October of '17

All rights reserved, NotLloydG 2021

This story can read alone, but it follows, and is best read after, "The Summer of '12".

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Clickety clack went the Ferragamo point toe pumps on the pavement at 48th and Avenue of the Americas. Clickety clack, the heels were attached to some long, shapely and athletically-toned legs that disappeared into a tailored, belted blue wool and cashmere dress worn under a short wool blazer of forest green edged in navy. The dress hugged (discreetly) an athletically-toned body and high, C-cup breasts. Almost 5'8" above the ground (actually higher, as she was wearing heels, after all) erupted a carefully, if naturally, coiffed mane of blonde hair. Her face was elegant, high-cheek-boned, even somewhat stern (some might say haughty) unless softened by a dazzling and engaging smile.

It was an unseasonably warmer October, or perhaps seasonably warm in the new normal, so she did not stride quite as fast as she might normally. As she hit Fifth she found the pedestrian traffic moving slowly. She loved this season when the city shed the summer's heat and began to sparkle again. Her office -- a corner for the last two years -- had a view northwest to the river and northeast to the expanse of the Sheep meadow in the Park. Come 615 the sky westwards had blazed into a striated painted horizon of orange and red and yellow, with the sky above fading first into cerulean blue and then a deeper indigo. The lights of the towers blazed and sparkled against this backdrop.

She'd been indecisive where to go to exercise. She belonged to a large and quite formal club facing the greenery on Central Park South, but she was heading her university's club, which lurked across from Grand Central behind a façade of stone and arched windows. The gym and the pool were both much smaller but much closer to the restaurant she was dining at.

The doors under the blue awning were held open for her and she strode to the changing rooms. Once in the fitness room she ran on a treadmill for half an hour at a steady 12.5 kilometre-an- hour pace, used the pilates machine, showered quickly and then changed to swim. Her conceit was to wear a bikini, which caused the odd stare (from the two women at the pool) and admiring glance (from the men). Dark blue, it cupped her breasts. From the day she had arrived in the US from Holland she marvelled at how many American women wanted to have a demure "modest one piece bathing suit" image, even if they were fantastic sluts. As it was, it wouldn't be forever that she could get away with a bikini, so why not wear it?

The locker room wasn't overly busy. She knotted her hair up in a bun, undressed and walked to the shower naked but for some green flip flops; some women taking in her high, firm breasts and tight pink nipples that swayed ever so gently and some women glaring because she did not cover up with a towel. Her skin was porcelain white, contrasting nicely with the wood tones around. In Europe nudity of this sort in the locker room was not a big deal; even nudity in the pool wouldn't be a big deal in some countries.

She arrived at the shower and, walking by one stall she glanced and noticed a red-haired woman in her 20s had a bush (trimmed, but full coverage); she far preferred her streamlined, fully waxed look. Funny how fashions changed...

She soaped herself slowly, fingers running over her toned abs. She was actually fitter and a little slimmer than during the torrid summer of her affair with a younger man five years before. She had run another half marathon and even done ski-toured the Cinque Torri.

The sight of the woman's reddy-auburn hair reminded her of that summer half a decade ago, of the young man with tawny hair who had demonstrated such sexual yearning for her. They'd pushed boundaries together in a mix of hedonistic lust and borderline risky public behavior on an island filled with the well-heeled and their summer homes.

That flame had burnt bright in 2012, and then guttered out as he went to university and her husband returned from Singapore. In 2013 she had gone to the island mainly in July, not August, for family reasons. That year she heard he had done a summer internship in Shanghai. One day the next summer she'd snuck away to the nude beach, a favorite of theirs during the affair, and she spied him with a 5'8" blonde with long hair, C cups and athletic frame: a compliment to her in younger form. She'd nestled discreetly amidst a fold in the dunes; when she popped up they were nowhere to be seen. She stood up, giving a good view to a passing jogger, and raced to the ocean for a quick dip. She dried off and then left about half an hour later. He'd evidently seen her, because that afternoon by the pool she found a bag of the same dog treats he used to bring her Labrador. It was an ambiguous thing because it came without a note.

Her left fingers strayed over her smooth pussy lips and her right hand soapily caressed her ass crack. An observer would have thought that this was a woman remembering a feeling of sexual intoxication. Her eyes closed. And then she stopped and seemingly pulled herself together. She dressed efficiently

The pumps were clickety-clacking on the black and white marble tiling of the club's entrance hall when she heard her name. She gazed up. A smiling red haired young man, older, more fully set, somehow stronger looking, was smiling at her.

Hard to frazzle in a boardroom, she was temporarily lost for words. Admitting that she'd been on the verge of fingering herself in the shower thinking of him was not a good opening line, so she settled for "Hello."

"What are you doing here" was a next line: a legitimate question, if not a really original one.

"Applying."

"I thought you went to.. oh yes, you we share the Club with your university...". This was a garbled acknowledgement that the years ago club had made the financially wise decision to admit to membership alumni of a lesser Ivy.

"Let's have a drink in the bar" he said, grinning.

"I have a dinner."

"Preposterous. You never eat this early."

And then she was sitting in the bar with him. He was 100% scrubbed traditional East Coast energy, the kind of boy that became the men who built postwar America. He looked good in his blue suit, sitting in a bar with leather sofas and wood panelling like he had always belonged there. In a sense he had.

In a subtle joke that reached down too many layers to even be remotely funny, she ordered a very old-fashioned drink: a dry martini. He did the same, which further ruined her attempt at irony because his enthusiasm in ordering it was unfeigned and not ironic.

They began with the easy stuff. He had the good manners to ask about her first: she was now some rungs up in the partnership, a reasonably prominent board spot, a growing client list feeding several more junior partners. "But enough about me. You graduated and..?"

He'd graduated. He'd trodden the traditional post-Ivy route and become an investment banker. Times Square offices. "Dad's old firm, so he was happy. Happy I didn't go to the two other obvious places: he thinks both their CEOs are pricks. He even bought me a place when he heard the news."

"Aren't you supposed to be working until midnight every night. Shouldn't you be back in the hive, 24/7 worker bee?"

"They slack off sometimes and let us sneak out. They lose too many people so I suppose it's a little easier now than in the old days."

"Work dinner tonight?" he asked her? She gazed at him as if to admire his newer, more mature good looks.

"Sort of. I am seeing an old friend who very fortunately for me is now corporate counsel. Business meet pleasure."

He glanced at her ring. "Yes. Still. Thanks to the miracle of boarding schools and husband's promotion to oversee some offices in Asia it's a very 21st century kind of being together. I will see him next in ten days."

"You look great" his hand edged over the table towards her. Here it comes.

"Now I really do almost look old enough to be your mother."

"You look as young and as hot as ever. 40s but looking 30s."

"Aren't you supposed to be picking up girls in bars downtown so they can try and marry you before you become a partner at a hedge fund? Hitting on an older woman looks like a complete misapplication of energy. Your spreadsheet should tell you that it is an unprofitable effort."

His hand reached hers. She glanced around the bar; he wasn't being obvious but they were where they were! She left her hand touching his for a significant four seconds, and the withdrew it, a small smile on her face. He was beaming as he leaned forwards: no mistaking where his mind was.

She finished her martini with a gulp and mouthed "I have to go". They shook hands under the blue awning and then laughed as they both turned towards 44th. They said a second goodbye, this time leaning in to do a more affectionate cheek-kissing. This gave him the chance to discreetly grab her hand and hold it. An observer would have seen her smile at him in a way that suggested a complex cocktail of emotions.

The next day was a sunny Friday before a long weekend. The streets below were brightly lit and sharply delineated. Her office telephone rang, a surprise given how far communications had shifter to wireless. It was a conference room in their offices two floors below.

She picked up the Cisco handset and answered it in a practiced, professional and soothing manner. Her face read surprise as her red-haired ex-lover and drinks-mate of the night before spoke.

"What are you doing in my office?" she almost laughed.

It turned out that he was part of a large deal team and had been tasked with the all-important task of walking some documents over.

"Can we have a drink?"

"Don't you have work to do, worker bee?"

"Can I see you?"

"No. And even if I wanted to I have to leave for a meeting. So no."

"I'm pouting with sadness."

"I'm sighing with irritation." She said, with rather more tenderness in her voice than the words alone would suggest.

She decided to escape from her building, which was large and had multiple exits, but he had had guessed right and, standing at the corner, spotted her and trotted up.

"This city is not as anonymous as you might think, young man." He grinned in response and fell into step with her as she moved up Avenue of the Americas. He nattered away about how much fun it would be to have a drink until they turned onto 55th, then he went into full sell mode.

They were in front of a Beaux Arts hotel at the corner of Fifth when she relented. She looked up, making his eyes grow wide until he said "The rooftop bar, silly man. Everyone we'd know is leaving town for the weekend."

The terrace enjoyed late afternoon warmth augmented by the odd heater. They sat at a round table at the end of the terrace near the bar. She had a glass of white Burgundy and, as she enjoyed being the object of such enthusiasm, another. He paused, smiled and said "I'll be right back", motioning with his head towards the washrooms.

She started to check her emails and then noted the length of his absence: it was a long time to be in the washroom. She read two more emails, tapped out a response to one and then looked up to see him emerging outside with an enormous grin on his face.

He motioned "again" to the waiter and sat down. She chided him for naughtily ordering another drink and then asked "What took you so long? Sick or did you book a room?"

He said nothing. The drinks then arrived with what seemed like inopportune haste, because she intuited that his lack of response was in fact an all too clear answer. He had secured a room (he wasn't afraid to spend money on this attempted seduction). She spoke slowly and softly, partly muffled by the traffic below. "I came up here to flirt, not fuck." Her use of the last word visibly inflamed his face. He fished the room card in its carboard wallet out of his suit pocket and flashed it by her.

"Please" he pleaded, earnestly.

----

The room faced Fifth and the historic building set above the streetfront jewellers. They were silent and apart, drawing together a few feet from the window for a slow kiss. He began to undo her belt, causing her to glance at the window. "Leave it open" and he continued to strip her. Belt. Jacket. Dress (more of a struggle). She slipped out of her shoes. He'd kicked his shoes off and his suit was now strewn on the bed. Her bra was off and his hands (surprisingly soft for a sailor) reacquainting themselves with her tits, thumbs twirling her nipples. Somehow his boxers and socks were off and a stiff cock was wagging out from the tails of a Brooks Brothers oxford shirt. She undid his tie and tugged it off even as his mouth descended to her right nipple to swirl and lick. He unbuttoned his shirt as his hands and mouth worshipped her torso, and then fluidly slung it onto the mattress.

He turned her to face the window, framing her in the window, and then began to kiss down her back as his fingers hooked into her thing and slid it down. He propelled her towards the window. There were people in the offices opposite, and people on Fifth 15 floors below, but the kisses and caresses felt wonderful.

He rose. She felt his stiff cock drag against her buttock and then nestle in the cleft, hard and hot pressure against her skin. He stroked from her upper arms downwards and inwards, hands meeting at the firm, flat belly above her pussy; he whispered in her ear."If the President is in his penthouse he could check you out. Or maybe the Secret Service can."

The President did not excite her, but the thought of being exposed to an agent, soaking her up through a rangefinder lens, caused her nipples to stiffen. His hands cupped her breasts, raising them almost as if he were presenting them to an audience across the road. She closed her eyes as his hand vanished from her right breast, hearing him slick it in his mouth (he had learnt well) before descending to trace the line of her slit. His cock was angling down the crack of her ass as he pressed against her, pushing her closer to the window. His hands returned to her tits -- again, the presentation -- and she opened her eyes. She did have an audience now. A man her age, pudgy, balding, was staring across. He had clearly seen shenanigans in the hotel before because his gaze was intense, not surprised.

As a finger began to trace her moist slit again she locked eyes with the man and reached back, edging back her red-haired lover to grip the shaft of his shaft, feeling its pulses and heat. She began to stroke it with little jerks of her wrist.

She ended the show by pushing back and sitting at edge of the bed, legs spread to invite her lover's attentions. He sank to his knees between her legs and kissed up her right thigh. He used his left had to push her back onto the mattress, the better to open her up for exploration. He ran his tongue up and down each lip before beginning to gently explore the slit with the tip of his tongue. He tipped her clitoris sideways, in his excitement pouring more saliva onto her and lubricating it so much he took and index finger to scoop it up and use it as lubricant to begin to finger her pussy to the second knuckle. As tonguing increased in intensity he curled the tip of his finger up and in to try and tickle out a reaction from her g-spot.

Her legs began to tense against his shoulders, locking him in. She part raised her shoulders and head. He glanced up and their eyes met in a complicit gaze. His hands were stroking her lean flanks and toned stomach with surprisingly, excitingly soft caresses.

The tension in her frame increased and his tongue began to work faster. She pushed him away with a foot. "I don't want to cum yet". She motioned him up as she sat up, his penis swaying in her face, the foreskin pulled back to reveal the dark red cockhead.

He advanced towards her, the phallic shaft protruding like a battering ram. She opened her mouth to receive it, swirling her tongue around it as she gripped his hips to control pace and penetration. She bobbed deeper and deeper onto his cock, aiming for something deep though she was a little out of practice. Soon she was slurping and sliding along and back four or five inches of his cock, and he was moaning. She popped off it, a trail of saliva tying her to his penis, and then she raised the shaft to lap at his tight, impressive scrotum. She stroked his cock as her tongue patrolled the rougher surface of ballsack, tilting her head sideways to reach the underneath.

He glanced at the window and pulled her up by her wrists. He led her to the window and planted her hands in a brace position on the ledge. She started to look out the window, apparently both excited and embarrassed at what she might see across the way. "Let's give the Secret Service a treat" he chuckled as he edged her legs wider and began to slip around looking for the opening to her pussy canal. She reached back to guide him in. She was so wet with excitement and lubrication, and he so hungry, that they both let out simultaneous gasps as he was suddenly buried three quarters in. He began to drive in and out, soon burying his length in her. His hands gripped her asscheeks, opening her bum to his gaze and giving him a view of the pinky bud of her hole above the sight of his slick cock penetrating her pussy. In and out.

Possessed by a manic energy he paused and guided her to the bed, placing her on her hands and knees, bum upthrust. Pressing down on her back with one hand he steered his cock back into her. Having penetrated, he held her ass with one cheek in each hand, parting it open wide. One thumb edged towards her pink bumhole, caressing and pressing. Soon he was pistoning her, his balls slapping against her with each in-thrust. Her face was now flat sideways on the bed, her left forearm supporting her weight as she began to masturbate herself with her right hand.

She came before he did, a series of tremors quaking her body that gripped his cock and intensified both their pleasure. He began to withdraw but she encouraged him to stay in ("it's ok, I'm on the pill") and he began to empty himself into her, timing each thrust to a spasming ejection of sperm.

He stayed in for a minute, feeling a bit of sperm leak around him, before pulling out and flopping on his back next to her. She extended her legs to lie flat on her stomach. He parted disordered hair to see her shrouded face. His smile was broad and unfeigned and happy and adoring.

"You do realize this is crazy. This cannot become a thing." She said. He nodded back in a silent yes-but-no.

----

The weekend and a couple of busy workdays passed. Her husband was going to be sidetracked to Australia. He said sorry with a literal mountain of flowers (home and office). She wondered if that thing with the pretty Head of the Sydney office had something to do with it. Were the flowers guilt-by-neglect or guilt-for-sex?

It was therefore a good day for red-haired boy to call and propose a drink; and given that humans love habits, they picked the same bar and hotel as the week prior. The sky was already darkening when he called, and it was fully dark and much quieter in the city by the time they arrived.

Wednesday nights were not the buzziest nights at a rooftop bar, even inside. They were sitting having a drink chatting about everything except what they next planned to do in the hotel room downstairs. There was an unmistakable excitement between them, even if visible touching and flirtation was dialled down.

She noticed the couple watching them first. This was not hard, as the couple in question was at the next table and quite undisguised in their interest in them. They had even angled their chairs to improve their view. She studied them. The first thing they noticed was that this couple also demonstrated an age gap, though not quite as pronounced as theirs (the man was early 40s and the woman perhaps early 30s). The husband was chiselled white bread heartland good looks. He was something over six feet, trimmed light-brown hair and neat, conservative wardrobe overlaying an air of a university jock who had largely looked after himself. He even had a cleft chin and some dimples when he smiled. She was over half a foot shorter than her spouse. A prominent bosom was tucked into a conservative shirt. She had thick and lustrous brown hair that had been tamed by an energetic hairdresser into an ample, conservative mane of well-kept, well-coiffed soccer mom hair. Her legs were demurely crossed, revealing some thin ankles and shapely legs. High school quarterback married a younger cheerleader?