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<1st attachment, "ann04a.txt" begin>

NOTE: I hereby grant permission for all archiving and
other uses of this work, public or private, free or
paid, in any format whether existing now or to be
invented in the future, so long as a copy of this note
and credit to "theGreatxIam" is given and no alteration
is made to the body of the work. Copyright 2002,
theGreatxIam

High Fidelity
Part 1 (of 2)
An Anniversary Waltz story
By theGreatxIam

"You're nuts."

It was a sentiment Pete had expressed far more than
once, but repetition didn't keep it from pissing off
Steve Oldham.

He and his buddy Pete were side by side on treadmills
at the gym, talking above the buzz of the machines.
Steve's T-shirt was slightly more sweat-stained, his
socks a bit droopier, but otherwise the two men were as
alike as a pair of shoes. Scuffed black oxfords,
perhaps, although in Pete's case, loafers might be more
appropriate. Their fading hairlines were identically
black, now that Pete had reverted to his natural color,
albeit an unnaturally uniform shade. Their bellies were
identically flat, in spots. And their faces were
identically, generically what, in their youth, was
called handsome, but had settled later into the less
enthusiastic category of good-looking. They were about
five years away from "distinguished."

The differences had been more pronounced when they were
younger, when Pete was the classic California beach bum
and his best buddy Steve was merely a young
fuddy-duddy. But that was before a string of brief
marriages to beautiful and tragically well-represented
women forced Pete to seek increasingly boring
employment, money tending to have an inverse
relationship to occupational pleasure for everyone
between the extremes of pro athletes and men's room
attendants. And those days also were before the age gap
between Pete and the most reputable of weed merchants
put a severe crimp in his recreational endeavors.

Thus they had become almost indistinguishable on the
surface. Underneath, though, Steve realized he was,
still, a fuddy-duddy in comparison to Pete.

Not, he thought, that there was anything wrong with
that. Pete's wild ways had littered his life with
ex-wives. Steve was proud of how different his life
was, still married to the same woman, the wondrous
Paula, with a cozy home and two great kids -- lithe,
flame-haired Suzy, their oldest, and Ricky, a little
bookworm who somehow managed to keep his rich tan even
though he spent most of his time indoors studying.

Fourteen years he and Paula had been married, next
month. That, in fact, was what had prompted Pete's
belittling comment.

"Fourteen years?" Pete had sounded stunned. "Geez,
dude, I knew you've been married forever, but, yikes!
It's the double seven-year itch, bro. Who you gonna
prong to celebrate?"

 Steve had tried to brush off his friend's crude
questions, but they kept coming. It was an argument
they'd had again and again. Pete took his frequent
marriage vows as seriously as most people took speed
limits. The fact that one wife after another had
revoked his license couldn't change his opinion.

Steve, on the other hand, was proud to say he'd never
strayed and never would. "Fidelity," he said, "that's
the key to a good marriage."

That was when Pete had questioned his sanity. 

"You're nuts. You know that, don't you? There isn't a
married man in the world who wouldn't try the field if
he could. You telling me you don't think Paula's ever
... you know?"

Steve lunged at him, forgetting about the treadmill.
Next thing he knew, he was flat on his face six feet
away, feeling like crap.

---- ---- ----

Paula looked around at a kitchen full of open drawers
and swore.

No darn batteries! At least, not the C cells she
needed. Little A's, teeny AA's, lunking D's -- were two
C's too much to ask? What kitchen didn't have C
batteries?

She took a step toward the door and caught herself. It
was no use. She'd searched everywhere. Even -- she
shuddered -- the garage. Just the thought of it made
her sneeze. But no C batteries.

Well, it was no use now. If she drove to the store, it
would be just her luck to get caught in a traffic jam
and not get back until Nanny brought the kids from
soccer practice. And by the time all of them went to
bed, Steve would be home from his night out with the
boys -- as the boys had gotten older, their nights had
gotten unfortunately shorter.

With a sigh, she walked around closing drawers. Sliding
home the last one, she picked up her black plastic
vibrator from the counter and marched toward her
bedroom.

The doorbell interrupted her midway down the hall. She
started toward the door, then stopped and stared at the
vibrator. Not even time for a hand job now, she
grumbled as she dropped it into the pocket of her white
shorts. They were as loose as anything she wore, but
that wasn't saying much. The rod bulged along her slim
hip. She considered detouring to put it back in the
bedroom, but the bell chimed again. It was such a pain,
not having enough servants.

The caller was a man who looked vaguely familiar, as if
he had been a minor soap opera star or a former lover
or something. But he introduced himself as Ed Carson,
and the name didn't mean anything to her. 

"Bobby's dad," he said, unhelpfully. "From the soccer
league? Our kids are on the same team?"

Paula blinked. "Soccer? Whatever. Did you need
something?" The battery-powered dildo was digging into
her. Would this man never get to the point?

"Oh, gee, I'm sorry. Where are my manners? Am I
interrupting something?" He smiled. Paula decided he
had intriguing eyes. On the whole, in fact, he wasn't
bad -- not too muscular, but tall. She liked tall. And
very cute dimples when he smiled.

Ed seemed to have been talking; she tried to pick up
the thread. "So, they asked me to distribute the new
uniforms, but they didn't give me the list of sizes. If
you'll just tell me what you need, I can dig it out of
the trunk and I'll be out of your hair."

Paula supposed she should know her son's size. Surely
Nanny would have mentioned it? Nothing came to her.
"Medium," she said, taking a stab. "He's about medium,
I'd say."

"He? Huh? Who?" 

Ed looked even cuter when he was puzzled, she thought.
"Ricky," was all she said, though.

"Ricky? Oh, no, Mrs. Oldham. I must have confused you.
Ricky's your son, isn't he? No, I need a size for
Suzy."

It was Paula's turn to look puzzled. "But you said your
son was on the team?"

"Yeah, you know, the traveling all-star squad that Suzy
plays goal for. She's a real firecracker, isn't she?
Bet we'll see her in the Olympics someday."

"Whatever." She had a dim memory of Suzy insisting on
being allowed to play with the boys, an argument Paula
had been glad to take her side in. Could she have been
talking about soccer? 

Ed shifted on his feet. "So, anyway, about the uniform
--"

"Wait. I don't understand. If you've got the uniforms,
what are they doing now? Playing naked?"

That earned her both a smile and a furrowed brow. She
lightly fingered the vibrator, thoughtfully.

"No," he said with a chuckle. "There's no soccer today.
Season hasn't even started yet."

"Oh," she answered, flatly. "Oh," she repeated in a
higher key having suddenly remembered Nanny was taking
the children to the zoo that day. "Oh," she said, in a
drawn out purr, realizing the zoo always meant a late
night because they'd catch dinner on the way home.

"Why don't you step inside," she said, "and I'll check
on those sizes." She led him down the hall -- past
Suzy's closed door, but he didn't have to know that --
and into the TV room, with its nice, soft couch. 

He murmured appreciation of the house. She let her
fingers brush his arm as she acknowledged the
compliment. "It is lovely, isn't it? But such a chore
to keep it up. Still, with the children and all, we
needed the extra space."

She slithered her hands down her body. "I guess bodies
aren't the only things that expand when you have a
family."

It was a test, and he passed with flying colors. "You
look great," he said. "No one would ever guess you had
two kids!"

"Hardly," she giggled, pulling her T-shirt taut so her
nipples were outlined clearly. "But now where are my
manners? Would you like something to drink?"

His protest was weak, her rejoinder quick. He gave in,
and she sashayed into the kitchen. Ditching the dildo
in a drawer, she poured two drinks, his a little
stiffer than hers -- "I certainly hope so," she smiled
to herself. Ed was perched on the couch. Good, she
thought; less maneuvering. As she handed over the
drink, she let her fingers trail across his.

He was wearing khakis. She noticed this in passing as
she slid her eyes to his crotch, which was showing a
promising bulge. His green polo shirt she took in as
she slowly lifted her eyes to catch him staring at her.
She was still standing next to him, and considered
squeezing between his legs and the coffee table to sit
beside him. But that seemed too obvious. She chose a
chair across the room.

The conversation strayed to the weather, as it always
does. Paula apologized for the heat in the house,
neglecting to mention that she had adjusted the
thermostat on her way to the kitchen. "It is positively
sweltering," she said. To emphasize the point, she
lifted the bottom of her T-shirt to fan herself. It
took three times, finally lifting it high enough to
give Ed a clear view of the lower half of her breasts,
before she got an effect.

His hand shook so much that he spilled half his drink
over his shirt and slacks. Paula knew an opening when
she saw one.

She was up and across the room before his glass hit the
coaster, waving the towel she had presciently stowed in
her pocket. She had to move fast to reach his crotch
before he could fend her off, but after that it was
ridiculously easy. It was an old trick, she knew, but
then, if a trick didn't work it wouldn't get to be old,
would it? Her aggressive mopping of the stain changed
smoothly to stroking and Ed offered no resistance.

By the time she had unzipped him and pulled his cock
out of his briefs, he was beyond "no resistance" and
fully cooperating, tugging off her T-shirt and then
squirming out of his clothes while she shucked off her
shorts and panties and pulled off her headband, shaking
her long, blonde hair free.

She did not pause to admire his prick; it was not like
he had anything she hadn't seen before. And she had
more important things to do. If not for fear that he'd
come in a flash and disappear, she'd have skipped the
fellatio completely and gone right to the main dish.
But she prided herself on her willpower, so she gave
him her A-No. 1 blowjob. With, perhaps, just a smidgen
of urgency. He came right on schedule. She sucked him
back to life, pushed him onto his back and mounted him
in less time than it takes to boil an egg -- a purely
theoretical concept to her.

He filled her quite nicely, and she luxuriated in slow,
sweeping moves up and down his pole. It was, she
thought, much better than a vibrator, as long as she
still got to call the tune. When he reached for her
tits and proved to be very skillful at massaging them
-- well, that was just icing on the cake.

She was surprised when he suddenly flipped her onto her
back and took control. He was stronger than he looked.
But he remained a thoughtful lover. And an enthusiastic
one, which suited her.

In fact, he was able to do something with his thrusts
that she wasn't sure she'd ever felt before. Then she
was sure she hadn't: She would never forget the way it
made her clit feel.

That particular maneuver produced her first orgasm, a
rolling thunder down under that almost had her biting
off the finger Ed had slipped into her mouth for her to
suck.

He stayed hard, proving the value of her preparatory
blowjob. Experimenting with various positions of her
legs, he brought her to a second climax, less
shattering than the first but still satisfying.

Much to Paula's disappointment, Ed came himself before
she could reach the trifecta. Still, he had provided
sorely needed relief.

Her gratitude for that kept her from being too
impolite, but she was firm in ushering him out the
door. It had been her experience that spending any time
at all with men after the act made them clingy. While
she appreciated his skill, Paula had decided to take a
short hiatus from regular lovers to get some relief
from the difficulties of scheduling -- and, truth be
told, because her last partner had the audacity to
suggest she get a divorce and marry him. Some people
had no respect for the sanctity of matrimony.

---- ---- ---- ----

The bar was smoky, the drinks were watered down and the
pretzels were stale. Why Pete had suggested they meet
there, Steve had no clue.

It had been a week since their argument -- you couldn't
really call it a fight, since Steve was the only one to
take a swing and the only one to get bruised. The ice
bag on his face had cooled off his emotions as well,
and he had accepted his friend's apology.

The guy who ran the gym wasn't quite as forgiving, and
it had been suggested they take a break from their
weekly visits. Steve had proposed meeting at a local
tennis court. Pete said he wasn't going to pass up a
perfect excuse to take it easy. Since Steve felt mainly
responsible for their exile, he gave in.

That explained why they were at a bar. Steve couldn't
come up with any explanation for why they were at this
particular one. Pete said only that he liked the
atmosphere.

At the moment, the atmosphere was so thick it almost
made Steve gag. But he knew that with Pete, motivations
usually came down to women, and the bar did have a fair
complement of them.

One long-stemmed rose took the stool next to Steve. He
snuck some glances at her. She was worth it -- killer
legs in black hose, spiky heels, a gold minidress cut
low to show off a nice pair of --

"Like what you see?" Steve's face burned as Pete
whispered. "I thought it was all about fidelity. Not so
stuffy when it's on display, huh?"

With one last peek -- just to make sure the woman
hadn't noticed anything -- Steve swung around to face
his friend and spoke in a low voice.

"Just because I'm faithful doesn't mean I'm dead," he
said. "I look, sure. Human nature. But I don't do
anything about it."

Pete's mouth twisted into a grin. "Doin' something
about it's human nature too, buddy."

Steve was pissed, but too guilty to put up much of a
debate. He stared sullenly into his beer. Pete drifted
into a discussion of pro football, to which Steve
contributed occasional grunts.

Pete was saying something emphatic about the Steelers
when Steve first noticed something rubbing against his
leg. He looked down. The woman next to him had extended
one silky gam. He looked up; she was staring up at the
TV over the bar. He shifted in his stool to get out of
her way.

A few seconds later, though, her leg was sliding along
his again. And it was pushing up his pant leg, rubbing
against bare skin. His body tingled. He looked at her.
That time she was looking right back, and she ran her
tongue around her ruby lips and tossed her head, making
her autumn hair shimmy against her shoulders. Steve
looked away quickly, feeling like he'd been singed.

Then something came creeping across his thigh. As Pete
droned on, Steve flicked his eyes down just in time to
see a small hand with dark red fingernails start to
massage his crotch. He squirmed away, but the hand
chased him down and applied more pressure. The
inevitable happened.

"That's a real boner, huh?" Pete slapped his friend on
the back. Steve almost choked.

"Wh-what?" he croaked.

"Total boner," Pete said. "The Steelers will never go
anywhere without a real quarterback who doesn't make
bonehead calls like that. Am I right, or what?"

"Right, I guess," Steve mumbled. Sweat was trickling
down the back of his neck. The hand at his crotch was
making slow circles. He had to bite his lip to keep
from groaning. He didn't want to make a scene; Pete
would never let him forget it. The woman must be drunk,
or -- or something. If he could only slip off the stool
and get away, she'd probably pick on someone else.

"I've gotta hit the head," he announced, putting a hand
on the bar to push off.

"Wait," Pete said. "Just a minute. Tell me if this
makes sense..."

Steve tried to get up. Pete put a hand on his shoulder,
pressing Steve back onto the stool.

He heard, cutting through the bar's buzz, the sizzling
sound of a zipper opening. He felt his belt tugged. It
came undone. 

Steve turned to the woman in shock. Before he could
speak, a ripe mouth was pressed to his. A hand snaked
into his shorts, grasped his cock. Involuntarily he
poked his dick into her palm, once, twice. The third
time he came, jism bubbling out.

He half leaped off the stool, half fell. He tried to
regain his balance but his pants fell to his ankles and
he tumbled backwards, striking his head on the floor
with a solid thump.

Steve was still shaking his head to clear out the
cobwebs when something warm and wet descended on his
cock. He blinked and saw the crazy redhead
deep-throating him.

Dragging himself with his hands, he tried to scrabble
away. She held on; he was afraid she'd bite his prick
off. He started shouting. His eyes bulged. His face
flushed. He felt his heart pounding in his chest. "Get
her off me!" He put a hand on her forehead to lever her
off. "Help!," he screamed, his breath coming in gulps.

"Ease up, Summer." Pete got his words out in between
bursts of laughter. "Give the guy a break. Geez, he's
gonna have a stroke!"

The woman stood up and stepped back. Pete gave Steve an
arm, dragging him to his feet.

Steve looked around, dazed. Pete was still cracking up.


"You know her?" Steve indicated the woman, who was
patting her hair back into place.

"Summer? Sure. Best whore in the joint."

The redhead interrupted. "We call ourselves escorts,"
she said. "And that'll be fifty bucks." She held out
her hand. "I'm giving you a discount on account he's
got a hair trigger."

Steve sputtered as Pete handed over the dough. 

"What --" Steve started.

"Just checking your story," Pete said. "It took Mr.
Fidelity awhile to decide he didn't want to play,
didn't it? A few kinks in the old armor?"

Steve took a swing, but his feet got tangled in his
pants and he pitched forward, landing face-first. His
old shoulder injury sent an icicle of pain through his
brain. It was, he thought, beginning to get monotonous.

---- ---- ---- ----

Paula selected Tincture of Bliss from the array of bath
salts and other mixtures on the shelf next to the
whirlpool tub. 

It tinted the churning waters a pale violet. She
checked the temperature once more, dropped her fleecy
robe and stepped in. The tub was big enough for two
people, but she preferred to use it on afternoons like
this, when the house was empty and she could luxuriate
alone.

Her eyes closed, she let her body ease down until the
water was lapping at her chin. Her blonde hair floated
out around her. The scent of Bliss lulled her into
sleepy daydreams of perfect partners who lusted and
left. A bronzed demigod in tight leather pants and a
billowing shirt open to the waist strode into her mind
in shiny boots. The sunlight dimmed, replaced by a
hundred flickering candles. He knelt beside the tub and
kissed her, urgency and passion in his lips.

Her hand swum down to her cunt and settled on her clit.
In her dreamy fantasy, the man's clothes had melted
away. He joined her in the tub. She ran her fingers
across his smooth, muscled chest as he planted soft
kisses on her face and neck. His hands found her
breasts. Lust leaped within her like a bird on the
wing.

Her hand was pressed into her opening, squeezing,
probing. Her dream lover slipped between her legs, his
magnificent cock heading unerringly to her waiting
tunnel. He entered her smoothly, plunging deep. Her
toes curled as he drove into her over and over, playing
her like a violin. Faster and faster the music spun.
Warmth spread within her. She was rushing headlong to a
cliff, eager to leap. Closer, closer with each stroke.
Closer ...

The thunk of the whirlpool's timer shutting off punted
her out of her daydream. Keeping her eyes closed so the
fantasy wouldn't leak out, she fumbled with her free
hand for the touch-sensitive panel that would restart
it. Before she could find it, the insistent tone of the
doorbell wiped away the last vestiges of her daydream. 

She would have ignored the bell, but she was expecting
a mail-order delivery. Wrapping the robe around herself
hastily, she left a trail of puddles as she went to the
door.

There was someone with a package, but he looked
suspiciously young to be FedEx material. 

The mystery was solved when he introduced himself as
Tim Carson and said his mother had sent him to deliver
a soccer uniform for Suzy. But that only raised more
questions, which Paula asked as she led Tim into the
house.

"Don't you mean your father sent you? He came by to
drop it off awhile ago."

Tim, whose forehead only came up to her nose even when
he stood up straight, slouched and stared at the floor.
"Uh, yeah, I guess. But my mom, she's the one told me
to come. Dad and her had a fight -- oops, I'm not
supposed to talk about that."

Paula had to grab the box out of his hand; he seemed to
be trying to fade into the wall. "Well, thank you for
bringing it," she said. "But is your mom sure it's the
right size? I --"

"She said if it don't fit, Mrs. Oldham can just take
someone else's like she does everything else," Tim
blurted out. He looked surprised to hear his own words,
and he edged toward the door, scuffing his sneakers on
the tile.

He still hadn't completely let go of the box, though.
As he moved one way and Paula the other, the package
popped open, spilling the orange uniform and a flutter
of tissue paper. Tim fell to his knees, apologizing as
he gathered everything up. Sheets of tissue paper
floated away, and as he grabbed at one, another would
slip from his grasp. Finally he crumpled them all into
a big wad. He got to his feet, smiling broadly. Paula
noticed that he had his father's dimples.

She looked down and saw he had inherited something else
from his dad, too. That's when she realized her robe
had fallen open. Her tits and bush were on display, and
Tim was taking in the show with bulging eyes and
another bulging organ.

She couldn't help but be interested. It was hardly her
fault, was it, if fate kept throwing opportunities in
her path? On the other hand, Tim had to be -- well --
best not to think about it. It seemed that everyone
looked so young to her lately.

She decided to stall for time while she decided.
Actually, in her heart of hearts she knew she had
already decided and she was just stalling while her
conscience caught up. It was weak and didn't get much
exercise, so that would take awhile.

Paula put the soccer uniform on a hall table and looked
up. "Thanks again for bringing this. I -- would you
like some cookies and milk?"

Tim blushed even redder. Paula checked; her robe wasn't
any more open. Then she realized her error. "I mean,
how about some pop and -- uh -- chips? We've got Coke,
Sprite, root beer -- whatever you want." As she said
the last part, she brushed a hand down her chest, not
so accidentally revealing a nipple.

He said yes to a Coke, and from there on it was about
the same script as with his father. Again she cranked
up the thermometer. It was difficult, though, to steer
the conversation to the weather, or to much of anything
else. And Tim looked like a deer ready to bolt, so it
was no time for the slow approach.

She started by wrapping her lips around a Diet Coke
bottle and sliding it in for a swig. Too subtle.

So she simply said she was hot and rubbed the icy
plastic bottle against her forehead. And then her
cheek. And then, pulling her robe open, against her
breasts. Staring at him to pin him in place, she slid
the bottle down, pulling her robe open wider.

As she slipped the cool bottle between her legs, Tim's
jaw dropped open.

"M-Mrs. Oldham," he stammered, "what are you doing?"

"Just trying to keep cool," she said in a sultry voice,
barely holding back a giggle. "But it doesn't seem to
be working. I'm hotter than ever. Maybe this will
help." She let her robe drop to the floor.

He sprang to his feet, eyes trying to look anywhere but
at her. Paula moved to him quickly. 

"You look hot too," she said, and that time a grin did
creep onto her face for a split second. She imagined
she was acting like every boy's wet dream. But the
words didn't matter. She was speaking only to distract
him as she pulled off his T-shirt, pulled down his
jeans. He stood and let her do it, as if she were his
mother getting him ready for a bath.

Whoops, she thought, don't go there. Bad enough to be
seducing such a child -- hmm, but, as his shorts came
off, he didn't appear to be that much a child. 

But he did appear to be a novice, or at least terribly
shy. She practically had to arm-wrestle him to get his
hand onto her breast, and it landed on her cold and
clammy.

She put a hand to his cheek. "What's the matter, Tim?
There's nothing here you haven't seen before."

"Uh --"

Her thin eyebrows shot up. Oh, my, she thought. How
wicked of her! 

"You haven't?" 

He blushed. "I -- I've seen pictures."

She could have eaten him with a spoon.

Instead, she wrapped him up in her arms. His smooth,
soft young flesh felt so good against her body. And
though he was awkward at first, he soon got the knack
of kissing.

She knew the first time would be too quick, but she
couldn't resist. Pushing him down onto a chair, she put
her knees on either side of him. She was already so
wet. Grasping his cock, she slid down onto it. 

"Mmm." She sighed as his rod sank into her. He wasn't
huge, but any shortcomings physically were more than
made up for by the knowledge that she was his first.
She had never imagined it could be so much fun to be
the older woman. It almost made aging worth it.

As expected, Tim lasted only a few hesitant thrusts
before he groaned and pumped out a load of cum. Paula
let him dwindle inside her while she played duelling
tongues.

Then she led him to the tub. While she let some water
out and adjusted the temperature, Paula played with
Tim's body. He was so submissive that she didn't even
have to get tough with him. So unspoiled that even the
tingle of a tongue in the ear was new to him. And so
eager to learn that he didn't even dawdle a second when
she pulled his mouth down to her opening.

Eagerness only went so far. After awhile it was like
meeting an overly affectionate St. Bernard. He had only
one gear, not suited for negotiating the curves of
Paula's libido.

Without regret, she pushed him away, only to lead him
into the tub with her. There, the warm water modulated
his engine, and she was able to relax him into a slow,
sensuous session of mutual stimulation.

When he was properly stimulated again, she languidly
floated over and mounted him.

The sweep of the water, covering her breasts and then
retreating as she rose, was like being rubbed with
satin. Tim didn't have much to contribute beyond
palming her chest and trying out all the swear words he
knew, but all she needed was his stiff pole.

She closed her eyes and let the mystery man of her
daydreams return. His cock turned her insides to a
roaring furnace as they bucked together, bringing him
deep inside her. She dug her fingers into his broad
shoulders and thrust herself down onto him, over and
over, racing toward blessed oblivion. 

Her lips sought out his, devouring him. She felt
herself melting and gave in to the moment, sailing away
on passion's sea. As if hearing a distant call, she was
dimly aware of his climax as well, its sensations lost
in her own throes.

Paula came back to reality to hear Tim whimpering,
staring at the trickles of blood from where her
fingernails had dug into his arms. Honestly, she
thought, it couldn't hurt that much. She dug an old
spray can of Bactine out from the back of the medicine
cabinet and gave him two jolts that only had him
wincing more.

He was getting tiresome. She bundled him into his
clothes and gave him two bandages for the road, before
slipping into a pair of silky pajamas and slipping into
bed for a nap. As sleep descended, she called out for
her dream lover.

---- ---- ---- ----

Steve suspected his secretary deliberately "forgot" to
knock before entering his office just to rob him of any
pastimes that might relieve the boredom of his days.
Since, at any moment, she might usher in a VP or,
worse, a client, he couldn't be caught practicing his
putting or throwing darts at a photo of his boss.

About the only thing he could do was daydream. His
favorite involved his boss, a Luger with a silencer and
an empty hallway. In and out, thwick-thwick, and a
neat, red hole opens up in Kurt's forehead. He tosses
the gun into a garbage can, flushes the plastic glove
that kept it fingerprint-free, strolls back to his
office. Innocent as a lamb. Kurt? Dead? Can't believe
it! Certainly, I'll take over for him. It's the least I
can do to honor his memory.

Steve was just getting to the part where he fired the
woman down the hall when his office door opened.

He had just enough time to swivel toward his PC before
Ms. Derwent appeared in the doorway. She was
disrespectful, slow, disorganized and sneaky. Her only
saving grace was that she was ugly.

That was a blessing because on rare occasions, Paula
came to the office. She did not appreciate encountering
eye candy outside his office, and had made that very
clear -- to him and to them. Unfortunately, Kurt the
Bastard selected the office staff, not Steve, so he'd
been unable to pacify Paula until Agnes Derwent
magically appeared a few years ago.

She was particularly unattractive that day in a thick,
poorly cut blue wool suit that emphasized every one of
her flaws. What a pity, he thought, that Paula wasn't
coming downtown for lunch.

Then he saw the woman Ms. Derwent was leading in and
thanked his lucky stars his wife was at home.

The person introduced as a potential client was a
flame-haired, green-eyed goddess. Her pale, oval face
had high cheekbones and a wide smile, but all that
still wasn't enough to distract his attention from a
stacked body poured into a red dress short enough to
show a mile or so of beautiful legs.

When she sat in the visitor's chair, he could see most
of the rest of the road to perdition, too, as her
hemline rode up her silky legs.

She had a voice like aged brandy and a trick of talking
just quietly enough to force him to give her all his
attention. 

Lola, she said her name was, Lola Morgan. She said it
as if the name would tell him everything. Actually, it
meant nothing to him, but he was afraid to admit it.

Her situation seemed simple enough, though with a bit
of effort on his part it could be spun into a nice
little money-earner for his firm. Steve had a strict
personal code of ethics about such things, so he
wouldn't even think of milking her until he knew
whether her bank account could stand it. He buzzed his
secretary and sent her down to accounting to pick up
the necessary forms.

Lola seemed grateful just to be heard, though. Steve
didn't mind listening. He had nothing much else to do.
And the scenery was terrific. The only trouble was
trying not to stare too blatantly.

He thought he was doing pretty good with furtive
glances at her assets, but suddenly her voice rose.

"Mr. Oldham," she said sharply, "my face is up here."

He flicked his eyes up immediately as his cheeks began
to burn. Quickly he stumbled through an apology. His
mind was running hard to keep ahead of his tongue, but
he had to keep pushing away worries about what his boss
would do to him if Ms. Morgan complained. He had to
pacify her.

That didn't look easy. She was waving away his words as
she got up and stepped to his desk. Steve felt faint.
He loosened his tie and ran a finger around his collar
as he cleared his throat for another try.

She cut him off, waggling a red fingernail in his face.
"Don't try to apologize," she said.

Damn, he thought, he was sunk.

"You don't know how long it's been since a man has
looked at me like that," she purred. "It makes me feel
like a woman again."

His eyebrows shot up.

She put a knee onto his desk. Her dress hiked up,
revealing a swatch of fire-engine-red silk at her
crotch. Her fingers flew through the buttons down her
front and the entire dress fell away. She wore no bra.
Her breasts were perfect teardrops capped by small
brown circles surrounding nipples that grew erect under
his gaze.

She was kneeling on the desk by then, sweeping papers
and paraphernalia out of her way. Steve stared
open-mouthed as her tits swayed just inches from his
face. And they were getting closer.

A hand snaked out and grabbed the back of his head,
pulling him in, pressing his face into her chest. A
nipple brushed his lips. He sucked it in instinctively.

"Yes," she said, in a seductive whisper. "Suck my
titties, Steve! You're making me so hot!"

Her fingers were at his neck, unbuttoning his shirt, at
his waist, loosening his belt. They were everywhere.
She slid off the desk onto his lap, then eased herself
down onto the floor as her hands tugged at his zipper
and she disappeared below the desktop.

It was all happening so fast, Steve barely had time to
react. All at once a still, small voice buzzed in his
ear. His conscience, he thought bittersweetly.

But then the voice called him Mr. Oldham, which seemed
awfully formal.

Before he could figure it out, the door opened and
Agnes popped her head in. "I called on the intercom,"
she said, "but you -- Where's Ms. Morgan?"

"Ah -- out," he said, struggling for control as lips
closed on his cock. "She had to eat -- a lunch
appointment, I mean. She may come back afterward. Why
don't you take your lunch now, so you'll be here then?"

"But it's 10:30!"

"Well, Ms. Derwent, if you don't care about our clients
--"

She clicked the door shut. Steve sighed deeply -- and
then sucked in a gallon of air as Lola deep-throated
him.

He put both hands on the edge of the desk and stared
blankly into space. He had never had it so good. It was
as if he was buried in a pussy, but with a tongue doing
astonishing things as well. Lola was amazing, with such
expertise ...

His heart skipped a beat. He pushed off from the desk,
rolling away from her.

"How much is Pete paying you for this?"

Her face registered shock. "Paying? Pete? I don't know
what you're talking about." She scooted forward as she
reached for his dangling dick.

"Game's over," he barked, stuffing his cock back in his
pants. 

"Fine," she said, in a voice suddenly as harsh as
bootleg gin. "I get my money whether you get off or
not, asshole. Your loss."

"What's he paying you?"

"What do you care?"

"I'll double it if you promise to tell him I resisted."

"He's paying ... $500."

Steve's eyes narrowed. "No way."

She picked her dress off the floor and buttoned it up.
"You think you can dicker?"

"I think you're lying."

"So what? I could have said $1,000 if I felt like it.
Pay it or not, I don't care."

He gave her his Rolex as collateral until he could
collect the cash; a check didn't seem like a good idea.

To be continued ...
<1st attachment end>


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