."

"I'm not scared of being lesbian."

"How did you choose me?" Thank God, she had changed the subject. "Was it important to one of you that I was Asian?"

"We never talked about that. It was... well, if you are making a lot of money, more than you'd make doing lots of other things, you are probably doing it by some sort of choice, not because you are forced into it."

"You don't like what I do."

"I try not to think about it, to be honest. I try to think of you as just a person who will help us out. Your ad seemed to say that's what you did." I didn't want to insult her, but this was the truth.

"Ashleigh, you need to know something about me before you pay a dime more. I am under no obligation to do what you desire. What you are thinking of is a myth about Vegas. You are hiring an escort for a nice evening on the town. That's all. If I want to spend more time with you because I enjoy it, that's our choice and has nothing to do with money. And, I'll tell you the truth. If I won't feel happy about myself in the morning, I'm not going near it. Okay? So it's possible that you will spend $10,000, fly to Vegas, and then go home with your fantasy having never come true. I cannot promise it to you. And this isn't something I'm making up. I have frequently spoiled a customer as much as I possibly could and then taken off because I didn't like the idea of anything more. I can only promise that I will do everything I can to make you and Kenji happy. I enjoy making people happy." She paused. "Sometimes people call me a bitch and hang up here."

"There's no way I ever want to have sex with someone who's repulsed by me. Omigod, I can't believe I just said I want to have sex with you. I'm so sorry."

Gui-Feng laughed. "Ashleigh, tell me about these images of yours." But something seemed to have changed when she spoke now. The therapist was gone and instead she was just someone who was delighted to hear my voice. We even talked about shoes. It had been a while since I had sat and just talked to another woman about whatever was on my mind. Even though I was paying for it, it felt right. I still felt exhausted, though, when I tossed the phone to Kenji and ran out of the house so I couldn't eavesdrop on his turn.

---

The days passed slowly after the phone call with only the normal stuff to do. Every once in a while, an email would pop up from Gui-Feng for some bit of info. Soon she became all that Ken and I talked about. Over breakfast, over dinner, while making love. Ken would put his mouth between my legs and I'd say, "Just like that, Gui-Feng," nervously. On Tuesday night, Ken got me very excited and put two fingers inside me. He pulled them out and I practiced licking the crease in his hand. The final night we decided to practice for the weekend and made love quietly in front of her picture on the computer. I spread my legs open for Ken and looked into her eyes as I took him in me. I was amazed how nervous I felt naked with Ken in front of even her picture.

As we fell asleep later, I apologized to her in my head for my dreams. I knew that these things might not happen and it was up to her. But I then had to tell her that the faceless woman in my head was beginning to look like her all the time now. Ken told me she looked like what he had dreamed all his old girlfriends might grow into. Vroom, vroom, I joked as I rode him. It was maybe the first time he had brought up Gui-Feng first.

---

"My company won't pay for that," I told the desk clerk at one in the morning.

He looked back at his computer. "They already have. Your account is settled through Sunday night. You've got a Piazza Suite overlooking the strip. Canopy-draped king size bed, sunken living room. And, it looks like you have a $500 tab to spend anywhere in the hotel as you wish." He handed me the key and called the porter over, who took my single roll-on bag up and away. "Welcome to the Venetian," the desk clerk finished.

I managed to find the elevators despite being distracted by the weird room change and knowledge of why I was here. I thought Boss Chuck had meant a nice dinner, not a suite. Even on the dinner, he had made sure to put "probably" so I could worry about whether or not he really would pay. As I watched the numbers go by in the elevator, I realized the truth. It wasn't spineless Chuck. It was that sweetie, Ken, trying to make the weekend special. We were up to $11,000 now for three days. 

The door of my room was waiting open for me with the porter standing in the hallway. Following his gesture, I entered my room, or, should I say, rooms. A little gold statue of a flying Cupid adorned the marble entrance way. Italian, silk-covered furniture dotted a living room – a living room bigger than our apartment at home. Three steps led up to a bedroom containing a huge bed covered in gold and red tassels. The canopy was tied back and the sheets were folded down. I could just see something shiny on the pillow, which I assumed to be some chocolate – probably flown in from Belgium three hours ago in the shape of my initials. I had to smile as my normal sense of luxury was when the hotel gave me a cookie.

When I looked into the bathroom, my little smile turned into a grin. A whirlpool bath was prepared and waiting, the jets already on a low hum. A small basket of the darkest strawberries I had ever seen sat by the warm water. Even more, there was a small heated dish containing dark molten chocolate waiting for me, me and a strawberry.

I almost kissed the bellboy.

"And here's a package for you, ma'am." It was a small brown box from Amazon.

I reached in my purse to give him a five, but he instantly declined. "Everything is taken care of. You don't need to worry about anything this weekend. Please call. It will be an honor."

I opened my present as he left and found a mystery novel I had been planning on reading for three to four months. Inside was a note.

"I know you've been wanting to read this, so I went ahead and got it for you. But don't stay up too late. You've got work tomorrow."

In an instant I was nude and sinking into the bath. Dipping a strawberry into the chocolate, I could only think that Ken had truly outdone himself today. He didn't usually think of this sort of thing. Or if he did, he didn't know how to get it done. I blew a kiss to my darling husband across the ocean, wishing I was there to deliver it. At least I would deliver it right after this bath. I never opened the book. I just let the water and the chocolate take me away.

As my eyes closed, I could see Gui-Feng smiling opposite me in the bath. I felt her naked legs rub against mine. With my own little gleam in the eye, I guided one of her lovely legs up and her toes into my mouth.

---

Presents kept arriving all day Friday as I got through work and waited for Ken. My breakfast was wheeled in with a bottle of Dom Perignon and a gorgeous lei of the deepest orchids. How had Ken found that in Vegas? I came back from work to a room covered in several dozen roses, each one with a tiny note. "Thinking of us," "Your weekend is here," "Kisses," and more. I had to wonder if Ken had gotten Rosaria to help him think of lots of cutsie messages. Ken was hot and adorable, not cutsie. Around 8:30 I got back from dinner with the clients to find Jacqueline and her adorable French accent waiting to give me a hot stone massage. It was almost 40 minutes later, when her hands were working the muscles in my lower thighs, that she handed me my buzzing cell phone. I put it to my ear to find Ken almost shouting.

"You are the best wife ever!" This managed to wake me up a little. After all, here was the person responsible for the lap of luxury I had fallen into.

"Jacqueline's here right now," I told him.

"I can't believe you did this for me," he continued. "Don't tell me how much it costs, ever. I don't want to know." What was he talking about? "Meet me downstairs in twenty. You won't believe this thing. The LP640!"

"Ken, I can't even stand right now. I'm a puddle."

"Tired from work, huh? I promise you this will wake you up though."

"I will help you downstairs, miss," Jacqueline chimed in. "Your boyfriend sounds very excited, no?"

"Thank you, Jacqueline," I replied.

"Who's Jacqueline?"

"The masseuse."

"Wow, you are splurging, aren't you? Well, I'll see you soon. Eight thousand! A full eight thousand!" Eight thousand? What? Was that the extra budget he had set aside for this? We weren't going to leave Vegas with a dime.

After another ten minutes of Jacqueline's delightful touch, she was wrapping me in a warm towel and helping me stumble in dreamy ecstasy towards some clothes. The poor girl almost carried me down the halls, the whole time plying me with water. When we reached the drive-up to the hotel, the first thing to really wake me up just a bit was a beautiful red Lamborghini waiting just outside the door. The joker inside was so excited by his toy he kept revving the engine just sitting still. I was about to make a comment to Jacqueline about the boy toy when the driver door lifted up into the air and my own husband came bouncing out.

Speaking more in squeaks and grins than words, he pulled me towards the car, plopped me in the passenger seat, and appeared again behind the steering wheel with his hand already on the gearshift. Six speeds? As we pulled back onto the Strip, I asked, "Where'd you get it?"

"The two girls were waiting for me with a sign when I got off the plane. It must have taken them ten minutes to convince me I was the right guy." He grinned again as he buzzed around some common Mercedes. "Thank you so much, Ashleigh. Renting this makes the trip no matter what. But, you know, if you like what happens with Gui-Feng, can I suggest the two models you hired to pick me up as our next participants? I haven't seen a skirt that short in a few years. Well, when not on the UH campus. Or Waikiki."

"I didn't hire anyone."

"What?"

"I didn't hire anyone, and I didn't rent a car for you." Ken just sort of looked at me sideways. "You didn't send champagne and roses and molten chocolate and Jacqueline, did you?" I asked needlessly.

"Who is Jacqueline again?"

Gui-Feng had sent everything.

"So this is where our first $5000 is going," Ken said as he headed off into the desert.

"Looks like it. What kind of car is this?"

"It's the Murcielago. Top speed is supposed to be 211, but those figures depend on so much you just ignore them; 6500 lbs of torque. Can you imagine 8000 rpm with 12 cylinders?" I couldn't. The city lights were getting behind us, and the stars were appearing when Ken continued. "I know you don't like to go too fast, hun. I'll try to keep it under 150." With a look from me, he changed it. "140?"

Between the massage, the anticipation of tomorrow night, and the speed, my mind had floated away from my body. I have memories of being high in the desert mountains, cold air blowing across my naked body, stretched out on the warm hood of the car. Ken held my calves in his hands, sucking on them, my legs so far apart that I was sure the goddess moon was watching me. Soon I was watching her bathe Ken's bare skin in a silver glow as he laid his pants to my side. Covering my body with his, I raised my pelvis until I had taken all of him. My body tingled with each of Ken's thrusts and our own silver moon beams shot from where we were joined, flying upwards to return to the lunar goddess. Whether this truly happened or was my own dream, I am not sure. I'm afraid to ask Ken. I prefer to think this movie was real and not one that had been cut out of my life.

---

A voice mail appeared in the morning from Gui-Feng. It was nice to hear her voice again.

"Hey, Ashleigh. Hope my arrangements haven't been too intrusive. Tell Ken that I will find the two of you this evening. I'm really looking forward to it. I hope you know that. Talk to you soon, and we will see what we can do about those movies of yours. I have this great new pair of shoes I want you to see. Oh, and remember your account with the hotel! Five hundred dollars to spend anywhere. Go to it!"

I listened to the message about ten times, letting her voice caress me. "Those movies of yours." That's what she said. All the images I had had for over a year and a half. The touching, the kissing, the licking, the feelings. Maybe tonight was the night. I was going to kiss her. If she let me, if she liked me, too. Could I actually kiss a girl? If she did like me, she'd want me to do things to her. All over her. All the things I had told her I wanted to do. To put my lips on another woman's body. What had I gotten myself into?

Ken was still sleeping, lying on the bed, quiet. He was going to sleep with this woman, too. I was crazy. What was I doing? What was I thinking? I wasn't ready to kiss another woman. They were just fantasies. Everyone has fantasies. Why had I let them take over my life? I wasn't ready; I wasn't ready. Not yet. Too soon, too fast, too much. My fingernails began to dig into my arm, clawing at my skin. I knew what was happening, but I couldn't stop the panic attack. It had been two years since the last one. I tried to put the phone down but my hand shook so much it went falling off the bureau.

I ran over to Ken before my fears took me, curling up against him, hoping he could take it away, my whole body shaking. Take me from this awful place, Ken. This place where people pretend to be who they aren't. Don't let me screw up what we have. I know I leap and then look; that's why I have you. Are you looking out for me still? Oh, I'm sorry, Gui-Feng. I wanted this, but I can't. It scares me too much. What if I like it? What if this was who I was? I hated it all. I hated how wonderful those images made me feel. I can feel your tongue on my neck. So good. Why did these wonderful images have to come? Why do they have to make me feel like they do? I didn't ask for them. But if they left... Please don't make them go. They are a part of me now. Ken? Help?

Kenji opened his eyes with a sleepy look that lasted only a second. He wrapped me in his arms and the warm blankets and just held me, whispering to me until my attack faded, my mind calmed.

I didn't deserve either of them.

---

The day passed slowly. I tried to eat my strawberries and read my book. Ken would disappear for a bit and then come back to tell me all about manifolds and callipers and double wishbones. I asked him what he wished for, which made him smile. We tried to eat lunch but we largely just sat in front of large plates of food watching each other. There's only so long you can talk about another woman. I took to sticking little notes in places Ken would look with hearts on them and the like. I hadn't done that since college.

We talked as we wandered the hotel's Grand Canal. We talked about years gone past and about Gui-Feng. What would she look like when she met us?

"She'll be in something skin-tight," I told Ken. "Something that shows every bit of her off. Maybe she will carry a briefcase of toys and lubricants."

"Nah, she'll go classy like in her pictures. Some sort of long evening gown with a back that drops all the way to her... rear."

"That's not classy. No one wanders around in stillettos and a ball gown."

"Hey, it's classier than your latex-covered vixen with a sack full of dildos."

"Yes, but in my vision, she's got a red pointy hat on too and says "ho, ho, ho," as she pulls out... uh... some rubber toy thing."

We drove in the car. We lay on the bed. I wish I remembered some of it. Finally, around 5:30, I listened to Gui-Feng's message one more time. "Remember your account with the hotel."

I stumbled out of the room looking for the only thing that could keep me going at a time like this. Shoes.

---

With a little Ferragamo's bag containing my old pair of shoes, I sat on the edge of a fountain to admire my new pumps and watch the people go by: A group of three men with close cut hair, tight shirts, and egos even bigger than their pecs - the kind of guy you only wanted in your bed if he promised not to open his mouth and remind you of how shallow you were acting. Couple after couple, people taking pictures, women pointing to get their husbands to look at this or that, two bored teens, a very attractive Asian woman with short hair and her own delicious slip of a shoe resting at the end of slender feet.

Stopping. Looking at me with a radiant smile that spoke of nothing but joy.

I could feel my eyes slowly growing as recognition built. This was the one we had been waiting for, dreaming of, scared to death to meet. Gui-Feng's joy at finding me grew with my reaction, and I felt she was about to leap into my arms. Somehow, I wouldn't have minded if she did. She didn't carry a whip, a briefcase, or even show much leg. Instead she was in a pair of khaki capris and a nice burgundy top with thin straps on the shoulders. Her eyes twinkled against a burst of gorgeous black hair shaped in a completely modern, professional way. This wasn't an escort. This was my new best friend.




North Shore



She stood about three feet from me, flashing her brilliant white teeth, and I finally felt my mouth saying, "Hi." I don't know if sound came out or not. She came to me and sat by my side, not touching me, just letting her presence be felt.

"Same place," she said, putting her foot near my bag. "I got these on Wednesday. One of the slingbacks."

"They look fabulous. I don't usually wear a heel that tall."

"Next time you are in, try something bigger than normal. They are far more comfortable than they have any right to be. It's not the same as other shoes."

"I don't actually go shopping at Ferragamo's very often," I replied. "Salvatore is a nice guy but a little above the regular budget. But since I had $500 to blow...."

She laughed. "I know what you mean. Did you get the lei? It's crazy how much more a decent lei costs here compared to Hawaii. I wanted you to feel a touch of home."

"You did great. I've spent half my day eating chocolate and soaking in whirlpools, though I gotta tell you I got lost this morning in the room. I heard Kenji's voice, but it took a good 10 minutes to locate him behind the gold peacock statue."

"It's tacky, huh?"

"Never seen so much red and gold in my life. But I am so not complaining."

Gui-Feng seemed to beam even more. "Spending money on the two of you has been a blast. I tried to find things that you would want but may not ever get around to. I mean, I may be cute, but $10,000? I'd love to tell people where their money is going before hand, but then there'd be no surprise. Besides, most people who can blow ten grand on a girl for a night don't care. How's Kenji liking the car?"

"Who? Oh, you mean that man who keeps calling me from the garage?"

"Good. I couldn't decide on that car for him. It didn't seem quite right, but I couldn't come up with anything better. Oh, by the way, I shouldn't bring this up already, but it's going to disappear sometime around seven tomorrow night."

"The car can go fast. That does the trick for Ken. You know he likes staring at the engine as much as driving it. It's like the NFL draft. Your presents are great. "

"They're only sort of from me, of course. I'm more like the party planner."

"If we ever need to plan a wedding for our daughter, we'll call you up."

"I'll need a new job by then, it's true. You don't have a daughter, do you?"

"No, no kids. Too busy."

"Ken?"

"Oh, he tries to knock me up every couple days." Had I just said that to someone I had just met? I never spoke about sex to a girlfriend. Well, I didn't really have a girlfriend, so who knew what I would say to her?

"Oh, Ashleigh, before we get Ken, you should know that I may have met him once before."

I froze at this. Exactly how?

"Oh lord, no. I would have backed out long ago if he had hired me before. I'm looking to have a nice time with you, not reveal secrets. The way I may have met him is-" She suddenly let out a sigh. "Trouble coming."

"What?"

"We are about to be hit on," she told me.

"Where?"

"Two guys standing by the marble unicorn. Here they come...." She leaned into my ear and whispered very quietly. "If we hadn't just met, I'd be nuzzling your neck right now so they'd get the hint. Have you ever done that to get rid of a guy?"

I didn't get hit on enough to have a repertoire myself. I liked to blame that on the gold ring on my finger, but I sometimes was afraid that wasn't it. "Uh, no."

"It works about half the time, but when it doesn't work, then you know you're in trouble. Actually, it' just an excuse to nuzzle someone you like."

"Excuse me," came a not unpleasant but slightly tense voice. "But are the two of you waiting for someone, because we've been waiting for you all our lives."

I did my best to suppress a laugh but a small snort came out nonetheless. Maybe it was because their lives looked to be about ten years less than my own. Gui-Feng, however, seemed to take it in stride. She calmly stood to meet our suitors, graciously offering an upturned hand. The blonde guy who had spoken paused for a second, unsure of whether or not to shake it or kiss it. He seemed to do both with a shake and a slight bow. She then reached across to his buddy, a rather attractive black man, and shook his hand as well.

"Gentlemen," she responded. I watched her as she caught both of their eyes and seemed pleasantly surprised that they had come to visit us. Of course, she had spied them long before they took a step our way. I had the feeling that she saw everyone in the hallway with us at this moment. "I am truly flattered at your kind words," she continued, "but the fact is that we are both taken, so we cannot take advantage of your offer." And there she stopped, waiting patiently for their response. Both men looked a little shocked. There were no unkind words, no giggles, no lies or excuses, no looking away and hoping they weren't there. But there was also no wiggle room in the answer. The blonde responded.

"Oh, okay, yeah. Are you sure? Gondola ride? Go to the tables? We'll treat you to everything, of course."

Gui-feng didn't say anything for only a second before the handsome friend grabbed the blonde's arm. "Dude, she said 'no'."

The blonde turned to me for just a second, wanting to appeal his case, but his friend was dragging him off. I was about to speak but Gui-Feng held her finger to her lips so that we could listen to the departing men.

"At least we don't have to fight about who gets who," the blonde was saying. "Did you see the stomach on the Asian chick?"

"Get a grip, dude," the handsome friend replied. "Besides I was staring at the redhead's hips. Talk about hourglass. Makes me want to start with the Days of Our Lives theme."

"Days of Our Lives? You are so gay."

The friend punched the blonde in the arm. "I watched it with my grandma as a kid. You need to grow up, dude."

Their voices faded.

"That was nice," Gui-Feng said when we could only see them but not hear them. "Though your cheeks are getting close to your hair color, Ashleigh."

"At least they are gone," was all I could say as my pulse pounded in my ears. Apparently, Gui-Feng's beauty rubbed off on women she was near in her suitors' eyes. That would explain it.

"It's a bit too bad," Gui-Feng offered. "Even though they still act like they're 22."

I watched the quiet friend's body disappearing. He was probably covered in muscles. "Yeah, a little," I admitted.

"Let's get Ken down here before we spend all night doing that." It had been two to three months since I had been hit on, so I hadn't minded all that much. Even with my complete lack of interest in them, it was still kind of flattering. At least it was when I had Gui-Feng who knew how to handle it. When I was single, I had always made up stuff when someone approached me. Stuff that we all knew was a bald-faced lie. On the other hand, if I had taken Gui-Feng's approach, I would have probably insulted them somehow. How had she done it? Before I could stop myself, I took her hand in mine, feeling my cheeks flushing again, as our fingers interlaced. I was as scared of her as I was excited. But somehow I already knew that for a single night she was my guide. It was time to do something stupid. So tonight I was going to do my best to throw myself at a woman I had just met and find out if she would catch me.

---

Ken was bouncing down a small set of steps toward us when he saw me, gave a little smile, and then saw Gui-Feng. He missed the last step and tumbled on to the ground. Gui-Feng leaned into me as Ken brushed himself off and started walking towards us. "It's really him, Ashleigh. He's still just as good-looking as he was."

"I know," I whispered back.

She looked at me for a second, considering. "A lot of people forget."

Ken bounded to us in a light blue Oxford, a dark tie, and the cologne that only goes on once a year for my company Christmas party. I turned to do the introduction but instead found Gui-Feng looking at Ken. "Still as good looking," she had said. Still.

"Uh, this is him," I got out.

I felt Gui-Feng squeezing my hand as she spoke. Was she trying to draw comfort from me? "The famous Kenji Misagi," she said.

"Uh, what?" he responded. This pleased me to no end because I couldn't wait to tease him later about those being his first words to her.

"You are going to think I am making this up, but I have met you before. I didn't think it would really be you. I mean Misagi is a pretty common last name. In Hawaii."

"Met me? I would remember that."

"Ten years ago. L.A. Auto Show. After party."

Ken's eyes narrowed. "I was there."

"Yes, you were." She turned to me. "After a big auto show, some club or two will throw a big party with a lot of the models as go-go dancers and stuff. It's an excuse for men to look at women and cars – and pay for it."

"I didn't have my car with me, of course," Ken continued. "I was writing my column already at that point, so I went to cover the show and some new aftermarket parts." He turned back to Gui-Feng. "Did we talk?"

"Not a word," she said. "I was just 19, and you were..."

"28, I guess."

Gui-Feng was about to keep going when she reflected for a moment and said, "Ashleigh, you aren't 38 now, are you?"

"33."

"That's more believable. Anyway, I was on the arm of Kira Pham."

"Kira Pham," Kenji said considering the name. "She asked me out that night! The queen of the world, Kira Pham, asked me out that night. I was blown away."

"She spent half the night working up her courage, then grabbed me for help. Do you know what it means to be able to make Kira Pham have to work herself up? She was fearless."

"And could have anyone she wanted. She was a knock-out. Everyone wanted Kira."

"Except you apparently."

"Oh, um, yeah. I guess so. Sorry about that. I was already dating someone. Yumi," he explained to me. I could barely remember a story of a Yumi.

"How long did you date Yumi?" I asked.

"Oh, uhhh, a couple months or something, I guess."

"You turned down Kira Pham because you were in a relationship that only lasted two months?"

"Maybe it was longer, I don't know. I had told Yumi we were an item. I wasn't going to shack up with the next pretty girl I saw. She was cute, too. Wait a second." Ken stared at Gui-Feng. "You had pink hair! Or pink streaks I mean."

"That was me."

"How funny. How... damn...."

Gui-Feng and I just waited. Ken looked at us and finally gave in.

"Okay, don't get mad, please. I don't remember too much more, but I was with Eddie Chen, if you remember him." Eddie was Ken's best friend for years, but Gui-Feng had to shake her head. Eddie was nice, but he had never looked like Ken. "You hooked him. Or at least, umm, your, uhhh, bottom did. For a long time, he compared every girl's butt he saw to yours. You were wearing something that night. I don't know what it's called."

"Tube skirt."

"Yeah, he loved that skirt. He talked about your butt for days. I'm sorry."

Gui-Feng just nodded at Ken's story. "That's about all there was worth remembering about me back then. The day I realized I had become nothing more than an ass in a tight skirt was one of the best days of my life. Once I knew it, I could fix it."

"I didn't mean to offend you, Gui-Feng," Ken said. "That's just what happened."

"Ken, don't be mad at yourself. I wore tight skirts so people would look at my ass. That was the point. Remember you were the one turning down models because you had someone you kinda liked somewhere else in the world. You aren't the problem."

"Guys go for a cute body," I said. "That's how you get men."

"Knowing that was my big screw up." Gui-Feng responded. "For a while. My body was the first thing to grow and when I discovered the power it had, it took over my life. I devoted everything to the way I looked and couldn't give a damn about anything else."

"There's nothing wrong with that," I told her. "Use what you got. We all have certain skills or whatever, and we have to make them the best they can be. You're a babe. Be a babe."

"But, Ashleigh, none of are any one thing. We aren't just jocks and brains and babes."

"When I was a teen," I replied, "I discovered people would give me awards and praise me for just doing homework and writing papers. I mean, how easy was that? It's the same thing as you, just opposite. I may have been worse actually. I always had to make fun of anyone who was pretty. Say that it meant nothing, but that was just as stupid. Who am I to say that brains are more important than appearance?"

"I agree completely, or a little, anyway," she laughed. "I think being smart is better than being pretty."

"It lasts longer at least," Ken added. "Beauty fades, while smarts can grow for years."

"It all fades, though, doesn't it?" Gui-Feng responded. "Maybe beauty fades earlier, maybe it doesn't, but our minds fail too eventually. It just depends on how far out you look."

"It all goes," I added. "Dust to dust."

"So were we ever beautiful at all?"

"I don't know what that means, Gui-Feng," I replied.

She laughed. "Thank god, you called me on it. I do that a lot. Say things that sound important but are meaningless."

"I don't know if the question is meaningless. I just don't know what it means myself."

"Yes," said Ken. "The answer to your question is 'yes'. Why does something have to be forever to be real? I mean, umm, this morning, Ashleigh gave me an extra piece of bacon from her plate. She was still eating breakfast, but she knows I love the stuff. That made me happy. Just for a moment. I don't walk around with my head in the clouds on a permanent basis because of a piece of bacon, but that doesn't mean she wasn't kind for just a moment. It was real. It was only a moment."

Gui-Feng responded directly to Kenji's challenge. "Dinner?"

We ended up sitting in some enormous restaurant near a 40-foot tall Buddha. Other than the statue of Enlightenment, the place had an entire extra club in it. I can't say what Buddha thought of the club. Our conversation continued right through dinner, though periodically I would lose track. She would mention impermanence, and I would stare at her lips moving. Her beauty was almost a match for her intelligence. She was also remarkably skilled at her job, leading us through these conversations that had nothing to do with sex in order to make us comfortable. At times I would forget we had hired her and just get lost in talk. She was laughing at Kenji's jokes. He loved it when people laughed at his jokes. It didn't mean that she was faking it, but she was aware. She understood us as people and knew how to tap it. It was an ability that I completely lacked. I always came out the same. I was who I was. I guess since I could see what she was doing, I should have been offended or worried that Gui-Feng was being false, but instead I admired it.

She was good at her job.

My own mother had said once that that was the highest compliment I knew. Or was it the only compliment I knew? Maybe my mom was right about me though. More than beauty or intelligence, I realized that Gui-Feng's best quality was that she was competent. It turned me on. Wow, she knew how to reach me already, it seemed. Could I reach her?

As I watched Gui-Feng's lips, I saw the corners turn up into a small smile and then a bare foot was gliding up my lower leg. I immediately kicked off a shoe under the table and guided it back up Gui-Feng.

"Do either of you want another drink?" Kenji asked.

Gui-Feng shook her head. "I don't want to miss a moment tonight." Neither did I. I respected Gui-Feng. I was aroused by her. I really liked how it felt when she touched me. I could imagine feeling like this for a long time.

I withdrew my foot out of her reach.

---

After dinner, Gui-Feng declared we were going on the Water Tour, which started in our own hotel with a gondola ride. That's where Gui-Feng asked how Ken and I met.

"The Bus," we declared simultaneously.

"Ashleigh was on vacation in Hawaii."

"And I had spent the whole previous day lost, driving around in my rental car, so I decided to hop the bus to the North Shore. It was winter, so that's big wave season up there."

"I had removed the engine from my own car, so I was taking the bus, too."

"But you were going to the Pipeline and I was headed to Waimea Bay."

"Both surfing spots," Ken explained.

"I sat next to him."

"Yes, and spoke to me," he continued.

"You spoke to me. We've never agreed on that part."

"It's over an hour on the bus."

"Kenji and I talked the whole way. You never made it to the Pipeline."

"We didn't make it to Waimea Bay until sundown."

"Ken said my stop was close, maybe 15 minutes," I informed Gui-Feng.

"And for the first time we stopped talking. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want her to get off. I knew I could get her number or something, but that wasn't enough. She was about to leave me."

"We were coming to the main little town up there, Haleiwa, and I suddenly had an idea."

"She pulled the chain."

"Ten minutes early, not my stop."

"'Lunch?' That's what she said."

"It was nine thirty in the morning."

"I took the hint and we got off together. Didn't part for the rest of the week. My friends thought I was crazy."

"His friends thought he was crazy."

"Why?" asked Gui-Feng.

"I had a girlfriend at the time. She was someone I had known for a while and everyone was sure she was it for me. And here I was dropping it all for a cute girl I had just met from the mainland."

"You were giving up the chosen one for a tourist fling."

"Right. But it wasn't just me. Ashleigh was living with someone."

"For over two years, Gui-Feng."

"You gave that up, too?"

"I knew. I don't know what Ken thought, but I knew immediately about him. This is horrible but on the third day with Ken I was thinking about how to break up with Tomas. I mean, if this was what it really felt like, I knew Tomas and I weren't going to last, no matter what happened with Kenji."

"I didn't think I'd ever see her again myself. I was sure I was just her island fling or something. I don't mean that bad. I'm just saying that I didn't ever expect her to drop everything for me."

"We were married nine months later."

"Damn, it was cold in Boston in November. My family barely made it through the ceremony."

"My married cousin kept offering to help your sister stay warm, the shmuck."

"It's like it all happened yesterday to the two of you," Gui-Feng commented.

"It was huge," Ken replied. "I wasn't just meeting a girl, or meeting a wife, I was starting over. Ashleigh, too."

"I moved out to Hawaii with no job, one suitcase. I thought the only reason people ever moved was for a job. You can't move across an ocean for a guy."

"Your parents said so."

"They love you, Kenji."

"But not so much then."

"They thought I was giving up a lot. I earned a nice bit back then, at least for 25 years old. And you-"

"I didn't have to give up anything. Nothing I cared about. Gui-Feng, when Ashleigh came into my life, I was already gone. I was 32 and sure I had wasted pretty much every moment up to then. All a complete waste. The only reason I had gotten into cars as a teen was to meet girls. And there I was sixteen years later, still fixing up cars, and finishing an associate's degree. My best friend had gotten paralyzed in one that I built."

"Kenji, you know it was Eddie's fault. It was his foot on the accelerator, not yours."

"Eddie's always followed me. That makes it my responsibility. If I had told him to go to college instead, that's where he would have been."

"He was 30, not-"

"You know it wasn't just that, Ashleigh. Gui-Feng, without Ashleigh, I don't know where I would have ended up. I'm not like you. You realized, at a mere 19, that you needed to change, and you did it all by yourself. I was 32 and just sitting, waiting for something, anything, to happen. And, then, one day on the bus, finally, something did."




North Shore



---

As we headed out of the hotel and down the strip, I discovered something else that Gui-Feng and I had in common. When she was thinking, she didn't speak. She had never responded to Ken's story. Instead she became quiet, saying only the minimum to keep us moving, and I could practically see her wheels turning. I tried to cheer her up with stories about Ken's past, but they were having little effect. I was left just watching her. Earlier, I had asked myself if I would be able to reach Gui-Feng. Ken had done it. She had been thrown off track. If I wanted to meet the real woman here, I'd have to do the same. I took Ken's hand and leaned over to whisper to her as we walked.

"I'd like to know what you are thinking."

Gui-Feng shook her head. "I can't say. I could say something stupid."

"I say stupid things all the time."

"That's different."

"I know you are working and trying to charm us, but I'd like to know the real you. You've been confident and perfect for us all night. What else is there?"

She took what I said in instantly. "I could tell you were seeing through me. I was kind of hoping you'd let it slide and just play the game."

"I didn't see through you. You were doing what we asked you to do."

"That's what I tell myself, too."

"So tell me something stupid that you will regret."

She sighed. "I just don't want to be part of screwing you two up. You've got something good, Ashleigh, and I'm not going to be the one to crash it down. I try to make people's lives better, if only for one night. I am not sure if your lives will be better after tonight. I keep looking for answers, but they don't come."

"I've been looking for an answer, too, but nadda."

Ken joined in. "Why do things always have answers? What sort of question would you ask here anyway?"

I stopped whispering. "You want to know one more reason why I am an idiot, Gui-Feng? I sometimes think that I'm smarter than Ken."

Ken started laughing, "You are, Ashleigh."

"No, I'm not. I assume that because I read a lot more than you that I must be smarter. But that's so clearly dumb it's almost self-contradictory."

"But, Ashleigh," said Gui-Feng, "You show your intelligence all the time."

"I hope you aren't going to say it's because I can do math quickly."

"No, it's because you really listen and think. At dinner, I was going off about Greek philosophy, partly because I enjoy it and partly to show off, but you didn't let me get away with anything. You'd be shocked how many people think that because someone can throw a long name out there that they must be saying something important. But you don't fall for it. You question it if Herodotus said it or if Jimmy at the garage said it."

"Hey, no garage jokes," Ken threw out.

"I'm not sure that's such a great thing," I answered. "I sound like a pit bull – or, worse, a lawyer."

"And," Ken continued, apparently ignoring me in turn, "You say it when you don't understand. I've always thought that was great. You aren't being self-effacing, because that's boring. You are being honest."

"So you are telling me that I am smart exactly because I have no idea what I am talking about most of the time."

"Yeah."

"That's the start of wisdom," Gui-Feng finished. "Just look it up in Plato."

I couldn't help but grin at Gui-Feng's meta-joke. Anyway, Plato was a short word.

"Then I will admit right now to the two of you that I have no idea what I am doing here, why I'm here, or how it will end up."

"Same here," said Gui-Feng.

"Oh yeah," said Ken.

And with that we all headed off towards the exploding volcano.

---

As we walked, I did have some idea what I was doing here. I was here to kiss Gui-Feng. I just didn't know why I wanted to kiss her. Surely, I could figure it out. Why did I like to kiss Ken? Because he could be nice and sexy and I loved him. Well, Gui-Feng was certainly sexy, but I couldn't love her yet, since I had just met her. I wanted to love her, I knew that. Wait, why the hell would I want to love someone I had just met? That was ridiculous, and yet it was true. What was going on inside me?

Gui-Feng suddenly leaned into my body. "I think you're wonderful," she said quietly, her breath fluttering by my ear and over my cheek. All my thoughts joined her breath and disappeared into the warm Vegas air.

"Me, too. I mean, I think you are," I said quickly blushing as I had almost praised myself. But of course she knew what I meant. I felt like a kid around her.

I felt her pulling me closer as we walked, as if the desert had become cold and she needed warmth. "I just want you to know that, because I am going to have to pay a little less attention to you than I'd like."

"Oh, well, that's fine." She was already losing interest? But she had just said-

"Ken, would you mind grabbing us a bottle of water?" Gui-Feng asked.

"No prob," he responded and vanished into a convenience store. I chuckled at Gui-Feng's transparent request to get some alone time and Kenji's immediate acceptance of it. Now, if only he'd do what I say every once in a while....

"I need to seduce your husband."

I couldn't help but cock an eyebrow at that.

"I know it's hard to believe, but he's only here for you. If I am going to do my job for both of you, I need to get his attention a little more."

"Gui-Feng, I know it was my idea originally, but what man doesn't want to be with two women? It's everyone's fantasy."

"Kenji seems to be one person for whom it isn't."

"He fell down the stairs when he saw you."

"Yes, wasn't that sexy? But he's looking at me and thinking about you." She began to wiggle her capris down a little lower until the top of tiny looking black silk panties could be seen.

"I think he'll like that," I responded, not adding how I liked it.

Her eyes flashed at me. "That was for you, Ashleigh. I'm not only a friend."

I immediately wanted to protest and tell her I was attracted to her personality, not just her body, but I couldn't get it out. Every time I tried to speak my eyes wandered to that tiny fabric that looked like a thong and her slender stomach disappearing into it.

She watched me looking at that spot and then looking away. Her eyes twinkled and with a "c'm here," she lead me around a corner and down a side street where it was a little darker and quieter. There were a few people around but not like on the main Strip. She drew me closer to her. "Ashleigh," she started. "You should know something. About me. Before. I mean. Wow, I can't get it out. I think you are about to hear one of my stupid things."

I wanted to reassure her, but we were too close now to think. I remembered staring like this at my first serious boyfriend as we worked our way towards a first kiss. What I loved or hated, I don't know which, is that it felt just as good. I wanted this to happen. "What's the stupid thing?"

"Ashleigh, when not working, I'm.... No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't say anything. That's far too much pressure on you. I am being stupid."

"I can handle it."

"But you don't need to handle it. It's my issue."

"What are we talking about, Gui-Feng?"

She only shook her head. "Ashleigh," she looked into my eyes, "would you touch me?"

Oh yes, I could do that. I couldn't help but look around first though. There were only a few people and it was dark. Was that man looking at us? Maybe. Oh, who cares? My body was just a couple inches from hers. "Where?" I asked.

She smiled but it quickly vanished. "Here," she replied with a breath and lifted her shirt just a touch to indicate the spot between her navel and her now low-riding capris. The place I had been staring at. My heart pounded under my breast.

"I'll try." I raised a hand slowly towards her, but I could see it shaking.

"You don't have to, Ashleigh. You're scared."

"I want to." I did, so why was I shaking? I gently placed my fingers just touching her skin. I could barely feel her because my hand was trembling so much that any contact was momentary. "It looks like I am scared," I added as we both stood there watching my hand twitching up and down as it barely grazed her body.

"That's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," Gui-Feng replied.

"Yes, you are," I answered before stopping myself.

"You have a hair in your eyes," Gui-Feng said and I felt her cool breath on my face as she blew the stray lock away. "I wanted to see you," she explained.

I nodded, but kept staring at her abdomen. Her pants were low enough now that I realized that she must shave some part of herself. I hadn't done that at all. Why hadn't I done anything to get ready for this beautiful woman? I could see my lips on that skin, right where my fingers were, kissing downwards.

"Would you like to move your fingers lower or, um, to the side, or anything? I don't mind; I mean, I'd like that."

Lower? Caress the most beautiful stomach in the world? I tried to make my fingers do it but they just sat there not moving, only shaking. I tried again but they wouldn't go. The shaking was getting worse. I wasn't even touching her now. Was my whole body trembling?

Gui-Feng moved away just a step and grabbed both of my hands. "Ashleigh, relax. We'll get you there. Okay? I know it's hard. I've been through this before."

Why was it hard though? Why don't I own my own mind?

Gui-Feng shook her head. "Good lord, Ashleigh. I'm supposed to be seducing Ken and here we are. Wow, what you do to me."

"Me?"

"C'mon, Ken's probably been sitting with a bottle of water for 10 minutes." We started walking the twenty feet back to the main road. "Now, we must remember," she said with a light laugh. "I'm supposed to be seducing him!"

I realized I had never really thought about this part, but I knew how I felt. "I want you to, Gui-Feng," I told her. "It seems best."

"Good," she replied. "We'll know if it is working if he starts clinging to you."

"If he wants you, why cling to me?"

"Protection."

When we found Ken she started her seduction as oddly as I could imagine. "Ken, I think your wife is the cutest thing ever."

"Of course, she is."

---

We continued down the Strip, but I wasn't really with Ken and Gui-Feng for most of it. My feet kept up, but my mind was still in the street with the ghost of Gui-Feng. All she had wanted was a caress. Why couldn't I do it? I didn't live in a closet. I had been out to bars in college where women frenched each other to the delight of their boyfriends. I had been out with lesbian friends or co-workers who kissed in front of me. I wasn't scared of being with another woman. Not like that. Was I?

I caught Gui-Feng's lips shining in the neon lights, moist and rich. I just watched them moving. Opening and closing. She was talking to Ken. Oh, how they rounded so beautifully on some words, as if she was kissing the air as she spoke. I saw her tongue move slightly between her lips and then back in. Then her mouth was opening wide, a laugh. Ken had said something which delighted her. Thank you, Ken. But I waited for her lips to round again, and there it was. Another kiss of the air. A verbal caress.

Would she use those lips to kiss me? A kiss that I could fall into forever. A kiss I could hold. A kiss to take with me for all time. I felt a pain in my arm, and I looked down to see my nails digging in hard.

Ken was taking my arm, hugging me as we walked. I smiled at him and tried to get my mind off of our new companion. Continuing to fail, the walk turned into flashes of brilliance and darkness. Each one a separate movie that connected to nothing. A world of moments.

Some woman pushing a deep purple ad into my hands. Its edges felt sharp as if they were going to slice into my palms.

Ken leaning in towards Gui-Feng's slender neck. No, it was her ear. He was trying to say something for her alone. Or was he going for our first kiss? His eyes were on mine, talking to me, reading me. I wanted him to kiss her, didn't I? He pulled back.

Soft lips nibbling along my ear, a warm breath on my neck, a pair of hard nipples pushing against my naked body. No, that wasn't real, of course. Right? I looked down to find my clothes still covering me.

"Kira?" Gui-Feng talking to Ken. "She finished at UCLA and then got a bunch of retail jobs. Her dream was to turn her modeling into a fashion line of some sort. I haven't spoken to her for a few years, so I don't know how it's gone. I know she's married. Two kids. Do you remember Rich, the photographer?"

Ice cream suddenly all over Gui-Feng's mouth as she laughed delightedly. She grinned as Ken used a napkin to tenderly wipe it away, not looking at me this time. I suddenly felt fingers on my lips as well, and I kissed them before I could stop myself. What light, lovely fingers. It was only when my lips touched them that I realized they were my own.

A single tear on Gui-Feng's cheek as she looked at me. Why?

My chest heaving, my pelvis thrust into the air, into a hand whose fingers were deep inside me. My orgasm coursed through my body making my eyes flutter. Gui-Feng held me as if we would fall into an abyss if we dared let go.

Ken's eye traveling along Gui-Feng's body as she reclined on some steps, her bare foot pointed towards the cloud-covered moon and a 30 foot billboard. Her dark red top was sliding up the smoothest torso on earth, the one I had not dared even touch.

Ken's arm wrapping in mine again, this time not for me. For protection.

With one last block that we all walked arm in arm, we were at the volcano. We had hit it just right as the lights started to flash as we approached.

"How're you doing, Ashleigh?" Gui-Feng asked as the music started. "You've been elsewhere now for a long time."

"I'm still on that side street with you."

"Remember that you are only here to do what you want. Nothing more."

"Or less," I responded. I didn't want to leave this town without Gui-Feng. Oh god, why had I thought that?

"Or less," she echoed. The noise was getting louder and the water of the volcano was rumbling. "But remember your life goes on after tonight. You don't have to fulfill every dream today."

"But I don't have you after tonight."

"That's nothing-"

"I like you," Gui-Feng. "I like you very much."

"But we just met, Ashleigh. We hardly know each other."

"That's what I tell myself."

Gui-Feng caught her breath. I caught her looking around as the water from the volcano began to shoot into the air. She found Ken a few steps away. "Ashleigh, I wanted to tell you something earlier, but I knew I shouldn't. I still know I shouldn't but I'm going to."

"What?"

"The reason I remember Ken."

There was more to that story? 

"I remember Ken because I was head over heels for Kira Pham. It was just a crush. I discovered that later when I fell in love for real. But at the time, I thought she was everything I wanted. You get what I am saying?"

I nodded. She was telling me she was available after tonight. She was telling me she was what I wanted and what I had feared.

"When Kira came clinging to me that night, I was so excited, but all she could talk about was Ken. Then she made me stand by her side as she asked someone else out. I could barely keep my legs upright. When Kenji declined, I was the happiest girl in the world. Of course, Kira wasn't. I spent most of the night comforting her, telling her there were other people who cared for her if she could just see it."

"Did she ever know how you felt?"

Gui-Feng shook her head. "She wasn't into me. I always knew that. Completely straight."

"I'm into you, Gui-Feng," poured out before I could think better.

"I hope so," she replied and turned to me, taking my hands. Music blared and everything around me was a mass of flickering light. I could hear water falling back into its pool with a thunderous splash as the fake eruption ended. My eyes wandered up Gui-Feng's body as we stood close again. I thought I could see her chest moving from her thumping heart inside, but maybe I was just imagining my heart inside her. I looked up into her eyes. They were beckoning to me, as were her lips. Here it was. Time to kiss.

The lights were done and her lips were moving to mine. Just past her head I could see people. People watching us. Or looking away quickly. How many? All watching. All watching me and her. No, don't watch. This is just about us. Go away, all of you. Was that a cat call?

"Not here, I can't," I almost cried out, backing away from her.

Gui-Feng seemed to startle and look around. There were all sorts of people watching us. Mostly men, but some women, too. She gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. She was taking my hand, fleeing.

"I'm so sorry; I'm so sorry. What was I doing? I was asking your first kiss to be in front of 200 people. Omigod. I'm so stupid. I got carried away and forgot. Will you ever forgive me?"

I felt like she did, but my sense of humor came to the rescue. "I think I would have remembered our first kiss without the volcano and audience."

A laugh escaped through her still-covered mouth. "Ashleigh, I am an idiot. This is the exact opposite of what I am supposed to be. I'm supposed to be helping you, not terrifying you, but I can't think straight when we are close. God, I shouldn't say that either."

"It's okay. I mean, I wanted to find out what it is like to be with another woman. And I'm getting it."

"For real," she responded. "I know a safer place for all this. Let me find Ken and ask for some time for the two of us. He can't go where we need to."

"But he's supposed to be a part of this. I want him here."

"Just temporary. I promise I won't take him from you."

I slowly nodded, and she jogged back off into the throng. But would she take me from him? People were still looking at her, a few of them laughing, then back at me. Suddenly, a new feeling was arising in me. I was getting pissed off. These ass holes were making fun of someone as perfect as Gui-Feng?! I was about to march back in there, stick my tongue in Gui-Feng's mouth, and kick one of them in the balls, when she jogged back out to me. She looked at me and sensed my mood.

"Forget about them. Waste of your emotions. Ken's okay. Let's go."

"Where?"

"GirlBar."

---

You could tell we were getting close to our destination by looking at the people going by. More and more small groups of women, some holding hands confidently, some giggling and running, some walking along quietly as if they didn't want to be seen. One executive, still in her business suit from her day at work, came stumbling by hanging on to a thin Goth girl with purple hair and a lip ring. I couldn't help but wonder if this was going to be the executive's first time, too. Considering her inability to walk, would she even remember it? We ended up in a small line, waiting with twenty other women.

"Is it just a lesbian bar?"

"Not exactly. More like a club or a party. This place caters to gay men every other night of the week but on Saturdays it gets converted over for women."

"Only once a week?"

She shrugged. "Men and women aren't the same."

"So the name of the bar is BoyBar normally?"

Gui-Feng laughed. "No, GirlBar is an organization that hosts parties. They do the Dinah Shore weekend if you know it."

I had to shake my head.

A call suddenly came from a large bouncer. "Hey, baby, you can go on in." She was talking to Gui-Feng. The bouncer was a she, I think, but she was doing everything she could to make it unclear. "You know you don't have to wait out here." A chain was moved and Gui-Feng led us towards the door.

"But I always do," my partner responded.

"It's because you want to see me," came the bouncer's reply.

Gui-Feng kissed her cheek. "You figured me out." Definitely a woman. She had breasts, which you could see when she leaned in for her kiss. But wait. Was that a bulge in her pants? A large one?




North Star



Tuesday practice ended like every other Tuesday practice. Well, kind of. The practice and its ending were of little consequence except that the origin of this whole Noah thing got its start in the usual, linear thoughtlessness of surviving another week at Willard Brown Preparatory Academy.

Anyway. 

Coach had just finished yelling at the offense for sucking: Ted had thrown the football too far to the right on a roll out and the receiver had to come back in to catch the ball giving Stretch, the corner back, the opportunity for his fourth interception that day. How we won any games at all was a testament to me and the rest of the defense. Coach made Ted and his band of bumbling air heads run ladders while the defense was let off conditioning. We hit the showers.

The lukewarm water felt icy on my chest, and by the time it slithered to the tile it matched the temperature of my tired body. I dunked my head into the glacial water to get acclimated but yanked it out when I heard my name. The laughter, yelling, and cursing of my teammates hit the laminate covered and well-worn tiles of the football locker room showers, reverberating into a cacophony three times louder than it would be anywhere else. Pete's voice cut through the noise and was asking, again, if he could have some of my shampoo. After getting the (slightly peeved) affirmative from me he stripped and joined the rest of us washing off our hard-earned sweat.

The shower room was shaped in a big L, as if more room was all of a sudden needed once Ted's dad gave a big donation. I had a shower head at the end of the long arm that emptied out into the locker room, Pete turned on the one next to me, and behind us was Stretch, Q, Steve, Chubbs, and the rest of the guys. Luckily, I got the best shower head for shaving. Tuesday is when we shave our pubes. It has been a Willard tradition forever and it supposedly brings luck for the game. I hate following traditions for traditions' sake but you have to do it at some point so why not do it together? Anyway.

I was in the middle of shaving my left ball when Pete's voice distracted me again.

"Man, are you ok? Don't worry about that play. Everybody knows Q was supposed to have that gap. The tight end isn't supposed to distract you like that."

"I'm fine. Jill's busting my balls again. She thinks just because she caught Jessica and me that one time she can believe whatever psycho shit she hears from her friends."

"I hear you man. But hey, at least you have a consistent lay. I'm going on two wee...fuck that hurt!"

He always cuts himself at least once. This time it was right on the top part of his right nut, right where his dick always lays. Pete and I have seen each other naked so many times I'm sure he knows my body just as well as I know his. 

"RYAN ARE YOU IN THERE?"

The razor in my hand couldn't drain the blood from my balls faster than Jill's wailing. I sighed as the cacophony of voices dissipated into quiet snickers and confused whispers. She always knew how to ruin some perfectly fine bro time. 

"I'll be done in 20. Take a chill pill and wait at my room." I threw a grin at Pete. I hate when she pulls this. We've been dating on and off for a year and I know all her tricks. Whenever she's about to start an argument she knows she'll lose she tries to gain the upper hand by embarrassing me. I should have known she would stomp into the locker room like a grouchy ten year old and try to run Play #34 from Jill's argument playbook with me in the buff.

"No, fuck you who is this bitch?"

"What the hell babe we're all naked right now. Get the hell out."

"Ryan, I'm not leaving until you answer me. Who is this bitch?"

"Fine. Let's play." More snickering from the peanut gallery. I was off to a rough start. "Who are you talking about?"

"This cunt...uh...Sherry. Why were you talking to her at 11 last night?"

"We're in history together and I need her notes." More laughing: they knew the real reason. I took up an air of nonchalance and apathy to get back in the guy's good graces. I turned to lather up my pecs and abs before shrugging out the usual, "Babe, it's not that big of a deal. You're friends are cr..."

"They're not crazy, Ryan. And if you think i'm going to stick around after all this you keep putting me through, you're the crazy one." Play #14: become the victim.

I still held strong with apathy. It would all blow over more easily if I gave up now but I couldn't let the guys me falter. "Whatever. I didn't do anything wrong. And this shit has to stop, Jill." 

"I'll stop when you stop cheating, asshole. I hope you're not shaving that thing for me. I think we both know you're not getting any of this for a long time."

"Great. Are we through here? Coach will be back soon." I continued shampooing my hair.

"Yeah. We're through and don't fucking call me, tiny dick." She stormed off. The guys couldn't help but laugh. That last hail mary had won her the game because now I was pissed. She always knew how to come out on top. Luckily, the offense stumbled in a couple minutes later after I had finished up. I dressed quickly, not talking to anyone or even waiting for Noah before heading back to our room. 

Willard Brown, or as we like to call it, Wilber, of course offered its students the best dorm rooms in the county. I was greeted with that familiar dorm smell as I shoved open the door, carelessly throwing my bag somewhere nearby. It always reminded me of Grandma Wilhelmina's room at the nursing home: everything outdated and beige. Our beds outlined the two back walls with the TV in the middle of the room across from the couch. Noah's bed was right under the only window in the room. I grabbed a cliff bar from the stash on my desk, tore it open, and took my anger out on it like a lion would a gazelle after his lion girlfriend refused let him fuck her. Kicking my shoes off at the wall, I threw myself onto the beanbag and turned on Call of Duty. Those computer generated terrorists were about to feel the wrath of a horny, pissed off linebacker on the number 2 defense in the state. 

I don't know how much time passed but I did kill like a million of those guys before Noah showed up. Noah and I had lived together all of freshman and sophomore year. He had seen this happen at least five times already and knew what to do.

"You know this is why I don't like Jill. I'll call Bill, we'll go get the beer and pizza from Carliti's, and you just hang out here, man." 

I grunted in response while slicing some anti-american fool's neck. Things are so simple in that game. Either it or Noah was calming me down. I couldn't tell which.

Noah left to get the supplies and I played another round of capture the flag with my incompetent virtual teammates. I was the high scorer but we still lost. Tossing the controller, I leapt into bed, punched my pillow a couple times to fluff it up, and passed out. 

I awoke to a sharp sting on my butt.

"Aye, you better get that ass up. I got food for one dumped idiot."

I laughed, "Fuck off." I hopped out of bed and slapped Noah's package. He yelped in pain and punched me in the stomach.

The pizza tasted like heaven and the beer was just what I needed. 

We sat playing Call of Duty and only talking about the best way to get the other team's flag while the pile of empty beer cans reached for the ceiling and I forgot all about Jill who was probably pacing nervously. 

We were both a little drunk now so he brought up the elephant in the room.

"So how did it happen?"

"She lost her mind."

"No I mean, how did you get your ass to look so good in those football pants?"

I couldn't help but laugh, "By fucking Ted's mom all summer."

It was his turn to laugh. This time he went on, "But seriously man, why does Jill always have to pull that shit? 'Tiny dick?' Its such a cheap shot. Almost like slapping someone in the balls." He must have heard about it. 

"It makes her feel powerful. I don't know," I paused to clear a building. "And just so you know its not small. I have, like, the Burj Khalifa in my pants."

"Mmhmm, right. I mean I've seen you in the showers; its no Noah's ark," he said picking off a guy climbing the stairs.

"Noah's ark was a boat."

"Yeah, and it saved all the animals. My dick is a miracle worker."

I looked over at Noah just at the wrong time and was downed by a headshot. He always distracted me.

"I thought you were going to say you make chicks flood the earth with it."

Red from the beer, he gave a clipped laugh before securing the enemy's flag. We finished out the round and during a break Noah grabbed another bud light while I checked my phone. I kind of thought Jill would have angrily apologized by now. Instead there was a text from Sherry.

"Come hang out and get drunk with me ;)" 

I was single now, right? I could do whatever I wanted. 

"Noah and I are on the way. Hold your breath." 

Soon my and Noah's backpacks were full of study materials for the evening and out the door. The dorms are strategically placed opposite each other on the 400 yard long, 200 yard wide quad. If I had actually been studying that night I might have been able to use that Pythagoras guy's thing to tell you how far it was between the dorms. Some old guys probably did the calculation and thought that by placing the two dorms on opposite sides they could prevent any debauchery. It didn't really matter though; the distance was far, but not enough to deter a couple of drunk, horny guys. Upon summiting the hill in the middle, Noah stopped and looked up at the stars.

"Look at them," he muttered. I looked up an the sky, confused, as he continued in a whisper, "They're amazing." To be honest I was looking but couldn't see what he was talking about. Instead, I looked at my roommate. Lit from a weird angle he looked different, more solid. The earth hung from his feet as the light of the moon radiated from his body. 

"Come on, man. The girls are waiting for the flood! They want Noah's ark!" 

That clipped laugh again.

We continued until we reached the entrance to the highly esteemed and ancient Dolores Hall. The gothic, stone structure rose above us boding that we mustn't enter while I called Sherry to admit us. Old Wilber would have been disgusted. And probably jealous though, right? 

The cutest little girl with a heart shaped face and auburn hair pushed open the doorr, beckoning us to enter the promised land. Sherry was enticing even after Jill made me want to swear off girls.

"Nice to see you, Ryan. And Noah, I hope you don't mind Becca is here too."

Of course we didn't care. As long as there was beer to drink. We reached the girls' dorm and crossed the threshold into the dizzying, cinnamon smelling wonderland that seemed to be every girl's dorm. I still don't know how they keep everything so delicious smelling. Becca, a portly girl that shared Sherry's room, was eager for male company and was awkwardly standing by her desk to welcome us. She blushed when Noah greeted her. 

We started out with a little ring of fire that progressed to never have I ever, and then truth, dare, or drink. That last was one we made up; essentially truth or dare but if you refused to participate you had to drink instead. Two drinks for a refused truth, one for a refused dare, and one for a truth or dare poorly completed. The odds were always against you, which is what made it awesome.

Noah and I seemed to be the drunker ones since we started earlier and considering we didn't want to answer any of the annoying truth questions. Becca asked Noah who he had a crush on multiple times and he refused to answer. This resulted in him drinking quite a bit. He eventually got fed up and chose dare instead. This was most definitely his first mistake: Sherry knew how to keep things interesting

"I dare you to skinny dip in the quad pond." 

Becca's eyes became baseballs fighting to escape her ocular cavity.

"Fuck"

"Oh come on, Noah. You're no fun," mewed Becca.

"Alright. I'll do it," Noah was out of beer. "I cant drink my way out of this one." He got up, stumbled to the door and proceed to walk towards the main entrance. We followed. Once he reached the front, Noah took off his shirt and this time the moonlight streaming through the glass pane hit his bare torso. His ample pecs and round nipples cast a shadow on his tight stomach. Round biceps rolled into his forearms which were snaked by a vein that twitched as he unbuttoned his pants. He turned and, with a slight rustle, the chino's fell to the floor exposing the rest of Noah's body to the night. I could only see his back since he had turned away but it was still magnificent. The light hit his round butt just right to illuminate the muscles supporting his thighs and calves. In a flash he took off toward the pond over toward the right side of the quad; it wasn't far and still was close to Dolores. His lean body fell into the dirty pond with a giggle and, just as quickly, he returned to us. His front half wasn't as clear heading toward us since the moonlight was illuminating the side away from us, but the shadows still reached around to cut lines into his stomach and thighs. He covered his manhood with his hands, as if ashamed, before his dry clothes were reluctantly returned by Becca.

"Why don't you go for a run?", Sherry tempted.

"You haven't dared me yet. Plus, I don't think it'd be anything new to you," I winked.

She only giggled. No witty response. She may be cute as a button, but she is dumb as one too. I looked back. Noah was decent from the waist down but it wasn't enough to snap Becca out of her apparent vertigo: he body swaying dangerously.

Becca grabbed Sherry to whisper something as Noah and I headed back to the room.

"Man that was awesome," I said, punching him in the shoulder. "I think Becca might die if she doesn't get some medical attention."

For the third time that awkward clipped laugh escaped. "I'm just trying to have fun living my life." Skinny dipping in the quad pond was not something the pizza fetching, star gazing Noah from earlier would have normally done. I remember thinking how crazy and unreadable this guy was. 

We kept playing and I had to drink a lot since Sherry kept truth-ing me about Jill. I ran out of beer and we decided to head back to our dorm, to the vast disappointment of the girls, I'm sure.

After we said our goodbyes, we took off on the great trek across the quad. It always seemed longer heading back home than to the girls dorm. 

This time, though, Noah and I were too drunk to make it and we barely made it to the hill before tossing our cookies. He got some on his pants and shoes while I almost missed my clothes entirely. I would need new shoes when I went home for fall break. 

We laughed it off and finally got back to our room. We left our shoes outside, decided it would be best to take showers now, stripped down, and headed to the showers on our floor. These were private but we could still hear each other.

"Noah, bro, we should have tried for a four-way."

"Dude, Becca is a virgin, you douche."

"Damn. I always forget that." 

Awkward, drunk silence.

"So who is this mysterious crush and why are you hiding her? You wouldn't answer a single question back there."

"Don't worry about it," he said somewhat more sharply than I had expected. 

His defensive tone was the last thing I remembered before I slipped.

"Ryan. Ryan. Open your eyes man. Shit. Ryan!"

I opened my eyes and Noah was standing over me in his towel.
"Fuck dude, how are you feeling? I just heard you fall and then you wouldn't respond. You were out for like a whole minute. I was about to call 911."

"I'm alright," I said. "I'm fucking dizzy, but that's gotta be bud light's fault."

"Yeah. Ryan, lets go to bed. Mrs. Dorowitz will be waiting for us at 8am armed with sarcasm and black coffee."

Still woozy, I nodded, stood up, wrapped a towel around myself, and walked back to the room with Noah's help.

We crossed through the door to my bed and he lay me down gently. I groaned: my head was swimming. He flopped down on his bed carelessly and his dick flashed for a moment out from under his towel. Nothing I hadn't seen before but it was still surprising. Or maybe I was concussed.

I couldn't close my eyes because I thought I was about to get the spins again so I just looked at Noah, naked except for his towel. A six foot two inches of Noah's frame lay on its back, feet flat on the floor. His hands were tangled in still wet, blond hair; his jaw cut the light, reaching back to his ears. His eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily. I watched his chest rise an fall. The smooth skin rolled over his muscled chest to meet pink nipples that had shrunk and were sticking out hard in the cold air. His abs pulled tightly as he lay there. The six round rocks sat symmetrically on his stomach and the V at his waist converged somewhere in the hidden region beneath the wet towel. The hidden region: where his thighs met and pushed out the bulge now in full view above his body. The thick towel hid details, but there was no mystery as to what it was. I had seen him naked before many times, but I never noticed how in shape he was or what he had swinging between his legs.

After appreciating Noah for a while I stood up, pulled my towel off, balled it up, and threw it at Noah. He chuckled as he tossed it aside. And maybe it was my drunk brain, but I swear he looked right between my legs as he did so. I thought he was just appreciating me the way I had been appreciating him. 

I crawled into bed and tried to drift off but my body had something else planned. I needed to pee. Badly. I rolled over in hopes that if I just got comfortable enough I could still sleep. It never works but I always try. I sat up and looked at the clock. 1:24 am was as good a time as any to go pee naked. No one is ever up at that time and I had done it before. I threw off the sheets and walked over to the door. I pulled open the door quietly and looked outside: all clear. I stepped outside into the hallway and 

SLAM

I had forgotten to close the door quietly.

I reached the urinal and had just started to pee when the door opened. Hy heart pumped faster in my chest as I hoped it wasn't Daniel from across the hall. This would surprise the previously homeschooled kid and probably end up with me receiving some pamphlet in my mailbox about how God can save me from my sins.

My heart leapt with relief when Wilber's only good receiver rounded the corner.

"I was sleeping well until you slammed the door."

"Yeah, sorry. Had to pee."

Noah, crossed to the other urinal, draped his towel over the stall. We peed and I realized my heart was still beating fast. This guy was the best; he understood me and always knew what to say. We were so comfortable around each other. Maybe it was just the alcohol but I was happy; I let out a little smile. He was good looking and any girl would be lucky to date him. Most girls wanted to date Noah. He never did though. We were in our senior year at Wilbur, both 18, and I had never seen him date a girl for long. He dated Lucy Hales freshman year but that lasted a month and then just ended. I remembered he walked into the room and just said it was over. He wasn't distraught or anything; just sat down and started playing Call of Duty. It never struck me as odd until now. I was about to ask him when he flushed the urinal while coving himself with the towel and asked, "You almost done yet? I thought Dubai was in a desert."

"Right next to the ocean." I shook it to get the the rest off and flushed the toilet, now somewhat embarrassed to not have brought a towel. I cupped myself as we walked toward the door. 

"Oh, so now you're embarrassed?" he noticed.

"Shut up," I replied weakly letting my hands drop to my side.

"You shouldn't be hiding that thing anyway. You should be proud. Jill was lucky and she didn't appreciate it—you," he corrected.