A House in the Country
Joe sent the email that night and had a call the next morning on his cellphone from a cheerful young female voice at the "club," which had no apparent name. The appointment was made for that same evening.
Joe and Gillian arrived around eight o'clock at a beautifully renovated farmhouse some 20 miles away, and a few miles beyond city limits. Joe had told Gillian that, based on Dave's description, it was more like a small resort in the country, not a chic urban sex club. The only identification was a gold medallion with a cursive "A" on the front door. Joe turned the knob and opened the door for Gillian.
They were greeted by a perky young blonde woman. She looked about 19 and was built like a college cheerleader. Maybe she was, Joe thought. He recognized her voice from his earlier phone conversation. The girl—Joe had trouble thinking of her as a woman—introduced herself as Peggy and ushered them in to the club director's office just off the front porch.
"Angela, this is Joe and Gillian Franklin," Peggy said. Gillian's breath caught when the woman Peggy had spoken to rose from behind a large oak desk and walked toward them eagerly and confidently, her heels echoing on the gleaming, hardwood floor until she reached the thick wool rug where the Franklins stood. She extended a white, perfectly manicured hand, adorned with red-painted nails, and beamed a glossy, matching red smile. A luxuriant pile of hair framed her face and hung in waves to her breasts. Like Gillian's, Joe thought, only red.
"Hello Franklins!" she cried energetically. I'm Angela Jefferson." She took each hand in turn. "I am so very pleased to meet you Joe and Gillian. I love that name, 'Gillian.' Sexy. Please make yourselves comfortable." She gestured to two leather-upholstered armchairs.
Joe and Gillian looked at each other. Gillian's expression seemed to say, "OK, here we go," as she and Joe sank into the chairs. The cushion was so soft and deep that Gillian's short black skirt rode up, fully revealing the tops of her stockings. She reflexively tried to tug at the hem to pull the skirt down, then gave it up and crossed one leg over the other, letting a smooth strip of white skin show between her skirt and her thigh-highs.
Angela beamed at Gillian, and then Joe. "I have to say, you are a beautiful couple. I'm so glad you've come to us. We adore Dave and Carla. Would you like a drink? I'm having one."
She crossed to a small bar beneath the large window, which looked out on the countryside, bathed in the early summer twilight.
"Thank you, Ms. Jefferson," said Joe, eyeing the bottle of Macallan. "I'd love a glass of that scotch."
Gillian cleared her throat, but when she spoke it still came out a bit hoarse. "Me too."
"Ahh, good taste. We'll make it three," Angela said, and poured three tumblers half full. Joe figured it would cost at least $20 apiece in most bars.
He caught Gillian's eye and mouthed, "Classy." But Gillian looked scared.
"And please call me Angela," the redhead purred.
Angela eased herself back against the edge of her desk and took a long pull on her scotch. The couple stared at the sweep of her firm, luxuriant body, nearly bursting from her sleeveless, cream-colored dress, which ended just below mid-thigh. She wore no hose or stockings and her perfect legs and fit disappeared into exquisite four-inch heels that exposed her perfect, painted toenails.
Angela took her time with her drink, gazing out the window, seemingly giving them time to drink in the sight of her.
Finally she turned her gray-green eyes on them and said, "My secretary filled me in on why you've come to our club tonight. I'm sorry for your trouble, but your misfortune may turn out to be very good for all of us. A win-win, as they say." She laughed—a, mirthful, gentle sound.
She looked at Gillian.
"I'll get right to it. Mrs. Franklin—may I call you Gillian?—I can see immediately that Dave was right. You are certainly what we would categorize as a Triple-A attraction, our highest and most expensive category." She swirled the scotch in her glass as she eyed Gillian. "About 28 is my guess, a perfect age. You have beautiful dark hair but your skin is fair. That's a bit unusual, and anything unusual is to be treasured. Your figure is excellent. You obviously take good care of yourself and work out regularly. Your breasts are above average in shape and size, but not too big. You might be surprised to know that most men don't actually prefer extremely large breasts, but all men like big red nipples. Judging from your skin tone, I'm guessing that I at least have the color right."
Joe marveled at her assessment, which was right on, and found himself mentally measuring Angela's breasts against Gillian's. A little smaller, but not much. He imagined they were as perfect as the woman's legs.
Angela continued her verbal inventory of his wife, who was fidgeting in her chair. Joe saw that she had already drained most of her scotch and must be feeling the effects. "Your legs are long and shapely and I saw when you came in that your bottom is firm but not hard. Men love some cushion back there." She winked at Gillian. "Women too."
Gillian giggled nervously.
