Athy & Me

My name is Marge Smithers..., actually my first name is Margaret, but most everyone calls me Marge. I have a story to tell about my friend Kathy and myself. Perhaps our experience will warn you, or perhaps it will tempt you. Either way, I hope you enjoy it.

Kathy Konichech and I have been best friends almost forever. We were both in the sixth grade when Kathy Patrillo, as her name was then, and her parents moved into a house just down the street. Kathy and I went through Junior High and then High School together. We were both cheer leaders, we flirted with the same boys, took the same classes, belonged to the same church and clubs, and copied each others home work.

We grew up to be a couple of damn good looking gals even if I do say so myself. Kathy is a little over average height, and I am a little under it. She’s dark completed, with very dark brown, almost black, hair and brown eyes. I am fair, blond and blue eyed. My breasts are large and full, bigger than Kathy’s. Hers, however, are better shaped, and have long erect nipples that poke little buttons into her blouse regardless of her bra. No movie star ever had better looking legs than Kathy does, while I tend to be a little chunky around the hips and thighs. In high school we were both very popular with the boys, but we double dated a lot to protect each other, and despite some passionate petting in cars parked in secluded nooks and woods, we both managed to hold on to our virginity as long as we were still together.

After graduation we drifted apart for a while. I went off to college and Kathy stayed home attending a secretarial school. Seven years later, however, we found ourselves as next door neighbors in a new suburb of the same New Jersey town where she and I had grown up. We were both married by this time, and I had just delivered my first child. I met my husband Tim in college. He is ambitious, works hard, and was doing well as an executive in the local office of a national funiture manufacturing firm. We could afford for me to stay home and bring up a family.

Kathy had not done as well in choosing a mate, or at least I didn’t think so. Stanley Konichech was blue collar all the way. A mechanic by trade, he was one of those guys who spends most early evenings watching professional wrestling, or anchoring his league team at the local bowling alley. Sun up was likely to find him at some sleazy stripper bar. Well, that may be a little catty of me, but I’m not alone. One of my other neighbors who knows him better than I do remarked that Stan is a man of letters..., the NBA, the NFL, and the WBC. I don’t think he treated Kathy any too well either. I saw some suspicious bruises on her arms from time to time, and one Monday she showed up with a black eye.

Kathy never complained about her husband tho. In fact, she wouldn’t talk to me about him at all. Kathy hadn’t become pregnant yet, maybe because she needed to work to make ends meet even tho she didn’t live at all extravagantly. By the time we came back into each others lives, Kathy was employed in the secretarial pool of Kates and Cramer, a thirty lawyer firm that occupied the top three floors of the largest local bank building. She found her job dull and she wasn’t any happier with her work than she was with her home life, altho as I said, Kathy hardly ever complained.

Kathy’s life was just running along, not very happily I didn’t think, but apparently tolerable, when Steve Hamilton came into the picture.

Steve was a civil engineer a couple of years older than Kathy and I who had just come to work for a construction firm whose offices were on the next floor below Kates and Cramer. He was neither handsome, nor physically imposing, at least not until you took a close look.

His features weren’t all that bad, but his face usually carried a hard chiseled somewhat frightening expression that was accented by a nose that had been badly broken and never fixed. Actually, the rugged accent of that crooked nose fit quite well with the rest of him. He may not have been a male model, but he was very masculine, and not really all that unattractive if you are willing to overlook that broken nose and intimidating clinch of jaw.

Average in height and weight, the expensive sport coats he usually wore disguised the hard muscles hidden under soft Casmir lapels. The way he walked reminded me of a prowling cat..., balanced, agile, and ready to pounce. Something of a fitness nut, Steve worked out regularly at a gym that was the local hangout for professional fighters, martial arts experts, and the like. I heard later from guy who works there that Steve had once been an outstanding amateur boxer who had a brief but promising career in the professional prize ring that ended prematurely when 2nd Lt. Hamilton began the three year hitch he owned the Marine Corps because of his R.O.T.C. scholarship to college.

And, he had a way about him with women. Perhaps it was those icy blue eyes; or maybe the confident, even cocky way that came on to us. Whatever it was, by word and gesture he let us know that he admired beautiful women, and was not intimidated by the defenses we girls use to keep a strange man at a safe distance. Later on when I knew him better, I decided he must think of women as flowers in his garden. We were there for him to nurture, to admire..., and to pluck and enjoy. Only occasionally would his manners slip a little, and there hidden underneath his usual charm was a kind of ‘Me Tarzan, You Jane’ air of male superiority. All in all, however, few women were turned off by his open refusal to acknowledge us as equals. Indeed, that very refusal was a part of his charm. Even those I knew to be ardent feminists were among his admirers, altho usually secretly so.

His social manners were those you would expect of the son of the old south that he was. He may have been a tad self assured and pushy around women, but he was always complementary, attentive, and protective toward what he obviously regarded as the weaker sex. He was ever the perfect gentleman, but a gentleman with a twist. For one thing he had a way of looking into your eyes as he talked. He did that with men too, but somehow the intensity wasn’t the same, and I’m sure that men didn’t look away to escape his gaze as we girls so often did. His approach to a woman was never crude or backhanded, but he pulled no punches either. If she had a great body, he didn’t fudge with a “you look lovely tonight” comment, he told her straight away how sexy she was. That kind of blunt honesty embarrasses us, but we are always flattered by it. We know he is actually propositioning us without saying so directly, and we can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be in his bed, on our back, with our legs spread.

I met him soon after he came to town when his firm had a welcoming party for him at the country club where my husband was a member. I was impressed by his wit and charm, but even more so with how smoothly he came on to me and every other woman there. His attention made all of us feel particularly female . He noticed things about us that men usually don’t, our clothes, perfume, hair do, etc., and he wasn’t shy about telling us when he liked them. For example, we are almost never told by a strange man how good we smell. That is a compliment that leaves us at a loss to respond to because we always suspect it is the odor of our sex, not our perfume, that the man is referring to.

Anyway, that evening at the club Steve Hamilton left me as he always did. I just couldn’t help this vague feeling that I had just been paraded before some gallant eighteenth century pirate from the Barbary Coast who stripped me, admired my charms, and then sent me along my way with an friendly pat on my bare butt.

I saw him again from time to time after that party, not frequently, but often enough to confirm my first impression that this was a man with a way about him. I wasn’t alone. The secretaries of the prestigious law firm of Kates and Cramer were all a flutter to have such a sexy new male down just one flight of stairs. So taken were these young ladies (and a couple who were not so young) that some announced openly that they intended to have him trapped between their legs at the first opportunity. Others were less star struck, altho there were none who were not fascinated by him to some degree, even if they would not admit it publicly.

Kathy was one of those who refused to be swept away by whatever it was that Steve was offering to the women of the First National Bank Building. Once when the subject came up in the ladies room, she outright accused her enamored contemporaries of being sluts for carrying on so over him. Still, Steve was there in the building every day, and Kathy was too. The secretarial pool was a feminine meat shop from which Steve Hamilton could pick and choose, and whether she wanted to be or not, Steve obviously had decided Kathy was a tasty a la carte item on the Kates and Cramer menu.

The construction firm Steve worked for had a long standing arrangement with Kates and Cramer for its employees to eat lunch upstairs in the private cafeteria of the law office. Steve ate there almost every day, and more often than not he pointedly chose to take his tray to the secretaries’ table. Even when he ate with the men, he would drop over to banter with the girls before he went back to work. With and without a reason to be there, he was often upstairs even during business hours. While there, he never failed to give some sweet thing a full dose of his masculine southern charm. As often as not, that lucky girl would be Kathy. It was soon noticeable that as Steve Hamilton picked over the sweet meat available at Kates and Cramer, he paid Kathy more attention than anyone else.

Still, and altho he dated a wide range of women both in and out of the bank building, he never asked Kathy out socially. Kathy was after all married, and most people thought that was the reason Steve kept his distance. I had my doubts about that. He didn’t strike me as a man who would let social convention stand between his pecker and a good looking female. And, if he was all that proper, why was he spending so much time buzzing around Kathy like a bee who has found the pollen mother lode?

It was about this time that Kathy opened up and began to tell me of the second thoughts she was having about her marriage. Was this change because of Steve Hamilton? I can’t say. The desperation in Kathy’s life, and there was a lot of it, had been there for a long time before Steve came along. She was terribly unhappy, and I was finally being told about it.

It began to all come out one Sunday morning over coffee in my kitchen. “Marge,” Kathy began, almost ready to cry, “I can’t take much more of Stan. He drinks too much, and he gambles away his paycheck. God damn football parlays! Between what he looses to the bookies, and what his booze and his fancy car costs us, I’m our only support. I’m sure he is screwing some other woman on the side too, and he has become more and more abusive..., with both his mouth and his fist. We don’t have anything in common to talk about any more, and even our sex has gone down hill. He used to lay me pretty good, and that made up for being slapped around a little. He still beats me, now more than ever, but the sex isn’t the same. I suck him hard. He sticks it in and hunches on me for a few minutes. Then he cums. That’s it. Sometimes I can get off on that, but more and more often I can’t.”

“Leave the bastard,” I told her. “There is no reason for any woman to stay with a man who abuses her, least of all someone like yourself. You have no children. You’re self supporting. You’re one of the best looking women in town. I’m sure you can find someone who will give you better sex than that. Why do you even consider staying with him?”

“Because things are harder than that,” Kathy replied. I can’t stand the thought of being alone. There may be more men available out there, but are they really going to be any better than Stan? Am I going from the frying pan into the fire? Take that Steve Hamilton. I think you would agree, he’s a prospect. I saw you talking to him the other day in the drug store, and even your old married eyes lit up. Sure, he’s a damn sexy hunk, more tempting than I have been willing to admit, but there is something scary about him. I’ve watched him work me and the women around me, and he may be a lot more dangerous to a woman than Stan ever was.”

“He stares at me a lot, and he won’t look away when I catch him at it. Up close I get lost sometimes looking into those ice blue eyes. Then there is the way he suddenly interrupts our conversation to tell me what great legs I have. Sure, I’m flattered that he likes my legs, but he’s not just being nice, he’s toying with me. He throws the stuff about my legs at me because it knocks me off balance, and makes me self conscious as hell. Then, while he has me focused on my legs, his hand and thigh just happen to brush up against them as he squeezes by leaving the lunch table. After being set up like that, can you imagine the jolt his touch sends to my clit?”

“Come on Kathy,” I said, “you’re just imagining things. Men are deaf and dumb about women, and God never made one that devious and clever.”

“Maybe so,” Kathy replied, “but this one is certainly not deaf and dumb. When the elevator is crowded, he is always pressing against my back or side with his nose sniffing in my hair. He smells me a lot, and he makes no secrete of it. He knows damn well it makes a girl all mushy to know a man is attracted by her odor.”

“He doesn’t talk sex exactly, but he talks sexy, like how my dress shows off my breasts. And my nipples.., Oh Yeah.., you can bet he has told me how nice he thinks those are. It’s a game with him, a game in which the inside of my head is the prize. He is tempting me to fantasize about having sex with him. We both know that if I ever do that, I am doomed.”

“He’s interested, Kathy,” I interjected, “that’s the main thing. Get rid of Stan and go after him while you’ve still got his attention.”

“Yeah,” she answered me, “I can get rid of Stan, and I might or might not be able to catch Steve Hamilton to replace him. If I don’t, tho, what happens then? And, if I do, what is Steve really like, and what might he do to me?”

“Look sweetheart,” I responded to Kathy’s quandary, “faint heart not only never won fair lady, it never put a cock in a girl’s pussy either. Go for it girl! Right now, you’ve got nothing to lose.”

As we shall see, that advice and opinion just shows how little I knew about Steve Hamilton.

Kathy didn’t exactly do as I said, but neither did she try to patch things up with Stan. Instead, she equivocated, like we all do when we don’t have the courage to make up our mind. She wouldn’t dump Stan and her marriage outright, but she did turn a cold shoulder on him. She refused to sleep with him, and she threatened to go to court for a restraining order if he hit her any more. He responded by picking up some bimbo in a bar somewhere, and moving in with her. Stan and Kathy had split, but they were not separated in any legal or even agreed way. Kathy in the meantime began to go out with Steve, not every night, but every couple of days during the work week she would have diner with him or go with him to a movie.

I couldn’t stand being on the outside of this soap opera, and finally I asked her what the hell was going on. “Look honey,” I asked, “have you been to bed with him yet?” As you can see, subtle diplomacy is not my strong suit.

“No.” was all I got for a reply.

“Well why the hell not?” I asked unsatisfied with her answer, and pushing her for the details.

“To be honest,” came Kathy’s answer, “because he refuses to screw me.”

“The son of a bitch isn’t queer, it he? That would just be too much,” I exploded.

“No, not hardly,” Kathy said. “To the contrary he is the most completely masculine man I have ever met. To be totally honest about it, I have been willing to jump into the sack with him for some time now, but he won’t touch me sexually unless I agree to a permanent relationship with him. After he kissed me good night on our first evening together he told me quite bluntly that he wanted to fuck me, that he intended to fuck me, but he would not do it until he owned me.”

“Well,” I told my friend, “that’s better than I ever hoped for. He won’t screw you until you marry him. What a quaint idea.”

“No, that isn’t what he meant at all,” Kathy went on to explain. “He wants to own me, not marry me. Own me, like in a harem, as in sex slave! He says he will fuck me only when I am naked on my knees, wearing his collar around my neck, and begging him for his cock. He insists that I must give myself to him as his cunt slave, the same way a middle eastern concubine would service her Sultan.”

“Well, you’re certainly not going to do that.” I said, shocked at the very idea of my beautiful Kathy kneeling naked and begging for a man to fuck her..., but titillated at the dirty pictures that ran through my mind.

“Don’t be too sure,” Kathy replied rather absently as if weighing pros and cons that I was unaware of. “I told you before he was trying to get into my head, to make me fantasize about him. Well, God help me, he won that game. For weeks now I have had dirty day dreams about what it might be like to be on my back with him kneeling between my spread legs, aiming his erect penis at my open cunt. It’s a thought so delicious that I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. I think about his cock all the time now. I wonder how big it is, how hard does it get, and what will taste like when I take it in my mouth? Right now, just getting on my knees and begging for it seems like a small price to pay for something I want so badly.”

“No, Kathy! You can’t mean that. What kind of a man would demand that a woman demean herself like that? Get a hold of yourself.” I was absolutely wild at the very thought that my very best friend would seriously consider becoming some bastard’s sex slave.

“Easy for you to say,” Kathy answered me. “No one has ever put the make on me like this before..., and I dare say, it has never happened to you either. Until it does, you can’t begin to imagine the ways Steve finds to pick at a woman, how he can remind her over and over how feminine she is, and what that means to her.”

“Hell I know exactly how feminine I am, and it doesn’t mean I am going to get on my knees and beg for any man’s tallywhacker,” was my quick reply.

“No, Marge,” Kathy came back at me, “I know you too well. You have no idea, none at all, about being the woman Mother Nature intended you to be. You won’t ever know until some man makes your cunt leak just by being in the same room with you. When pussy juice begins to run down your leg even tho you haven’t been kissed, caressed, or even touched, let me know. Then you can tell me what you will or won’t do to have that man between your legs.”

I tried to interrupt with a denial, “That’s not true at all...” but Kathy cut me off and gave me no chance to go farther.

“It is true, Marge. Your experience is pretty thin. You went off to college and married a nice modern guy, one who read all the books. But women are not the way Tim’s books told him we are. There was not one word in there about how absolutely essential a man is to a woman. Not a word about how alone and helpless we feel without one. Equality in wages and opportunity is one thing, but it is quite another to believe that women are simply men with different plumbing. Excuse me for saying so, but your husband doesn’t have a clue.”

“And, you of all people should know that, Marge. Tell me..., when Tim was courting you, did he have any idea how desperate you were. Did he ever suspect how eager you were to spread your legs if only he had known how pull your trigger? Of course he didn’t. Tim didn’t have any idea how to get into your pants without marrying you, or if he did fuck you before your wedding day, neither of you were experienced enough to realize how insipid your little roll in the hay really was. I would bet my last dollar that neither of you has learned any better since, but you have a good man, a decent man. He asked you to marry him, and you accepted, but marriages aren’t really about passion. Mostly they are about children, religion, social acceptance, success and security. Beyond such things, your man and his civilized contemporaries haven’t the first notion about the women they are married to. They haven’t the faintest idea how deeply we hunger for a man who will make us into the female we want to be..., a man who will simply take us, fuck us, and make us kneel before him for the pleasure of his penis.”