Encounters

This erotic story is not intended for minors or for those offended by sexual writing.

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"Are you going to fuck him?"

Awkward tension fills the air as I look at Amy, who is staring at Elena curiously. With an expression of steely determination, Amy tells Elena, "I don't think it's any of your business what we do——"

Interrupting Amy, Elena expels a harsh gust of air and then begins laughing.

My admiration for Amy growing by the second, she raises her chin defiantly and continues, "But since you've asked——and seem to feel you have some proprietary claim here——the answer is no. I'm not going to fuck him." Now having Elena's complete attention, Amy pauses for effect. "He's going to fuck me . And he's going to fuck me until I can't stand."

"Bitch," Elena cries out.

I know a cat fight is going to break out at any minute, but I don't know how to stop it. Amy's strength and the way she's standing up to Elena amazes me.

"Get the fuck out of here," Elena screams at Amy, who holds her ground.

While watching Amy with appreciation, I see her eyes widen in surprise. "Oh, my God," she mutters.

I turn to see what caused this change in Amy and find that Elena has drawn a pistol——apparently from her coat pocket——and is pointing it at Amy. When I take a step towards Elena, she turns the weapon on me, causing me to step back again. Hey, you would too. Having a gun pointed at you is a scary thing.

Turning the gun back on Amy, Elena says, "I'll tell you one more time, run for your life." Her last few words came out as a maniacal scream.

Amy turns and runs and I take another step backward. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Amy stop just behind the car.

Elena turns the gun on me again and says, "Get back here, asshole."

My heart going crazy in my chest, I move a step back towards her. My erratic pulse is pounding in my ears and I'm sweating profusely. I'm trying to think of a way out of this mess, but it's hard to think clearly when you're afraid for your life——believe me.

"Go!" Elena screams at Amy again and I see Amy run out of sight.

Dammit, Amy hasn't got her purse. Her cell phone in her purse. So how is she going to call for help?

"Now, you," Elena says and moves closer to me, which I really don't want her to do. Getting more jumpy with every step she takes closer to me, I feel as if I'm going to have a damn anxiety attack. My mind spinning, I try to decide what I should do.

"You don't have to do this, Elena. There is no easy end to it," I say, but it's like talking to the wall.

Elena gets behind me and prods my back with the gun. "Inside."

How the hell did it come to this? How did I come to be here with a gun pointed at me by this woman? Oh, I know what you're thinking. Disgruntled wife. Husband caught in the act. But you're wrong. She's not my wife. She's someone else's. So, how did it come to this? I'll tell you . . .

ENCOUNTER ONE

Approaching from the boardwalk behind her, I see her for the very first time on the beach at the shore in the early morning. Her lithe, curving form, unfettered by anything but the barest of bikinis, is laying in my path. Her elongated body lays supine on the sand, lightly baking under the rising, slowly heating sun. With her dark hair spread out above her head, she appears to be asleep and her beauty is striking. She's facing toward the sea and the sunrise, so her body's bronze tone reflects the early light. As I pass her, I can see two diamond rings flashing from the ring finger of her left hand. I frown and move on toward the sea.

Once beyond her, I turn back, because I can't help myself. The slightest bit of dark bush peaks out from her bikini bottoms, teasing me. The beach at this hour of the morning is practically deserted and I really don't know what to do with myself. I want to approach her if only to ask her name, or to comment on her beauty, or maybe to ask her if she has time to fuck——but I don't. I can't and if you ask why, I wouldn't know how to answer you. I guess because she's obviously museum quality——you can look, but you can't touch.

I know I should move on, because if she opens her eyes, she'll see me admiring her. But that can't be all bad, can it? She's so very erotic laying there on display, especially in her natural state - without lipstick or nail polish on fingernails or toenails. Just her . . . in her naturalness . . . in all her splendor.

Just as I decide to throw caution to the wind, I see a man approaching her reclining body from the boardwalk. He is swaying this way and that, losing his balance in the sand because of his rushed stride, his bald pate shining in the morning sun. Carefully balancing one in each hand, he carries two Styrofoam cups from the Starbucks I'd seen on the walk over here to the beach. Sand kicking up behind his heels as he comes, his face is so red from exertion that I can see its ruddiness from this distance.

I'm in no doubt that this lucky slob is my beach goddess's husband. With a sigh of disappointment at lost passion, I turn and stride into the sea.

ENCOUNTER TWO

I own and operate a small cabaret near Cape Cod, Mass. A nightclub, if you please. I'm sure you've heard of places like mine, which serve appetizers and lots of alcohol. When the young dance, they tend to drink quite a bit too, so we do very well. At least, I have no complaints. We cater to the young and restless——and believe me, there are more of them than you might suspect. And they're all beautiful. They're my very favorite people——especially the young women.

The week goes as is usual and although I dream of her coming in, I don't really expect her here. Although she looked to me as if she might fit in here, her husband——or the man I assume was her husband——wouldn't. He's too bald, too fat, too old, and too ugly.

At the end of the week, on Friday night, as I'm talking to my manager about staffing, I glance at the dance floor and I'm amazed to see her there——on my dance floor, in my club, dancing. She's dancing the tango with her husband and once again, his face is red, his breathing is rapid, and his pate is shinny and wet. In contrast, she looks very cool and very slick.

I excuse myself from Carl——who really runs the club quite well without me——and go to watch. Of course, she's wearing more clothing than she wore on the beach, but that doesn't disconcert me. I'd recognize her anywhere. She wears a short, flouncy, pleated skirt that rides low on her hips, leaving a lot of very flat abdomen and rounded, upper buttocks between it and the low-cut, clingy, silk top that emphasizes her breasts. Her heels are at least three inches, making her slightly taller than her husband.

She easily fit in with the club's young, vibrant crowd without any problem at all. If she is a day over twenty-five, I'd be amazed. On the other hand, her husband is a middle-aged, pot-bellied man with thinning, blond hair and unblinking eyes. His unblinking eyes are no doubt the result of an incompetent plastic surgeon, who wielded his knife with more guts than dexterity. If the surgery did in fact improve his appearance, I shudder to think what he must have looked like before he went under the knife. He must have looked very rough indeed.

Her husband is somehow keeping up with her tango, but he's sweating badly now and I'm beginning to worry a little about him possibly having a heart attack on my dance floor——but not too much. I can't think of anyone I'd rather see on a gurney more. I have a tendency to face problems when they occur, instead of anticipating and preventing them. I'm sure this risky behavior will take its toll on my pocketbook one day, but since it's already fat and getting fatter every day, I probably will continue to live on the edge. As it turns out, he doesn't have a heart attack——or even faint.

After the dance, she sits her panting husband down at a table so he can catch his breath. She joins him and then turns her back on him to look at the throng of dancing flesh on the dance floor. I watch her tapping foot and admiring eyes for quite some time before I take them a very luscious and expensive bottle of wine on the house.

"Hello, my name is Chad James," I say as I approach their table and the woman turns to look at me with sultry eyes. "I wanted to welcome you to my club with a bottle of wine. It's always good to have a more mature presence in our establishment."

The smallest of smiles appears on her aquiline features. The husband absolutely beams at me and stands to shake my hand. I'm several inches taller and much more muscular than he is. And about forty pounds lighter, too.

"Well, thank you, kind sir," he says, shaking my hand with a great deal more vigor than he'd shown on the dance floor. "I'm Sam Morton." Looking over his shoulder, he introduces his wife, Mrs. Morton." Then facing me again, he continues, "I'm sure we'll be back, assuming I can drag my wife away from here. Nobody loves dancing like my lady here."

"Please, sit down, sit down, be comfortable," I say, taking a good long admiring look at the lady. "Let me just open this," I say, looking around until I find one of my waitresses. I call out to her, "Velma, will you get me glasses, please." I begin to open the wine, never taking my eyes off the beautiful woman sitting beside her toad of a husband. All the while, she's smiling at me——or is she laughing?

Velma brings glasses and I pour them each a glass of the wine.

The wife speaks for the first time as I set her glass before her. "Won't you join us?"

I smile at her, my white teeth gleaming against my tanned, virile face. "I don't drink."

"Oh," she replies, "I don't care about your drinking habits, Chad. I meant, couldn't you sit with us for awhile."

I pause for effect before saying, "Sure, I can join you——just for a moment or two." I pull over an empty chair from a table nearby and sit as close to her as possible. "So, I didn't catch your name."

"I'm Elena," she responds.

I smile at her husband and then look back at her. "I'm very happy to meet you." I say to her husband, "Both of you." They both smile at me. "I hope you enjoy my club."

They nod and Sam says, "We're having a great time."

She says, "We are, Chad. We love the club. I love to dance. Sam, poor man, gets a little worn out from all the activity, that's all."

"Aw, that's too bad. Sam, maybe a diet might help . . ."

He looks as if he's going to become apoplectic, but she is the one who interrupts me, laughing. "Sam? My goodness. Take Sam away from his food and you've got a real problem."

"Oh, I see." I smile at them as they take a sip of wine.

"Wow," Sam says, licking his lips and placing his glass on the table, "this is good stuff."

Still smiling, I turn and look into Elena's eyes, giving her the look that has been known to turn a woman's will to mush. "Well, Elena, we do love dancers here, you know." Then, including her husband, I say, "You both will always be welcome here." Turning back to her, I look deeply into her eyes once again. "And, Elena, we don't want anyone to get bored here. We have many younger men who can relieve your husband." Looking at Sam, I say, "Give your husband a rest when he needs it." To her, I continue, "If that's what the two of you desire, of course. It's the way of the house, here. We aim to please. It's always been so."

She guffaws, sips her wine, looks at the dancers, and then back at me. "So, Chad, this group of young hunks, does the list include you?"

"Well, of course it does——when I'm not busy, that is," I say, looking deeply into her eyes once more. Reflecting the club's many colored lights, her dark gray eyes are so entrancing I feel I'm about to fall into their depths——and love every second of the free-fall. I turn to her husband and ask, "Sam, do you mind?"

"No, not at all, not at all. You two enjoy yourselves. I'm going to have another glass of this extraordinarily delicious wine," he says, shaking his head——it seems to me——in sync with the beat of the music before turning back to the wine bottle.

Elena and I were standing long before his answer and now walk toward the dance floor. I surreptitiously nod to the disc jockey, which is our secret signal for him to put on a slow, soft number. Taking the traditional dance position, I place my right arm around her shoulders and take her left hand in mine. We begin to move and sway to the slow, but sensual beat of the music.

"You were on the beach the other day," she says as we twirl.

So, she wasn't asleep. Caught, I confess, "Yes, I was. You were very elegant laying there."

"I saw you staring."

I smile. "Still am. You are a beautiful woman. Of course, I didn't know at that time that you were married."

"Of course." She smiles as we sway to the music, practically standing still. "I don't know why," she says, holding up her left hand, displaying her wedding rings. "It's pretty obvious, isn't it?" She laughs a low and sultry laugh as I swing her around on the dance floor and then go back to dancing in place.

"I wasn't looking at your hands," I say.

Her laugh is beautiful too. "Very good," she compliments me. "My husband saw you standing there, you know. You were so obvious, he asked me what you wanted as he handed me my iced coffee."

"And what did you tell him I wanted?" I ask.

"The truth."

She smiles at my perplexed expression. "The truth?"

"Yes, I told him you were about to make me a sensual proposition when he so rudely entered the picture."

"A proposition about what?"

"To fuck me, of course," she responds, smiling at me.

I pull her a little closer to me and she comes willingly. "What did he say?"

She shrugs and comes closer still. "He asked if I wanted you to come on to me."

With her large breasts rubbing against my chest——carrying on their own conversation, you might say——I am very distracted, but I press, "And you responded . . ."

"I said, 'Sure.' That it would be exciting and different."

It's becoming difficult to keep the conversation going, because her pelvis rubs and rotates against my increasingly less-flaccid cock as we dance, but I manage to ask, "And what did he say to that?"

"Nothing. He just put his coffee cup down——he never drank it——to recover his breathing. He'd been running through the sand, you know. He just laid down on a towel beside me and went to sleep." She snickers. "Can you imagine Sam running——in the sand, no less."

She pulls away from me as the song ends and I lead her back to her half-drunk, red-faced——but from what I can tell——not unhappy husband. I become busy a short time later and during that time, Sam and Elena give me their farewells before leaving the club. Sam promises they'll be back soon. At the door, Elena turns and gives me a big, toothy, sultry smile before following her husband out into the night. As the door closes behind them, I'm sure I'll see her again——soon.

ENCOUNTER THREE

Financially, the last week has been especially rewarding. Elena must have brought me good fortune with her unspoken promise. At least, I like to think it was a promise——with her eyes, of course, not her lips. I think about her all my waking hours and I sometimes dream about her, too. To be more honest, I dream about her more than not. And the dreams . . . in them, she is so luscious, so sensual, so sexy, and so wanton.

I have a couple of girlfriends. I guess that's what you'd call them. Ann and Amy——the two A's in my life. I like them both. They are charming, educated, women of the world and they hold their own in the most dire conditions. Male club owners——especially young and virile ones like me——do attract quite a bit of their female clientele. So, to be more blunt, I regularly fuck a couple of women who frequent my club. So what? The problem is that I've started envisioning Elena in their place during intercourse with them——and that isn't good for Mr. Peepers. That's what Ann calls my cock. You see, he tends to rebel when he realizes he isn't fucking who he really wants to be fucking, falling like the Hindenburg instead of rising like the Washington Monument.

So now that Elena is ruining my sleep, my sex life, and keeping my head in the clouds, I wonder when she's coming back to my club to dance with me once more——or again and again.

She comes in at exactly 9 PM on Friday night——not that I'm keeping track——with a party of eight, including her husband. There is a bit of chaos at first, because my club isn't prepared to seat eight people in one spot. But, as I've said so many times, we aim to please. Working together, my waiters and waitresses quickly find two free tables, pulling them together near the dance floor, and squeeze the party around them.

Gradually, the club returns to its normally level of excitement and people resume dancing. There are five women and three men in the party. And to my delight, Sam is one of the men. Drinks are ordered and I see that Sam is drinking heavily, getting drunk early. Everyone at the table is laughing, talking, and seem to be having a good time. It just doesn't look like my kind of scene. My kind of scene is Elena, all alone and bare assed naked in my bed. Occasionally, this couple or that couple——always a heterosexual pairing——get up to dance. But not Sam. He's too busy drinking himself into a stupor.

As I watch, the group slowly becomes inebriated and sweaty from dancing. Sam is up slobbering on one of the women and one of the other two men is dancing with another woman. From what I can tell, the remaining man is trying to entertain the other three with crude jokes. Elena doesn't seem to be dancing very much. Later, I see her smile broadly at the others at the table as she leaves to walk toward the bathroom, which means she has to walk by me on her way.

"Hi there, Chad!"

"Hello," I respond. She's looked so bored tonight, so it's good to see excitement in her eyes when she comes near me. She stops and looks at me, her hair falling in front of her right eye, but she doesn't brush it away. Instead, she looks at me through the tendrils like I'm an oddity she hasn't quite reconciled just yet.

"We're back," she says. "Just like we promised."

"I can see that and I'm very happy you are, of course. Quite a party you brought with you."

"Yes," she says slyly, "I like big parties. Anything big, I always say." Then she continues on to the bathroom.

Later, when the party finally broke up and there are only two women left at the table with Sam and Elena——and Sam is drunk——I go over and ask, "What happened to everyone. Did you four tire out the rest of them?"

Everyone laughs. Elena stands, takes my hand, and pulls me toward the dance floor. Like before, I nod at the disc jockey and we begin to dance the beguine.

"How come I haven't danced with you all night?"

She looks up at me. "I don't know. I've been waiting."

"Oh? Waiting for me?"

"I suppose you can conclude that if you want. I'm lonely tonight. Sam's drunk and I hate scenes like this," she says.

"I'm going to tell you the truth, Elena. I've thought of nothing but you since I saw your luscious, very succulent body on the beach that day. You occupy my mind——even at the most inconvenient times, I might add."

"That's nice, Chad," she says, smiling wickedly. "I'm glad to have inconvenienced you in whatever way I can."

"Sam seems to be paying more attention to your friend than to you. Why don't we send them off together? Then maybe we can spend some quality time together at last."

She laughs heartily. "Poor Sam. Nobody cares about his feelings."

"Looking at the woman who's coming on to him, I'd say she cares what happens to him——or maybe she just wants to happen to him."

"She wouldn't have him. I know her too well."

"That's sad I guess."

We continue to dance. Holding her very close, every movement causes her luscious to rub against mine, exciting me. Her nipples feel like steel points against my chest, so I know she wants me too. I whisper in her ear, "I'd treat you so nice."