Welcome to my latest series, mashing up a few more tropes. This series turned out to be a crazy ride, so get ready for something that ends quite unlike it begins.
One thing you can be sure of, even though this is Literotica, and this story could easy veer off into... THERE, it does not in fact, go THERE. So either don't fear, or don't get your hopes up, whichever your preference.
Lastly, as always, I am not going for deep truths or gritty realism. The aim for me is a plausibly ridiculous course of events.
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Guilty Pleasures - Eight
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"Come on, Mon! It's obviously a freaking horse," Stan snapped at his wife when Peter called time.
We were at another couple's home this weekend for the neighborhood get-together, playing Pictionary.
"But, its legs are too..." Monica, his wife tried to counter.
"A horse! A horse! For the love of all... I said no to dog three times!" Stan almost yelled. "Can't you see, woman?"
The rest of us were quite uncomfortable, to say the least. It was not long after this that a break was mutually called for, and more drinks supplied. Not always the best medicine for a tense situation, but things did calm down. Stan went back to being a tool to other people, mostly other guys, instead of to his wife, and that was a lot more situation normal.
Yancey and I were both past masters of avoiding Stain, I mean, Stan, and we huddled together, outside of his current orbit.
Yancey was being his own brand of weird. I was leaving for Las Vegas Tuesday morning, and he wanted to talk about my trip. That was more than a little weird, because, well, I was taking his wife with me, for the express purpose of having as much crazy sex as we could squeeze into two days and two nights, midweek. And he knew that, because it had been his idea in the first place.
The fact that this was neither the weirdest or the most shameful thing I'd done that month told me a lot of what depths I had sunk to. At least the Vegas trip was arguably not shameful... I mean, it was nothing but fucking another man's wife for seventy-two hours straight.
"I haven't been to Las Vegas in years," Yancey said, manfully trying to enjoy the Budweiser that our hosts had not started chilling early enough in the day. "I need you to place three bets for me while you are out there."
"Three bets?"
"Yeah. I made those same three bets each time I've been. I never win, but it is tradition. And good things usually come after I do, so..."
"Superstition?"
"Superstition," he confirmed. "First time I placed them, I got a raise when I got home. Second time, we found the house we live in now. Fourth time, a relative I didn't know existed left me twelve grand when she died."
"Checks out," I agreed.
We then had a long wrangle about whether cabs or Ubers were better in Las Vegas these days, which was pointless since it had been at least five years for us either of us since we'd last been there. We talked about buffets. We talked about Blackjack and Craps.
What we did not talk about was Wanda. At all. The subtext, of course, was that she would be doing all this stuff, and lots more, with me. That was quite clear. But she was not mentioned.
"You really ought to go check out one of the topless revues," Yancey said. "Like X-Burlesque, or Fantasy down at the Luxor."
"You think... I should go to a casino sex revue?"
"A little clean, dirty fun never hurts. To kick things off, you know?" Yancey said, his voice just a touch strained. Yuck. This was Yancey's idea. This whole, larger thing was at his insistence! I did not need him getting flutterbyes. And Wanda and I did not need anything to kick things off. We kicked off quite nicely together whenever we were alone these days...
*
The next morning, I found myself, God help me, looking at reservations for X-Burlesque, which was closer to Caesar's than the Luxor was.
This was ridiculous. I picked up my phone and texted Wanda.
ME
: Yancey is trying to get me to buy us tickets to a tittie show.
ME
: Um, do I buy us tickets to, like X-Burlesque?
This was idiotic. But I was unsure on what the etiquette was about suggestions from a husband when you were taking his wife across state lines for immoral purposes...
WANDA
: Fuck no!
Thank God.
WANDA
: He told me his idea too. I already booked us for a show called Rouge. It has super buff, half-naked dudes to go with all the titties.
Her text was followed by no LOLs, no JKs, no Gotcha gifs... She was serious.
Apparently, we were going to a tittie show our first night in Las Vegas.
*
My Thursday workday always ended with a product design meeting, which was almost always a huge waste of time. They had been invaluable earlier in the process, but now they were a sort of zombie calendar event. A whole crowd of our top people wasted valuable workday hours in a room, each presenting an 'update' in turn with information that was usually not new at this point in the process, and which everyone knew already anyway. It was not a 'this meeting should have been an email' sort of situation, it was a 'this meeting shouldn't be happening at all' kind of thing.
But this meeting still happened anyway, every week, because no one quite wanted to be the one to suggest we kill it. And it would be critical once again later on when we spooled up the next design cycle. So I sat there, having wasted everyone's time already with my non-update, listening to Frida do the same with hers, all while trying not to notice too much that Thalia had bought a new suit that actually outright flattered her figure. Her figure that, yes, as I suspected, deserved some flattery.
Our president Thalia did, at least, run a tight ship during meetings. Trevor would let them go on forever if left to his own devices. He hated meetings, but could not stop himself, once one began, from exploring every rabbit hole he found. He and Thalia butted heads a fair amount, but one area where he especially valued her was the way she kept his meetings on point.
This week was particularly pointless, and Thalia had us done by 5:30. As was my habit, I left work at the end of the meeting.
I used that early departure to occasion my grocery shopping each week. My ex had always done that task while we were married and I wasted tons of food and made lots of emergency supplemental trips to the store when it first was just me, shopping for food on my own. Nowadays, I was a machine. I kept a record of my standardized kitchen and freezer inventory, and re-filled it as needed. I planned my meals, and added those specific requirements each time I hit the store. And yes, I always left myself a little time to wander and see what new products there might be for me to try. I had grown to like the grocery store.
I had felt like trying a different brand of hot dogs this time, and I was standing there with my hands full of wieners, looking back and forth between them, when I heard a merry voice. "That's a lot of hot dogs. Is that all a single guy eats?"
I looked up and saw Monica Ashburn leaning over a full cart. I had a momentary brush with a heart-attack when I saw a fresh pineapple in the upper basket of her cart. But it was sitting upright, thank God.
Yes, the upside-down pineapple in the grocery cart is a real thing. No, you won't get hit on every time. But you will get hit on a surprising amount. I guess the rest of America has a hidden sex life. It is not just me.
Still, considering her husband Stan, if Monica had her pineapple upside down, I'd have understood. And I'd have wished her luck.
But hers wasn't upside down.
"Gotta resupply for my daughter's hungry masses. I'm heading to the freezer section next for a new case of frozen burgers," I said, waving my hand over all the buns in my cart.
"Oh, that's right, your backyard 'kid-outs'," Monica remembered. Everyone knew about them. "You are a saint, Clark, cooking for and feeding that swarm all the time."
"Eh," I said dismissively. "It's just frozen hamburgers and hotdogs, soda, and... well, I
should
buy stock in Lays." I pondered the bags of Doritos and potato chips taking up a third of my cart glumly. "It's a small price to pay to see my college-student daughter on the regular. And honestly? She had good kids for friends."
I shied away from the fact that several of those friends had morphed into dangerous, shameful secrets. Also, I avoided the fact that I couldn't quite get up the moral fiber to hate myself over that transformation.
"It's entertaining," I finished lamely.
*
Sunday, Becca, who knew I was going to Las Vegas, but damned sure did not know who with, brought over a bigger gang than normal. Mary was back as a fixture after her brief banishment (exile?) (time in hiding?). Stephanie and yet another fucking cheerleader were there. And there were way more boys than usual that week.
I knew why, of course. The multiplicity of bikinis was only a side-benefit for most of these guys. The next week was the start of intern recruitment for the Fall. Most of these extra males had engineer's tans, which is to say, no tan at all. I lost track of how many times I gently slapped one or another of these supplemental dudes around about not putting sunscreen on.
I also took a lot of very surreptitious notes about these guys. I couldn't tell whether or not they had the necessary brains to fill our need, while in a setting like this, but I could tell a lot about their personality. There were a few that I thought might be pretty great. And more than a few that I did not want anywhere near my employees or any project I was working on, no matter if they were Steve Wozniak with circuits.
And of course, the fact that I had a Vegas trip coming up was discussed a lot. I ended up giving a half-hour tutorial on proper Blackjack strategy to about six guys. The four that instantly glommed onto the fact that it was a simple math problem got good marks in my secret book. The two that wanted to know where the fun was in using a rigid system like that, I internally struck off immediately.
Mostly though, I was left alone to my work, as was my want. I had more work than usual, because I was going to Las Vegas, and because I was typing up personnel reports.
And then Stephanie decided that she wanted her White Claw.
She came bouncing over, with the other cheerleader following. That girl remained standing, not sure why they had come over to talk to a fossil, but Stephanie seemed used to me by now and plopped down to sit on the chair facing me. She put her hands on the seat beside her pressed together legs and leaned forward with a brilliant smile. It was an innocent enough posture, in principal. But her shoulders hunched as she leaned toward me, along with her arms pressing in from the sides, squishing her considerable bust together and threatening to squeeze those mounds out of her bikini top like toothpaste from a tube.
Or at least that is what my diseased brain was hoping for in the moment.
"How ya'll doin' today, Mister Howard?" she chirped. "This is Bea," she added dismissively at her sidekick. No, to be fair, she wasn't being dismissive, she just seemed focused on me. "Do you have any new flavors for me this week?" she smiled, with a twinkle in her thirsty eye.
"I actually bought a Costco variety pack this week, Stephanie," I said, trying to pretend that the reason I was not looking her in the eyes was that I wanted to get back to my laptop. That was bullshit, of course. She had awesome tits, and they really did seem like they wanted to spill out. I was resigned to the fact that she had to be able to tell where I was looking, but maybe we could both keep it deniable.
"Oooh!" Stephanie giggled. "Mister Howard went and got me a selection!"
"You aren't the only 21 year-old who hangs out here," I scoffed. "And believe it or not, I also have friends my own age!"
