What's in a Dry Old Fuc?

The next episode in the life of our aging but irrepressible skirt chaser. To know him better, read Chapters 1-3. Don't forget to vote and comment if you have any views at all; I am always pleased to hear from readers.

WHAT'S IN A DRY OLD FUCK?

Chapter Four: Back to work...Mary again

As the days went by, George's words still haunted me. But I was back at my desk within three days, and pissing better than ever. From that point of view, the surgeon had been right. As for the rest, well, I had to wait. I decided to keep out of Len's Bar for a while. I didn't fancy discussing my problems with Mike and his pals.

Then Mary turned up again. At my office.

When she called my secretary for an appointment, I had no idea who she was, this Mary Barry, and she didn't appear to know me from name either. But her company had told her to come and see me and sell me some investment facilities, so there she was, in front of me in my private office. We recognised each other finally, and quite quickly a sort of empathy began to form, once we had talked about the Len's Bar atmosphere, although she was, frankly, lukewarm about the place.

One of the first things I learned was that she was not American; she explained with a kind of piqued look, then a smile, that she was Canadian. Easy mistake to make, she commented. More bad marks for Mike, I thought; he should have picked out the vowels, he being so linguistically accomplished (allegedly).

I was once again captivated by Mary's grey eyes and the softness of her rounded face. Something was fizzing on the surface, I felt. The more I studied her ample body, while she was looking down at her papers and couldn't see I was ogling at her as I was inclined to do, the more I was stunned by its curves. Her substantial, high-held breasts were hard to hide, forcing out the front of her grey business suit and crisp white blouse. This time, her cleavage was well covered by a button-up blouse, but when the jacket of her business suit fell open, I realised something. Not only did those beauties swell upwards, but they bulged sideways too, giving the impression of two magnificent airbags held together by crisp cotton.

Her chubby but shapely legs were placed neatly together against my desk and out of sight, but occasionally she would cross them, and I would catch a flash of stocking covered thigh or calf below her skirt. Chubby, but shapely legs, I thought. My interest rose. I wondered if those stockings went up to the crotch or not.

I realised at this precise moment that, whatever the damned surgeon had done to me during that operation a week or so before, whether or not I would be able to get it up again or ejaculate again, I had not lost my fascination in the female body. And here before my very eyes, here in my own office, was a very fine young specimen of female body.

I waited for a sign, a twitch down below, but it didn't come. I was still feeling a little daily soreness from pissing, and the idea of having once more the pleasure of an erection before the four allotted weeks were up, was not yet quite uppermost in my mind. I just kept secretly hoping and waiting.

My best option right now was to concentrate on what Mary had to say about her company's investment plans. But this time, as well as her fascinating physical presence, I was also impressed by her maturity and her common sense attitude to investment. I began to enjoy this young woman. I began to think her company had done the right thing sending her to see me. I began to think we could do business together. I began to think about getting my erection back one of these days.

There was more. I've always prided myself on being able to spot whether a female is interested in me or not. I have an eye for it, you might say. I'm a people watcher by nature. I've observed so-called body language for years, even before Desmond Morris published certain books about human animal behaviour which resulted in worldwide scandals. In a group of mixed sexes I've always been able to spot who fancies whom, detect the eye contact, the body signals. I could spot extra-marital affairs before they even started

And after an hour in Mary's company, I began to see early signs of interest coming over from this cute young executive, Mary Barry. It was in the eyes first, as is usually the case, a kind of excessive sparkle to enhance the salesperson's smile. Then it was in the noticeable movements of the upper body, a kind of leaning towards the prey, so to speak, a dipping of the shoulders, the submissive female, with eyes looking up into mine.

I had to take a short phone call during our meeting, and I felt her eyes on me as I turned away from her for two minutes to talk to my client discreetly. Yes, I saw all the signs, but kept on thinking about my handicap, wishing and hoping it was just temporary.

Quite against my normal male predatory instincts of yesteryear, I forced myself to try and stay calm.

I'm also no dupe. It would not have been the first time in my long business life that a female sales executive had come over to me with the old seduction tactics, and I'd often used them myself with female clients. As one of my former female colleagues often said: "If I'm going to succeed in this damned job, I know I'm going to get my bottom felt." And that's what she set out to do – to succeed by getting her ass felt, over and over again.

I was also aware, since setting up my own business, that a man's attractiveness to women is directly proportionate to the thickness of his wallet. Add to that the seeming status and power as a businessman, power as an aphrodisiac, and to some women, even an average, ageing looker like me becomes irresistible. Even before I set up my business, I was not short of offers from women. Since the large new brass company plate 'K E Lawson, Independent Financial Advisor' had been on my office door, for the last ten years you could say: my cup runneth over.

I often recall the Branch Manageress of a city institution who decided after only a few short meetings and one evening together followed by late coffee at her house, that she was already in love with me. I didn't refuse her advances, naturally, and we were soon in her bed together. She was a great fuck, and the whole episode was spoiled only by finding myself banging away with, intermittently, the noses of her two young border collies up my ass. Finally, she sent them away and closed the bedroom door. A week or two later, she fell in love with someone else more romantic than me. Here was a girl in love with the idea of being in love, I decided.

Then there was the young blonde trainee sales consultant, half my age who said she always preferred older men. She had a phenomenal body, and had just discovered how to enhance it by pumping iron. She invited me to a business lunch, which went well enough; the usual body language and flashing of knowing looks between us, but I remained the perfect business gentleman. When I got home that evening I found a message on my answering machine, to the effect that she found me extremely charming, and if ever I wanted to repeat our lunch – or maybe have dinner instead – then she would be delighted to see me again.

That was quite an experience for about three weeks, before I suggested she find someone her own age. A great body, a satisfactory fuck, but young and boring. I saw her a couple of years later at an professional dinner; she filled her evening gown more like a trained weight lifter than the catwalk model she had resembled before. Her tits were now pectorals and her legs like those of Schwarzenegger. Still pretty tasty looking in a different way, but boring, and femininity lost.

Then there was the rich couple whose financial investments I took care of, at first jointly, then separately when they split up. My first business meeting with the gay divorcée started with gin and tonic on the terrace looking onto the magnificent private garden of her luxury house, and ended with us rolling around at dusk, naked and slightly drunk on the freshly cut lawn under the sprinklers.

A great fuck in the circumstances, but my poor back was torn to shreds and bleeding at the end - and it wasn't the grass that did it. I lost a very profitable client that night.

I didn't pretend that any of these incidents, the ease with which these women threw themselves in my direction, had a great deal to do with my having some sort of fatal fascination for women. More to do with what I was and my potential power factor, rather than who I was, it seemed to me.

So I stayed calm and controlled with Mary, not wanting to take the risk that this was yet another young female sales executive looking to get her ass or her tits - that is, her astonishing tits, manhandled. And not wanting to take the risk that eventually, I would not be able to get it up for her anyway, I had to be very, very careful. I had both my business and my personal reputation as an ageing stud to think about.

I let her go, with a promise to consider her very attractive proposals. But this time, I didn't forget Mary.