The Bet

It began innocently enough as a chick to chick talk between myself and Zoey, my college roommate, about the hottest guys among the rich and famous. Liam Hemsworth. Josh Hutcherson. Nick Jonas. Daniel Radcliffe.

"And don't forget hunks like Brad Pitt and George Clooney," I said, aware that Zoey's list was top-heavy with guys not much older than us.

"Superb specimens of masculinity, for sure, Megan," Zoey said, "but too old. I mean, George and Brad are over fifty, aren't they?"

"I'd drop my panties for them in a heartbeat," I said. "That is, if they craved some extracurricular fun outside their marriage with hot, nubile femmes such as ourselves."

"Even if they did, you'd have one long wait. If you want to do an older man, you'd better look outside of Hollywood."

"Hmm, you might be on to something," I said. "Like Jacksonville, for instance." Jacksonville, a small burg outside a major metro area, is where Zoey and I grew up. We had been close since grade school, so close that we shared an off campus apartment at the state university.

Zoey laughed. "Really Megan? Name one older guy in Jacksonville who you find attractive?"

"Well, I can think of one," I said, giving her a wicked look. "And we both know who that is."

Zoey shook her head and signed. "Geez, Megan, you're incorrigible. You've still got a thing for him, don't you? I meant someone else besides my DAD. He's married, not to mention that he's my dad."

I had made no secret of my hots for Grant Sorenson, Zoey's forty-something dad. He was one good looking hombre, tall, dark and handsome, pardon the cliché. The guy looked like he stepped out of an ad for After Six formal wear—sophisticated, distinguished, yet also full of boyish charm. I developed a crush on Mr. Sorenson during my freshman year in high school. He, Zoey and Rachel, her mom, lived just a few blocks from my family, so Zoey and I were over each other's houses all the time. They had an in-ground pool where I'd swim during summer weekends. Mr. Sorenson would be there, of course, swimming and tanning himself, looking seriously jacked in his bathing suit (add hard and muscular to the tall, dark and handsome part). He noticed me too; or at least I think he did. But then guys of all ages notice me. Not to brag, but I've been called a brunette Ashley Benson. I'm a couple inches taller; but, like Ashley, I have blue eyes, long, wavy tresses, high cheek bones, a full, sensuous mouth. My bod? Well, I've had no complaints from the guys I've been with. One drawer in my dresser is devoted to outfits from Victoria's Secret, gifts from one former boyfriend who figured that if my plans to become a TV news broadcaster didn't pan out, I could always model for the company.

But back to the conversation with Zoey.

"I know he's married," I said. "But you can't tell me that a man who looks like that doesn't get hit on once in a while."

"I wouldn't know," Zoey said, testily. "But even if he did, he wouldn't stray. He and mom have a rock-solid marriage, committed and devoted. My dad's too moral of a guy for that."

"Well, I'm sure your parents are committed and, as you say, you're dad's a moral guy. But I'll bet if the right opportunity came along, if he was approached by the right woman, he'd at least consider her offer, perhaps even take her up on it."

"And I'll bet you're wrong."

"How much?"

"How much what?"

"How much are you willing to bet?"

"You're serious about this, aren't you?" Zoey said, looking somewhat bemused.

"Completely serious. And I doubt I need to mention who that right woman might be."

As you might imagine, Zoey was less than comfortable with our bet, the idea of her good friend attempting to seduce her dad. Grudgingly, she went along, if only because the loser had to buy the winner a ticket to see Bruce Springsteen in concert. We both were huge fans of "The Boss," who was coming to our area in the summer. Besides that, she felt supremely confident in her assertion that her dad would never go for it. "He might flirt, that's about it," she said, ending our conversation on the subject.

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

We made that bet late into spring semester of our junior year. Summer was around the corner. Soon, Zoey's pool would be filled and, as in previous summers, I'd be over there, making my bikini-clad presence known, maybe even felt, pardon the pun. But so would Rachel, not to mention Zoey. My challenge was getting her dad alone, no mean feat considering the logistics involved.

I figured I'd start at his place of business, Sorenson Motors. Founded by his late dad as a Toyota dealership, Sorenson had grown by leaps and bounds since Grant came onboard as CEO. In addition to Toyotas, Sorenson also sold Hondas, Ford's and Nissans at several locations. Given that my old Jetta was practically shot, I had been looking for a new car anyway, so it seemed like a natural place to launch my "campaign." So, shortly after returning home from school, I paid him a visit.

He greeted me warmly in his office, spacious and wood paneled, its walls laden with plaques from the chamber of commerce and Toyota, awards for excellent service and sales. "Hi there, Megan," he said. "How did you make out in school?" He looked great in his summer-weight, blue pinstripe suit, blue button-down dress shirt and yellow tie.

I took a seat in front of his desk and crossed my legs, making sure he got an eyeful. He couldn't help it, what with my yellow and white dress hemmed halfway up to Canada. "I pulled a three-five," I said, watching him watching me, trying to be discreet but not succeeding very well. What healthy, virile guy could when face to face with a hot young chick, her legs exposed all the way up to her red thong underwear?

He leaned back in his high-back, black leather chair, folded his hands in his lap. "Great. Maybe you'll be anchoring the news in a few years. You've definitely go the credentials, brains as well as beauty."

"Thanks, Mr. Sorenson. A broadcast journalism student needs all the compliments she can get. It's a very competitive field."

"I imagine it is. So, Zoe tells me you're in the market for another vehicle." I told him generally what I was looking for, including my bottom line. Well, really my parents' bottom line as they were financing most of it.

"I think we have just what you're looking for. Those Corollas are great little cars, affordable, economical, comfortable and durable." He chuckled. "Guess you can tell I started out here as a salesman. Speaking of which, let me get one of our sales people to show you what we have."

He started to reach for his phone, when I said, "Actually, I was hoping you could be that salesman. I mean, we've been neighbors and friends for over ten years, and I'd feel more comfortable with you given how stressful car buying can be."

He tucked his phone away. "Well, okay, if that's what you'd like. It's about time I get away from this desk anyway, brush up on my sales skills gone rusty from neglect."

He draped his suit jacket over his chair and walked me out to the used car lot. It was filled with row upon row of shiny cars baking in the hot sun of early June. I opened the top button of my revealing, low-cut white blouse. He glanced at my cleavage, then quickly turned away. "Okay, as you can see," he said, "we've got plenty of these Corollas just begging to be plucked by a young car buyer like yourself."

"Any stick shifts? I know they're rare these days, but that's what I've been used to. They're fun to drive. Plus, they're a little better on gas."

He rubbed his hands together like a chef about to serve up a sumptuous meal. "I think we can get you a stick. Follow me." We peaked inside several cars before coming to a light blue Corolla, last year's model but essentially new given the car's very low mileage. "There's your stick," he said, a comment, to my dirty, conniving little mind that meant more than just the transmission. The car looked in excellent shape, clean and detailed, not a scratch on it. "You're welcome to take it for a test drive."

"Sure, would love to," I said. "But can you go with me? I'd feel more secure that way."

He got the keys from his office and, after showing him my driver's license, I let him get in first. Then, with him watching, I hiked up my dress nearly to my hips before getting behind the wheel. And yes, he looked, gawked is more like it, his cute wide-eyed expression conveying a mix of delight and shame.

The AC worked great, cooled the car within seconds after I slipped on my sunglasses and drove off the lot and on to a busy secondary road, two lanes in both directions flanked by fast food joints, strip malls and other car dealerships. "You sure do know how to work that stick, Megan," he said. "Many young drivers today can't."

Holy metaphor! I thought, trying not to laugh. "Well, like I said, I'm experienced when it comes to stick shifts." I noticed him shifting his eyes from the road to my legs and cleavage as we made small talk, running the gamut from the finer points of the Corolla to my plans for the summer. He obviously liked what he saw. Now it was time to escalate the process, to do or say something that might move me closer to collecting on my bet. But how to do that was the question. Subtlety was never my strong suit. On the other hand, I was hardly brazen enough to come right out and ask if he wanted to fuck me. Here I was in the driver's seat, so to speak, but wasn't sure which road would lead me to my destination.

Then he said: "I hope you'll be over the house soon. Our pool is just about filled."

"Looking forward to it. I need to get some sun on these white legs, don't you think?"

"Um, yes, I can see that," he said, taking a long, gratifying look, as if my invite gave him carte blanche to do so. "The health risks aside, we all look better tanned."

"Yes, including middle-aged CEOs of car dealerships with bodies a guy MY age would be proud of."

He smiled and shuffled his feet. "Come now, you wouldn't be referring to me, would you?" he said in faux surprise.

"Actually, Mr. Sorenson, I am. You're the only one I know who fits that description. You obviously take good care of yourself, and it shows."

"Well, thanks for the compliment. You know, sometimes I feel ancient next to millennials like you and Zoe."

"Oh please. You look far from ancient," I countered, stopping at a traffic light. "My ex-boyfriend should look as good as you in a swim suit."

Waiting for the light to change, I felt a jolt of excitement, a sense that something was there that hadn't been up to that moment. He sort of confirmed it when he asked me to call him Grant after we returned to his office to negotiate price. "Better let me ring up your dad first," he said after I quoted my parents' bottom line. Once confirmed, he agreed to go even lower—and that didn't even include the great trade-in he gave me for the Jetta. "After all," he said to my dad on the phone, "you, your wife Emily and your beautiful daughter here have been our good friends and neighbors for years."

Then it was time to drive off in my shiny, practically new Corolla. "Hope you enjoy your car," he said, opening the car door for me. "See you at our pool. Soon, I hope. You don't want those fine legs of yours to stay white for long."

I was just inches from him, gazing into his dark brown eyes and breathing in his natural masculine scent mixed with his cologne, Polo Blue if my olfactory memory served me right. I thanked him for everything, then reached out to hug him goodbye. When he hugged me back, I pressed myself against him, feeling the hard, muscular contours of his youthful body and something else—and I don't mean his wallet. Had this been a casual farewell hug, we would have decoupled after a few seconds. But neither of us did. Nor would he have dropped his hand to my butt, squeezed it, then ran his fingers along the back of my thigh and said, "You've got incredibly smooth skin."

Then his sense of decorum kicked in. "Oh my, what am I doing here? Sorry, Megan, I got a little carried away. Selling a car to my daughter's best friend shouldn't include feeling her up in the parking lot."

I eased myself on to the driver's seat and looked up at him. "Okay, then maybe you can feel me up some place else. Then I'll return the favor. You've already seen what I can do with a stick."

He backed away, laughed nervously. "Look, let's not get ourselves in trouble, shall we? Forget this even happened. Enjoy your car and good luck with that summer intern job." He then glanced at his watch. "Meanwhile, its back to the salt mines. See ya."

Excitedly, I called Zoey an hour later, telling her about my purchase and the little escapade that followed. At first she didn't believe it, more a case of not wanting to until I convinced her otherwise. "He was just flirting with you is all," she said. "He can be a flirt at times." But the wary tone in her voice suggested that she sensed something more, something that would cause her family pain. I then offered to call off our bet. Grant Sorenson turned me on, for sure, got me fantasizing about being alone with him in some out of the way hotel room. And I still looked forward to seeing The Boss on Zoey's dime. But I wasn't sure it was worth the strain on our friendship or causing the breakup of a marriage, and I told her so.

"Well, you did say he backed off, told you to forget what happened, right?" Zoey responded.

"Right."

"Which means I won our bet because dad put the brakes on."

"Not exactly," I said, suddenly feeling challenged. "We both know that men think with their dicks, including disciplined guys like your dad. The bulge I felt in your dad's embrace left no doubt that I ruffle his gonads, that he just might release those brakes under different circumstances. So, our bet's still on unless you tell me to drop it."

"Oh my god, Megan!" Zoey exclaimed. "As perverted and disturbing as this sounds, I'm getting aroused picturing you and my dad going at it on that parking lot." She took a deep breath. Then: "Okay, let's do this. Let's put a time limit on it. If it goes no further, if you haven't slept with him by the end of this month, then its game over. You buy the concert tickets and that will be that."

It sounded fair to me. Had Zoey not been my good friend and roommate, I might have asked for more time. But she was and my feelings were mixed. Winning promised incredible erotic fireworks, yet it came with potentially negative consequences. Losing would simply mean paying for an extra concert ticket. Then it hit me, the realization that us women also think with our sex organs, our clits, our pussies, our boobs and, the most potent sex organ of all for us and men both—our brains, though the irrational side of our brains. And my brain was telling me to proceed with all deliberate speed.

How to proceed was the question. I already had my car, so there was no reason to drop by Sorenson Motors. Call him? No, that wouldn't work either, not unless I threw subtlety out the window altogether: "Hi Grant. It's Megan. Wanna fuck?" I didn't think he'd go for a crude approach like that. So I settled on what he himself suggested, a weekend pool visit wearing the skimpiest swim attire I could dig up without being arrested for indecent exposure. Yes, there'd be people around; but I figured my appearance might ramp up his appetite for me, make him rethink his advice to avoid "trouble."

So, on the second Sunday in June, dressed in shorts, sandals and a halter top and carrying my swim wear in a bag slung over my shoulder, I walked over to the Sorenson's. It was a great day to step into liquid, sunny, hot and humid. Like most families in this upper middleclass neighborhood, they had a big house and enough ground to accommodate a decent sized pool. Theirs was kidney shaped and bordered by wide margins of grass with two flagstone patios at each end.

Zoey met me at the front door. "Dad and Rachel are already in back. We can change in my room." And so we did—me into something on the fringe of public decency; and Zoey into a white bikini that complemented her firm, petit body. Nobody would mistake us for sisters. Zoey stood about five-two to my five-seven, had short, dirty blond hair to my long brown tresses. I had boobs where she had boobies, a disparity that she planned to one day fix with implants. And with her turned-up nose and small mouth, her features weren't as strong. A classic beauty she wasn't. Rather, she was more the ideal poster girl for the generic aesthetic of "cute."

"Damn, girl, you might as well go out there in your birthday suit," Zoey said. I couldn't argue, not with my boobs hanging out and my pussy barely covered by my orange thong.

"Call it being proactive. Our bet is still on and I'm under deadline." I twirled around a few times, cupping my boobs and smacking my bare butt. "You think he'll notice?"

"No, not at all," Zoey said, matching sarcasm with sarcasm.

After putting my hair up and slapping on some number six Coppertone, I followed Zoey out to the patio. Heather, her younger sister, was lounging on an inflatable raft in the deep end, while Grant and Rachel relaxed on chaise lounges. Grant, with his wet body and black hair slicked back, looked as if he had just taken a dip. Rachel, in an orange one-piece and broad brimmed straw hat, looked up from her book and said, "Well, if it's not the future broadcaster."

"And proud, new Corolla owner," Grant said, giving me a wink. "How do you like the car so far?"

"What's not to like?" I said, watching his eyes flit over my body. "I especially like the easy way it shifts. It's fun working that stick."

"Yes, I'm sure it is," he said. Wearing a strained smile, he glanced over at Rachel as if to check if she picked up on the double entendre.

"Megan and I have matching colored suits," Rachel said. "Did you notice, dear? Grant, did you notice?"

"Huh? Ah, yes, I noticed, I noticed. Only Megan's looks like the dog ate half of it."

"If not more," Rachel said laughing.

"Hi Megan," Heather said, waving at me from the pool. In looks, fifteen year old Heather favored her dad more than her mom. Like him, she was tall, and her dark brown hair, in subdued lighting, could be mistaken for black. "Come on in, the water's great."

Zoey and I threw our towels on adjoining lounges and plunged in. We splashed around for a few minutes, then held on to the sides of the pool, immersed up to our shoulders. Rachel had returned to her book, while Grant lay on his stomach, his broad back soaking up ultraviolet. He rested his chin on his hands, stealing glances of me across the pool. Heather rolled off her raft, dove under and breast-stroked across to the shallow end. Then she hopped out and plopped down on a chair by the pool, leaving Zoey and I alone.

"You're dad is giving me lustful looks, checking out my boobs," I whispered in Zoey's ear. "In case you haven't noticed."

"Oh, come on, Megan, what guy doesn't check out your boobs? But my feeling is, despite what happened at the dealership, you'll be paying for two concert tickets."

I nodded, thinking she might be right. Suddenly I was feeling less confident. Back at Sorenson Motors, I had made my desires known. And so did Grant if what I felt when he started fondling me was any indication. But then he backed off. So at this point, as far as I was concerned, the ball was in his court. I could leave it there, wait for him to make a move, or make one myself, become aggressive.

I mulled over the possibilities while sunning myself on one of the chaise lounges, listening to tunes on my iPad. I had deliberately grabbed a chaise next to Grant. Zoey and Rachel lounged on the two ends, while Heather had gone in to take a shower. Still buried in her book, Rachel didn't notice Grant checking me out, feeling me up with his eyes. Zoey did. Uncomfortable with it at first, it began to amuse her. We'd roll our eyes and chuckle at her dad's awkward attempts to be discreet. I couldn't help but wonder if he spent most of the time on his stomach, his head turned, eyeing me from the side, to hide something he didn't want any of us to see. Because I was wet already from the water, I didn't have to hide my own potential source of embarrassment—the juices oozing from my hot pussy as I pictured Grant's dark, muscular body on top of me, doing me by the pool. At that moment, it was less about free concert tickets and more about pure lust, being made love to by this hunky generation Xer, kissing me, sucking on my boobs, licking my clit, wowing me with his wonderful rod, stiff, long and enduring.