He Couldn't Say No

It has been several months since my latest divorce (my third) was final. It's a beautiful Saturday morning and I'm sitting on the back porch of my home in Walnut Creek savoring my first cigar of the day and a cup of Starbucks (Pike with cream). I always indulge myself in a Starbucks coffee and a cigar on Saturday morning. I have a golf date at my club up the road in Moraga, but my t-time isn't until 11:30, so I can savor a beautiful spring morning. Life is good this morning: not on an airplane; not at the office in Redwood City and no need to hack my way through Bay Area traffic to get there today; no calls or appointments with lawyers; and no calls from my ex (I guess she has decided she has all she is going to get out of me). Couldn't be better.

Well, okay, there is one thing that might make it better. It would have been better if I had awakened this morning to find a warm, naked woman lying next to me, her backside curled against me. We would have made slow comfortable love, and now she would be sitting beside me here, wrapped in a barely-there gown, asking what I wanted her to fix for dinner tonight when I return from my round of golf. Okay, yes that would have been better, but I wasn't worried. Little droughts like this one had occurred before and somehow, they always took care of themselves. Some lovely woman, badly in need of what I had to offer, would come along and

voilà

—my life would be complete again.

Of course not all the women I made love to became long term or even short term affairs. Some were just one time events (I prefer not to use the term "one night stand." It sounds so tacky). For example there was Cathy. I chuckled l as I realized I didn't know her last name. I never knew it at the time. Nor, when I thought about it, was there any reason to believe her first name was necessarily "Cathy." Someone had called her Cathy, but there was no reason to believe she was correct or knew her any better than I did.

I was about ten years out of college the night I met Cathy. I had just wound up my first marriage (Don't ask. It wasn't pretty). I was at one of those events big companies throw for their customers' key executives. It was at some resort down in the Carmel Valley—good meals, great golf (there is no course better than Pebble beach, not even Augusta National), lots of booze, and just enough sales and technical presentations to keep the lawyers and accountants satisfied that the whole bash was an "ordinary and necessary business expense," and not something more akin to bribery. Spouses were invited. They went off on shopping trips to Carmel while we played golf or had a sales presentation. These events were always one of my favorite parts of the job. Needless to say, the nerds who wrote the code were not invited.

During a pre-dinner cocktail party on the second night of this modest little affair I noticed a young woman (maybe 30, but no more) talking with a group of men and women across the room. She was quite animated and seemed to have everyone's attention. She was short, maybe only about 5-3, although she wore tall heels to make up for her height. Her black hair was cut pixie style, barely covering her ears. She was dressed in a black dress that came just to her knees. It fit her nicely rounded hips snugly, but there was room in the top for her breasts to shimmy nicely as she moved from person to person in the group. Very attractive.

I turned to my boss standing next to me and asked who she was.

"Beats me. She doesn't work for Oracle and isn't a spouse that I recognize. She must be married to one of the customers. Cute isn't she."

"Yes."

Andrew," my boss said, "Don't mess with the customer's wives. Were here to sell software. Not to get laid and ruin marriages."

"Right boss. Got it." I had heard this lecture before. My boss was Mormon and very straight laced. But aside from that unfortunate outlook, he was a good guy and a hell of a salesman—no one better to learn from.

The dinner was good, but boring. The after dinner speeches were mercifully brief, and everyone adjourned to one of several cocktail lounges the resort maintained. I had just walked into one when I ran into a sales manager I knew. Unlike my boss, Ron was a guy who really liked to party, and by this time in an evening was likely to be well lit.

"Andrew, he said. "What's a single guy like you doing still wandering around alone at this time of night. I figured you'd be hooked up by now."

"No such luck."

"You've been hanging around with that Mormon boss of yours, haven't you? He's a bad influence."

I laughed. "I don't know about that. He sells lots of software."

"Oh shit yes. We all know that. I mean he's a bad influence on your social life."

I smiled, thinking that, given the way my marriage had ended, my social life could use a little dampening. Getting caught

in flagrante

with two of your wife's best friends is not the best way to run your social life.

"Come with me," he said. "There's going to be a little after party in my condo."

"Sure, why not."

When we got to his unit, the party was already going. There were 10 or 15 people, and the music was blaring. Open bottles lined the kitchen counter next to a tub of ice and there was a strong smell of marijuana in the room. Ron disappeared immediately, sliding into the arms of not one, but two women who had been dancing together, transforming their same sex couple into what I'm sure he hoped would be a

manage a trois

.

I worked my way through the crowd and poured myself a drink. Then I turned and leaned against the counter watching the crowd. I didn't see much of anyone I knew, but after a moment I realized the girl with the pixy cut was on the other side of the room. She was chatting with a group of people, but when she looked my way, she looked a little longer than I expected and gave me a sexy smile. I nodded in response.

A few minutes later she worked her way through the dancers towards me, holding out an obviously empty glass.

"Who's a girl got to know to get a drink here?" she asked. She had a charming southern accent.

"There doesn't seem to be a bar tender, but I can help you out. What's your preference?" I said as I gestured at the counter.

"Well, what I would really like to have is another toke on that joint that was going around a while ago, but it seems to have . . . gone up in smoke." She giggled, amused at her own joke and obviously a bit stoned.

"I can't help you with the joint, but how about a bit of bourbon?" Being from the south I assumed she would prefer bourbon.

She nodded her approval. Then she leaned toward me and whispered, "neat" in my ear. I wasn't sure whether she was flirting with me or just trying to be heard over the dance music, but I preferred the former interpretation. The little caress she gave my ear with her tongue confirmed my interpretation.

I poured a drink and handed it to her. We stood watching the party, as we leaned, our backs against the counter and hips against each other. She was bouncing to the music, grinding the side of her hip against my thigh and occasionally brushing her breast against my rib cage. Her warm body felt delicious. I noticed she was wearing a wedding ring with a rock big enough to patch the fiscal hole in a small town budget, but my boss' warning about messing with customer's wives, had faded from my reality, even more completely than the fumes of the now consumed joint. Wedding ring? What wedding ring? I didn't see a wedding ring.

I had just refilled her glass when some gal leading a conga train came bouncing by holding out a joint the size of a small cigar. She was pausing the dance line as she came to each person to offer them a toke on the joint.

"Oh Cathy," she said. "You have to try this. It is totally good shit!"

We each took a hit and it certainly was—good shit that is. Totally good shit.

I leaned down to her and said, "So you're Cathy?"

She turned and stepped in front of me. "For sure. And you are . . . "

"Andrew," I said. That was as far as introductions ever got.

Cathy continued to bounce to the music, but now she was standing directly in front of me, her back to me and her wiggling butt rubbing against my thighs. I set my drink down alongside hers and put my hands on her hips. She wiggled her butt and pressed back against me, which I took to be approval of what I had done.

The conga line came by again, and we each took another hit on the now badly depleted joint. It was getting a little hot, but it was still a really good toke. Wow!

As the conga line moved on past us Cathy reached back and pushed my hands down until they were on her hips. I moved them inside a little so I was cupping the globes of her ass-the very nicely shaped globes of her ass, I might add. Then as she continued to wiggle to the music I used my fingers to massage her lovely ass.

We held that position for a good ten or fifteen minutes until the music changed and the conga line broke down into couples standing mashing each other more or less in time to slow music of some indeterminate genre. Cathy slowed down a little but kept pressing her hips against me and I kept massaging her butt. She laid her head back against my chest, its top just below my chin.

Someone else walked by with a joint and Cathy held out her hand for a hit. He handed it to her and she took a long drag on the joint and then, still holding her breath, she rotated to face me dragging her soft boobs against me as she turned. She put her arms around my neck and stood on her toes to kiss me and share the hit on the joint she was still holding in her lungs. I kept my hands on her ass and inhaled the lung full of smoke she offered me.

Eventually we both had to break down and breath real air. "Wow," she said with a giggle. "I am so fucking stoned."

"Yeah, no shit," I said with a stupid looking grin on my face.

She stood on her toes again and whispered in my ear. "I also am so, so horny. Let's go someplace and fuck."

Just then, for no reason on God's green earth, the voice of my boss came rolling back through my head: "We're here to sell software. Don't mess with the customers' wives."

There I stood, holding what I assumed to be the very aroused wife of a customer with both hands on her ass and her hands around my neck, with the voice of my boss in my head telling me to say no to her proposition. Did I say no? Of course not. All I said was, "Where? (meaning where shall we go?)"

Cathy's fogged brain's response was to whisper in my ear, "In my pussy, silly boy. In my pussy. I want you to fuck me in my pussy."

I broke up laughing. It was contagious. We were both standing there giggling our heads off and no one in the room was paying any attention to us.

Finally I leaned down to her and said, "So you want my big dick (she was rubbing it now through my trousers) in your pussy. I get that, but do you want to do it here and now? Shall I just push all the dip and chips on the floor and lay you out on that table?"

She leaned back holding herself with one arm on the back of my neck and the other had still rubbing my dick (another thing no one seemed to be noticing). She was looking at me like she was giving my absurd proposal serious consideration—a mildly terrifying thought. "Well, we can't go to my room," she said, "because my stogey old husband is there. He's probably sleeping, but I make noise sometimes, and I don't want to wake him up."

"Good idea. I wouldn't want to wake him up either." Now that I was in my early thirties, I had learned that waking sleeping husbands was a bad idea.

We stood there for a moment, me with both hands still fondling her ass, Cathy with one hand holding herself around my neck and the other hand rubbing my dick. Finally my grass fogged brain blurted out, "How about the eighth hole?"

"What? Eddy honey (she had forgotten my name), I've only got three holes for fucking and I don't do that third one. Nope not at all. So eight holes? Whatever are you talking about?"

I broke up laughing again which of course infected her. We were both standing there giggling. She had taken one of my hands off her ass and put it on one of her breasts. It felt lovely, not huge. Just a nice soft handful. No bra either, which explained the shimmy I had noticed earlier.

"Cathy," I said (feeling very superior because I could remember her name), "I meant the eighth hole of the golf course. Have you ever fucked on a golf course before? I have (a lie) and it's great—out there in the wide open spaces in front of god and everybody, 'cept it's dark and nobody can see you. It's so fucking sexy."

Where did that shit come from? I was just making it up as I went along now.

"Oh, oh," she said. "You want to fuck on the golf course." She shrugged her shoulders. "Okay, lets go, Eddy honey. I'm so fucking horny and that feels like a really nice big dick you have there." She gave it an extra squeeze for emphasis . "Can we fuck on the green?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Maybe you will get a hole in one." She totally cracked up in giggles at her own humor.

We tried to leave as discreetly as we could, sure in our drug induced paranoia that everyone in the room would be watching us, even though we had been molesting each other for half an hour without anyone so much as giving us a second glance.

Once we were out on the darkened golf course she leaned against me and said, "Eddy, where's the eighth hole. Really, I only got two honey. Well three, but were not going to that back one, not happening."

"Uhh . . .It's over this way I think." I was too stoned to remember where the eighth hole was, even though I had birdied it earlier in the day. We wandered around for a while until we found a green. I had no idea what hole it was, but at this point neither of us cared. We just wanted to fuck.

"Oooh Eddy. Is that the hole you're going to fuck?" she staggered across the green towards the pin.

Suddenly one of those brief flashes of sanity kicked in. Her spiked heels were putting holes in the green. As a life-long golfer and an ex-caddy, maintaining the condition of a green was to me like preserving the sanctity of the Mormon Temple in Salt Lake was to my boss. "Darling, darling, I said. You've got to take those shoes off. You're . . . "

She interrupted before I could explain about the green, "Oh, yeah you're right. I need to get naked. It's always better to be naked when you're fucking."

With that explanation she promptly peeled off all her clothes tossing them wildly around the green. Everything but her shoes that is.

"Cathy, the shoes," I said.

"Don't you like to fuck a lady with sexy heels on?" she asked. "I know a lot of guys who do."

"Oh I do. I really do, but not on a golf green. No, not here."

"Well, all right, she said as she reached down and released the catch on the shoes, " but you better be good, and besides how come you still got all your clothes on. When do I get to see that big dick of yours?"

Now that she was no longer desecrating the golf green with her Jimmy Choo's, or whatever they were, I was happy to strip down. Like her, I tossed my clothes around the green, and I was soon standing naked before her with my dick standing out and up. It was seriously ready to go. She dropped to her knees, and after massaging it for a moment or so, she inhaled it into her mouth. What an experience, standing nude in the middle of a golf green while an attractive young lady gave me a blow job. We did that until I got concerned about blowing my load to soon. I pulled back and lay down on the grass next to her. "Sit on my face honey."

She responded with enthusiasm and was soon on her knees, her pussy smashed against my face as I licked her lips and clit. I didn't give any thought to the question of whether anyone could hear us, but I quickly worked her up to a storm of moans, groans, whimpers and occasional loud bursts of obscenities praising my cunnilingus skills. When she came, she screamed loud enough to wake her husband, had his condo been anywhere near the green.

"Oh Eddy honey. That was so fucking good. I haven't cum like that in ages. Nobody eats pussy like you." She had slid back down my chest a bit and was slumped forward, her tits laying on my face.

"But now Eddy what I want is for you to fuck me. Yes, that's what I want Eddy. I want that big hard cock in my cunt."

I rolled her over so we were lying missionary style and I had no problem pushing my cock into her. She was wet and ready. I didn't think I would last long. Neither did she. We fucked away like rutting animals for five minutes or so.

"Oh fuck Eddy, your cock is so good. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh god, Eddy I'm getting close. I'm going to cum again. Can you cum now Eddy honey? Can you squirt that hot cum of yours in my cunt? Oh yes Eddy. Fill me up just fill my cunt up with that hot, nasty cum of yours.

I redoubled my efforts, pounding her for all I was worth . I could feel I was close to cumming and so was she. Just when we were hanging on the ragged edge, both of us—the fucking sprinklers came on. It didn't matter. That cold blast of water pushed both of us over the edge. We both screamed as we arched our backs forcing my cock farther into her than I had ever imagined it would go.

It wasn't the longest climax in the history of sex, by any means. But it felt like all of my internal systems were emptying themselves. The cold water made it sharp and short, and then we were both scrambling around on our hands and knees trying to find our now soaking wet clothing.

I think we left her panties and my jockeys on the green—a thrill for a groundskeeper. We pulled what we could find on, including her Jimmy Choo's and headed back to our respective condos. I would have invited her in, but I was sharing a unit with my Mormon boss, and as good as she was, I really didn't want to meet her husband.

I saw her briefly the next day. She was across the room from me at one of our technical sessions. Since spouses do not attend those, I realized I had inadvertently complied with my boss' admonition about not fucking customer's wives. Apparently, I had fucked the customer instead. I decided not to ask him what he thought about that.

I couldn't quite read her name tag, and she left the room before I could get close enough to get a good look at it. I don't think it said, "Cathy."

A total failure as a salesman, I told myself as I finished the last of my coffee. I didn't get the customer's name or even her firm's name. I still don't know if we made a sale. But, to put it bluntly, she was a great piece of ass. It was time to head up to Moraga for a round of golf.