NO STRINGS
Part Two of Three
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THE BITTER END
I. THE MARLA AFFAIR
Her 'car' was a beautiful, blue Bentley Continental GT sports coupe. (You may ask how I knew that - Some of our clients drive Bentleys. I've lusted after a few - the cars, not the clients.) We headed out of town till we came to an off-ramp that led to a wide two-lane road which headed north into the hills. After a mile, we turned onto a tree-lined, two-lane, divided by a center median of evergreen shrubbery. About 50 yards in, there was a manned, sentry station. The guard waved her past. After a few miles through rolling hills and past several gated properties, she pulled up in front of an imposing, ornate gate, which slid open at the push of a button. She drove up a long, curving drive, pulling up in front of a very large, very impressive, Tudor-style home.
When she came to a stop, I opened my door to go around and open hers. Immediately, two big Dobermans came out of nowhere.
Marla, a little panic in her voice, said, "Matt, stand still. Don't make any sudden moves."
"What are their names?" I calmly asked.
"Daedalus and Icarus."
"Clever," I observed, then quickly turned my attention to the dogs.
"Hey, boys, good boys," I said in a soft voice, then I firmly commanded "Daedalus, Icarus, come!"
The dogs continued trotting towards me. When they were within about pouncing distance, I commanded, "Daedalus, Icarus, halt! Sit!" They both immediately sat. I was ready to jump in the car if the commands didn't work.
"Good boys, good boys, stay!" I walked up and offered the back of my fisted hand and let them sniff, then gave them each a good pat and scratch. "Good boys. Daedalus, Icarus, release, free!" I ordered and pointed the direction they had come from. They turned and trotted off.
"That is the damndest thing I've ever seen," Marla remarked as she exited the car. "How the hell did you do that?"
I shrugged, "I have a way with critters."
"The hell you say. Those dogs should have torn you up. I'm going to fire the trainer."
"No, no, don't do that. The dogs are well-trained. I just established that I was friendly, then that I was the alpha in the situation, used a command voice giving typical commands, then rewarded their behavior. The most important thing is I didn't show any fear or weakness. The only thing you might want to consider is non-standard commands, but at this point, it might be difficult to change them without confusing the dogs."
Marla eyed me for a second, "So, you weren't scared?"
"Nope. I rarely get scared. It never helps."
"There's more to you than meets the eye, Matt. Come inside. I'm thirsty."
"Yes ma'am."
"Call me ma'am again, and I'll make you pay for it later," she quipped.
"Looking forward to it," I parried.
She laughed, hooked my arm and led me up the steps. She unlocked the front door with her thumb pressed on a reader, and we entered the foyer, which was as big as my kitchen, dining room, and living room combined. After locking the door, she tossed her purse on a credenza, hooked my arm and led me through the house to a set of double doors that opened onto an indoor swimming pool. In one corner was a good-sized bar, and behind it, on the back wall, a row of cabinets with a built-in refrigerator. Attached behind the elevated bar was a standard-height counter with a sink and various necessities - blenders, ice buckets, and such.
Marla went behind the bar, "What's your pleasure, Matt? I noticed you were drinking beer at the bar."
"Surprise me."
"Okay, well, I'm a tequila gal, so how about a couple shots of tequila with beer back?"
"You did surprise me, and that sounds perfect."
She poured two shots of tequila then turned to the refrigerator, "What kind of beer do you like?"
"Whatever you have will be fine."
"Take your pick; I have a selection, but I find Corona goes well with tequila."
"Sounds good. You have a 'selection'?" I asked, curious.
"Yes, some domestics, local craft beers, ales, porters, stouts...I even have 'blank' on tap. My soon-to-be, prick-of-an-ex-husband drinks that crap."
(Name of the beer obfuscated to protect me from those who religiously drink that brand.)
"Wow, I'm impressed, not by the 'bilge water on tap', but the selection."
"All of this," she motioned around her with her hand held up, "and it's my beer selection that impresses you?"
Deadpan, I replied, "I'm a complicated guy."
She laughed and shook her head, "That you are, Matt. And I think we're going to be friends," she stated as she opened two Coronas and set them on the bar. Then she scratched at her shoulder, "Damn dress."
She walked around the bar, "Here, unzip me. I have to get out of this thing. For as much as it cost, the damn thing should be more comfortable."
She turned her back to me and pulled her long hair to the side. I had trouble getting a grip on the tiny zipper tab, but then it smoothly slid down, stopping just above the swell of her buttocks. She stepped out of the dress and laid it across the bar. She was wearing a pair of lacy, dark-gray panties and nothing else, except for her heels, the rock hanging around her neck and the matching earrings. As the dress slid down, it exposed her surprisingly fabulous, very firm ass. I say surprisingly, because I knew she wasn't all that young. Her long, sleek legs went 'all the way to floor' as the saying goes, and she wasn't wearing nylons or pantyhose. She didn't need them - with her 'all-over', moderate tan, and flawless skin, her firm, well-muscled, but slender legs really were spectacular.
I assumed that somewhere in this cavernous house was a pretty amazing gym, and that she made good use of it.
She turned and faced me, "So, Matt, what do you think?"
"I have to reassess my opinion of your husband. He wasn't 'not very bright'. Unless your maid was Blake Lively, he was a fucking idiot for cheating on you."
"And if she was Blake Lively?" she asked with a wry smile.
"Then he was less of an idiot but still an idiot."
"I like that answer, Matt, honey."
She was braless, and her full, 'B'-cup breasts lay on her chest a little, but were lovely, nonetheless. I couldn't make out her nipples as they had these little, translucent, gel-looking pasties on them. She saw me looking, and peeled them off, exposing, small, dark aureoles, with medium-sized, suckable-looking nipples.
(I know; they're all suckable, but they don't all 'look' suckable - most guys will know what I mean by that. Those that don't, haven't seen enough nipples.)
"Can't wear a bra with this dress, and the damn thing rubs my tits sore," she remarked.
I took in her long, svelte figure with its slender torso, narrow waist and flat stomach, "Marla, you're a stunningly beautiful woman."
She smiled, "Thank you, dear. Not bad for 46, huh?"
"Not bad for 26."
