From zanna@whoever.com Sat Mar 01 10:23:53 1997
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From: zanna@whoever.com (Joyce Melton & Morgan Preece)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: NEW STORY: Imagine My Surprise [mf]
Date: Sat, 01 Mar 1997 15:23:53 GMT
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This story is intended for the entertainment of adults only. 
If you are under 21 please stop reading immediately. If you 
are offended by strong adult-oriented themes, explicit sex, 
erotic fantasy or vulgar language, what are you doing here?

Copyright (C) 1997 by Morgan Preece. All rights reserved. Permission
is granted for noncommercial use of this complete and unaltered text
in electronic form such as posting to EBBS's or Newsgroups or free
access Electronic Archives. Electronic storage of unaltered copies for
personal use is also permitted. No permission is given for any
distribution (including Email) to minors or other persons to whom
distribution would be illegal. No commercial use or hardcopies without
written permission from the author. 

Inquiries and comments are welcome, fanmail is the only feedback a
newsgroup author gets. Email may be addressed to the author at
ZANNA@WHOEVER.COM. Enjoy.

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


Imagine My Surprise


by Morgan Preece





	Imagine my surprise when I realized I had acquired a teen-age
mistress.

	Nona and I first met just before Christmas, just after her
eighteenth birthday. Her long-legged exuberance, her blonde enjoyment
of life, her green-eyed challenge to the world had attracted me to her
from the start.  We met at an office Christmas party, the company
cafeteria given over to tables of turkey, ham, dressing, cakes,
breads, pies and all manner of excellent things to eat.

	My waistline in danger, I looked everywhere but at the food.
With the double-nickel birthday only months behind me, the last thing
I needed was a half-dozen extra holiday pounds to lug around while
waiting for a coronary. 

	I looked straight into the green-eyes of the long-legged
blonde already mentioned, Nona Glass. Nona was no great beauty, a
little on the scrawny side, nearly flat-chested and with a slightly
assymetric face that gave her a perpetually off-center look. But she
had big eyes the color of wet jade, long, wavy hair that seemed every
shade of gold and platinum at once and tanned, healthy skin that
needed little artifice to bring out its natural, lovely, heat.

	She stood, hip-shot, head tilted, looking back at me, her gaze
nearly level with mine. She wore three-inch party pumps at the ends of
those tawny, muscular legs below a straight yellow dress that ended
mid-thigh. I can still see every detail, like the refrain from a Paul
Simon lyric. She wore three earrings in each ear lobe, one a simple
stud, one a large golden hoop, the other some kind of dangling charm.
Two more simple loops adorned the top of her left ear. A necklace of
tiny green-gold beads separating creamy faux pearls hung nearly to her
waist.

	"How ya doin', prez," she said irreverently, with the hint of
an aren't-I-naughty, little-girl grin. A bit of whipped cream clung to
the incredibly, fine hairs around her nearly lopsided, almost
over-large mouth. She held a plate with part of a slice of pumpkin pie
in one hand and a sticky fork in the other. Everyone else had just
started on their turkey or ham but I would come to know that Nona
always had dessert first. She waved the fork vaguely at the room,
"Nice spread." The fingers on that hand had long peach colored nails,
on the other hand, her right, her nails were teal.

	I did not know who she might be and my confusion probably
showed. With over four hundred employees in six offices, I could no
longer know personally everyone who worked for me. But I knew I wanted
to get to know this particular employee better and soon. My heart
quickened, my perception narrowed to her presence alone and I felt a
stirring I had not felt since I first met my second wife almost
thirteen years before.

	I found myself mentally undressing her. The dress came off
easily, she wore no underwear or hosiery. My mind's eye pictured her,
virginal little cupcake titties, bikini-shaved twat, bush a little
darker than the hair on her head, tanlines blurred from nude
sunbathing on some screened deck near the beach. The mental image made
my backteeth ache and my prick stir in my trousers.

	I felt the need of an opening line but she read my mind or my
expression and laughed, supplying one. "Hey!" she observed, pointing
with the fork at the watch on my right wrist, "We're both lefties."

	I smiled, trying to look friendly without being grandfatherly.
"Yes, we are! How about that? And I've set up a special table, just
for us lefties. Y'know, so we don't clash elbows with all the
northpaws." I pointed out the table in the corner, reserved for me and
whomever I chose. Usually at these company doings, I would be eating
with department heads but not this time. I resolved to sup with
someone more conducive to digestion rather than listen to another
argument about warehousing versus just-in-time supply.

	Nona's slow smile rewarded the quivering adolescent inside me
with the hope that she understood my offer in all its contexts. I
don't remember what we ate but I found out her name, her age, the
department she worked in and her telephone number. I also found myself
answering more questions than I asked.

	No one joined us at the table. No one even tried. I think I
may have been glaring at anyone who got close.

	Nona wanted to know everything. The names of my wife and
ex-wife, my kids and grandkids. Her directness astonished me, "So what
does Brenda do?" she would ask of my ex. "I mean, has she got a life
since the kids left?"

	"Charity work mostly, I guess." I didn't really know.
"Babysitting the grandkids."

	Or, "Who's your favorite grandkid? Gregg? Huh! I'd've thought
it'd be one of the girls." Then her slow smile would turn curiosity
into invitation. "So what'd Cynthia do to piss you off at her?" And
her grin turned irreverence into challenge.

	"Told me to quit calling her Cindy," I admitted ruefully.

	Somehow I felt a great ease with her, combined with a sexual
tension thicker than holiday dressing. The lump in my pants grew
noticeably moments after we sat down when she touched my knee with her
bare one. Her perfume smelt of flowers that grow best in humid
jungles. Her skin glistened with reflections of the twinkling holiday
lights.

	She had only a temporary job with the company, a fill-in
receptionist for the flu season. I found myself offerring her a
permanent position at headquarters. That made her laugh, a sniggling
chortle of teenage, wiseass amusement at the fogeyness of my approach.
"You don't want me -- working under you," she said.

	I tried to match her bluntness, "Do you prefer to just lie
there?" There I knew I had crossed a line, sexual harrassment at the
very least but a stiff dick has no conscience as my father used to
say.

	Her grin widened. "Oh, no, I move around a lot but I wouldn't
call that work."

	I wanted her more than a kid wants Christmas. Lust, pure as
greed, simple as ignorance, sent anticipatory shudders through me. I
had recently been offered $30 million for my little empire and
consideration of that sum had not made me sweat like thinking about
what I would like to do with Nona.

	I wanted to take her there, on the cafeteria table, in front
of all my employees. I wanted to find out for sure if she wore any
panties under that yellow dress. She sure as hell wasn't wearing a bra
for I could see the reverse indentation of her nipples against the
fabric of her yellow dress. I wanted to know what her lips tasted
like, and her pussy. I wanted to eat her for Christmas dinner, Nona
and all the trimmings, and fuck her for dessert.

	She watched me, smiling like a mindreader. "You work too
hard," she said mildly. Then, "What's your wife going to say?"

	"Who? About what?" I asked stupidly. I think I still had her
spreadeagled between the coleslaw and yams in my mind. It took me a
moment to locate the references.

	"Candace. Your wife," she explained, patiently. "About me."

	"Hell. I don't know." But I did, or thought I did. "She'd
better not find out."

	Still smiling, Nona gestured at the room, nearly two hundred
people, half of them trying not to watch us.

	"Oh, hell." I glared at the room. Eyes glanced off my unhappy
gaze like Spanish rapiers turned aside by Zorro's steel.
	
	"I'd better go." She stood. Always decisive, she strode out of
the room before I could move to stop her, before I could even think
about whether I should. Pausing at the door, she looked back and
winked at me with the one jade eye no one else could see. Then she was
gone before I could wave, nod, or wink back.


***

	I called her that evening. First, I called Candace and told
her that I would be working late. I worked late more often than not,
so it meant little to her. "I think I've got the flu, Frank," she
sniffled. "Try not to wake me when you come in." Good old Candace, I
thought, hanging up.

	Then I sat for awhile, thinking. Brenda, my first wife was my
age, 55, we had graduated high school together. Candace would be 39 in
February. Nona turned 18 less than two months ago. I had grand kids
who might have gone to high school with her. What kind of fool did I
intend to make of myself?

	I examined myself for signs of guilt. Candace had no kick
coming, she and I had pulled similar stunts when I was still married
to Brenda. We had no kids, Candace hadn't wanted any and that had
suited me, Brenda's three were enough. Did I still love Candace? Yes,
but Tina Turner had the answer to that one. Hell, I still loved and
cared about Brenda. I had to, she was still spending my money.

	I went to the executive restroom to wash my face. I examined
myself in the mirror. Balding, overweight, over fifty, what could she
possibly see in me? Money, of course. I nodded to my reflection.
There's no fool like an old fool.

	She answered on the third ring. "Hiya."

	"Nona?" I had prepared something to say but it washed-away in
a flood of middle-age testosterone.

	"Hiya, prez. Thought you'd never call." Before I could say
anything, she added, "I'm naked. I'm waiting." She told me where and
hung up.

	I didn't remember driving over. When she answered the door she
wore a green, calf-length t-shirt dress. "You said you were naked," I
tried not to make it sound like a complaint.

	She laughed. "I lied. Did you think about me being naked all
the way over here?" she teased. I couldn't answer the question. I
hadn't really expected her to answer the door nude in the middle of an
apartment complex. Then again, she was the sort of person who might do
anything.

	I just stepped in, Nona stepped back and I closed the door.
The room looked like four or five college kids, men probably, lived
here. I wondered if I were going to encounter any boyfriends. I tried
peering toward what might be a kitchen but I saw and heard no one.

	Suddenly, she turned and ran from me, laughing and squealing
like a kid. I stood there, too astonished to move as she disappeared
up a set of iron-railed stairs, across a balcony overhanging the
cathedral ceiling of the living room and through a door which slammed
behind her.

	My dick almost dragged me up the stairs after her but
now I really began wondering if someone else might be in the
apartment, some sort of variation on the badger game. That thought
softened things up a bit, enough that I could look around the
downstairs carefully. Describing the place as a mess struck me as
understatement.

	Pizza boxes and beer cans littered every horizontal surface
with an occasional chicken bucket or wine bottle as decorating
accents. Pieces of clothing of every kind, newpapers, magazines,
sheets of computer printout, the detritus of college bachelor life.

	No one lurked in the kitchen, unless you counted cockroaches.
Likewise, the downstairs bathroom, the laundry room and the closet
under the stairs. I locked the front door, using the deadbolt and
locked the sliding glass door from the kitchen to the
half-subterranean patio using the burglar-bar. I made sure all the
windows were latched and went upstairs finally. I felt secure enough
that my hard-on returned, climbing as I climbed.

	I didn't think about what I might find, I felt it like jungle
heat in a hooch outside Da Nang. I didn't try to guess what might
happen, I knew like you knew Charlie was out there. Danger -- real or
imagined -- spices sex like nothing else. I sweated climbing the
stairs, a funky, lusty sweat like a boy's first trip to a whorehouse.

	When I opened the door of the bedroom, she lay casually naked
across a king-size bed, her head propped in the teal-tipped hand. I
never saw the room at all until later. Her champagne-and-apricots hair
lay spread around her shoulders, some of it draping across the
swelling of her breasts. The nipple of one showed prominently through
the mane, a virginal berry, browner than I would have expected,
crinkled like a raisin. Her curly-haired pubes winked at me as she
unconsciously moved one satiny thigh over the other. she looked better
than I had imagined her back in the cafeteria, her legs longer and
more perfect, her bush darker and more luxuriant, her expression more
eager.

	"What the hell took you so long?" she asked, not
belligerently, just curious. Her casual profanity when we were alone
often shocked, always titillated. Remembering my misgivings, I
hesitated, there were two other doors upstairs, one probably a bath
the other probably a master bedroom. I hadn't checked either of them
for ambushers.

	Then again, she lay before me now, her peach-blossom nakedness
wantonly spread across the chocolate comforter like an improbable
truffle. "I told you I was naked," she teased, smiling. "No one else
is home, they all went back to Kansas or Fresno or some fucking place.
For Christmas. Y'know, Christmas vacation. From college." She paused,
frowning. "Are you all right? Your color is shitty."

	"I'm fine," I managed to say. I stepped into the room, closing
the door behind me. I began to unbutton my shirt. Truthfully, I found
it hard to breathe normally.

	"You aren't going to fuckin' stroke out on me or anything?
That would be such a bummer." I suspected her of tailoring her slang
to what she thought of as "my" generation but she had me pegged as a
hippie era alumnus. My Vietnam experience had been in the fifties, I
had a wife and two kids before I ever heard of acid as something you
might deliberately swallow.

	She came off the bed, suddenly, lithely and began to help me
undress, laughing. Her fingers on my belt, so near my yearning cock,
her closeness with the smells of jungle musk and flowers made me
fumble with the buttons of my cuffs. "What's your hurry, prez? We got
all night, don't we? Wha'd Candace say?"

	That almost threw me. "Candace?" I managed.

	"Your wife? You remember her, bosomy blonde with the New York
accent, likes to eat chocolate in bed? Wha'd she say?"

	"Huh?" How much had I told this kook about my wife? "She's got
the flu or something." A dark thought occurred to me, another kind of
ambush. "Do you know my wife? Candace?"

	"Nah. I'm just curious." With another of her sudden movements,
she stripped my pants down around my ankles then pulled my boxers down
also. My cock stood out from my body, rigid with desire, reaching for
her teasing presence. "Ooh. How -- presidential!" she giggled.

	"Let me get my shoes off! First!" I protested but she sank to
her knees while I fumbled with my shirt. Taking my dick in one soft
hand she rubbed the tip of it against her other palm. Then she licked
the drop of fluid off her hand while looking up at me, big green-gray
eyes smiling mischief.

	I weaved back and forth dangerously, like a eucalyptus tree in
a Santa Ana wind. Her mouth closed over the head of my dick. What am I
doing here? I thought. What does she want? What can I afford to give
her?

(to be continued)


