Guess Who Called

Guess Who Called?

I'd just gotten back from a business trip for a couple of days to Miami, when I found a change had started in my life without my knowledge or participation. My wife, Claire, picked me up from the airport at dusk, and as was our way, we stopped off for light dinner on the way home. Sitting in a little Italian restaurant several miles from our suburban home, we chatted about the week gone by. Her return-to-the-workforce job had been going much better since she'd cracked the code on improving her company's accounts receivable collections, and my trip had been both successful and stress-free, even giving me an afternoon to soak the warm sun beside the hotel pool, politely ogling the bikinis and letting my hormones build for my return. Claire had worn a yellow scoop-neck tank-top with a light sweater and a khaki mini-skirt, all of which looked really good on her 5"4", 120 lb. frame. She knows I love the tank-tops, especially when they're the non-shelf-bra types that allow her breasts to move freely. She sports great B+ cups that would be envied by 30 year olds and which are just stunning on her mid-40s bod. Her legs are smooth, but yet muscular in that female runner way, and she's got a great ass which she thinks is too big and which I like just the way it is, and would frankly also like just as much if it were a bit bigger - she doesn't get that at all. Anyway, put that combination together with her dirty blonde hair, a spring tan and a twinkle in her eye, and it is a wonder why my juices started to rush when she met me?. She knew that, of course, and sitting in the booth waiting for our pasta, she slipped out of the sweater and tantalized me by just sitting there across from me, her cleavage discernible above the material, her nipples emerging clearly from the gentle curving outline of her breasts under the light ribbed cotton - no shelf bra there, and no bra either, thankfully.

I interrupted her recounting of the accounting progress, noting her nipples convexing the top, "Nice 'pointers,' Claire. Have I told you that you look great tonight?"

"Yep, you did that at the airport, but it's ok for you to do it again, thanks."

"Well, you keep pushing those things in my face, and I'll start doing more than telling you about it. "

"Promises, promises. I hope you can wait until we get home."

"I'll try. Thousand one, thousand two. Gosh, whaddya know - I'm full - you ready to go?"

"But we haven't been served more than breadsticks and wine!" she laughed. She has a great, open laugh - not a giggle or a forced polite thing, but a happy, giving laugh - it's sexy in its own regard, and sometimes when I've brought her to a series of orgasms, she just lies there and laughs for a bit, - it's so great that now I'm downright Pavlovian - her laugh itself now turns me on.

Fortunately, we were talking softly and the restaurant was almost empty. The waiter returned with our pasta, did the usual solicitations for Parmesan and such, and left.

"Did you see him looking down your top?" I asked.

"No, I doubt he was anyway - you just wish he was so you can get your dirty mind tripping," she smiled.

"Oh now, he was definitely in the ogling mode. In that top, your cleavage is a magnet, and then I think your nipples just draw men's eyes - it's a little-researched law of physics -- biological magnetic potential as the 6th force in the universe - maybe I should start my own investigation on that, might lead to capturing an alternative energy source, solve all that global warming ozone problem, let us back onto the beaches again without guilt. You can be my hypothesis, and we can go around surveying sample populations."

"But you wouldn't have a control group."

"Yeah, but the out-of-control groups would appreciate the effort, in the pursuit of science, of course. Anyway, he was definitely looking down your top, and he definitely liked what he saw from the ridiculous amount of Parmesan you have there on your noodles. I think maybe he was trying to cover up the al dente state of his own noodle by the time he left."

"Damn, you're dirty. Have I mentioned that to you?"

"Not lately, but since you chose that outfit apparently just to torture me during this interlude, I think you know that I know that you know that."

"I suppose."

The waiter came back several times, sometimes to deliver food, sometimes I thought just to check out the view. I told Claire to lean forward a bit to improve her visibility, and that I was sure it would improve the service. The next time he passed by, heading somewhere past us, damned if she didn't do just that, blushing charmingly. He about left skid marks coming to a stop to ask if everything was to our satisfaction. I told him we were getting there, thanks. After that, he was a frequent flyer to our table, with nearly blathering descriptions of their desserts, while Claire eased into being used to knowing that I knew that she knew that she was exposing herself (ok, in truth only a moderate bit of cleavage, but it was damned sexy) to this kid. Finally, when check had arrived, and we were gathering to leave, Claire mentioned, casually as if it were a minor weather report, "Guess who called while you were gone?"

"Uh, the President? Aaarrrgghhh - I forgot to tell him I was going out of town!" I said, feigning concern.

She shook her head no.

"The Pope?"

"Nope."

"The Lottery headquarters, telling us about the big win?"

"Nope, not even close."

"OK, who?"

"Skip."

I missed a beat in my usual quick comeback, "THE Skip? Mr. EverReady Bunny?"

"Yes, that one, but that was a long time ago - he's probably wound down considerably after 20 years."

"Hey, fantasies don't age. Anyway, what'd he have to say?"

"Apparently, he's in town for a meeting of some sort, just called to say hey."

"And to come by for a boff for old times sake?"

"No - he just called to chat."

"OK, let me get this straight: you move three times to three different states since you last dated him, get married, twenty-plus years go by, and he 'just' calls to chat? It's not like you've been in touch - how'd he get our number - or have you been in touch and just didn't mention this?"

I was getting a bit confused by all this. The conversation had gone on as we left the restaurant and headed home in the car. Skip was a former lover, her last before we met, according to her of course. She was dating him when I came on the scene, and she's always been very vague about just when she stopped screwing him, but I always suspected there was some overlap, since it didn't take long for us to start. Over the years, I'd learned in bits and pieces that he was a fast trigger but a fast recovery as well. I on the other hand am a very slow trigger, but I'm usually not good for more than once a night - maybe twice if everything is just going spectacularly. I should also mention that in our sex play, I'd introduced the idea of fantasizing a MFM threesome at one time, which Claire rejected vehemently, which ended that foray. She seemed really offended by the idea, so we talked it out, and I think she got less offended, since I wasn't interested in her cheating on me, just in the idea of what two men together could do with her wondrous body. However, she pretty much shut down any such considerations, so I dropped it, reserving that part of my fantasy life for solo thoughts.

That said, Claire and I have what I think is a pretty terrific sex life. She always comes, at least several times a session and into double figures on a great night, and while I don't always come, I almost never have performance problems and can last quite a while. My endurance and my body's reluctance to orgasm may be a self-conditioning program developed over years and related to my relatively modest equipment. I tell myself I'm not far below the norm, but know I'm certainly not above it. Depending on a woman's experience, I suspect I may have provided the smallest dick several of my acquaintances have had. Claire tries to demur on that point, swears that she likes my equipment, that it's plenty for her, that it's not important to women anyway, and that my performance is great - the best in her experience, but what wife wouldn't say that? The idea of Skip, being able to screw her, come, take a break, be ready to go again, and repeat that up to 4 times in a night was always a bit daunting to me. Claire swore he never lasted more than 5 or 10 minutes after penetration, that he wasn't much of a fun guy outside the rack, and that she dropped him "soon" after our first date. The idea that he'd tracked her down was interesting - the possibility that she'd been in touch with him for some time - physically as well? - was both jealousy-inspiring and erotic to me. I needed more input.

"So how'd he find you?"

"He said he ran into George Nelson in a conference somewhere, got to chatting, and George gave him our number." That was reasonable, since Skip and George were both in the hotel business - George played golf with me on rare occasion - good guy, but not a close friend, knew we'd moved from where Skip was now from, etc. I could check out that part easily enough.

"And he just wanted to chat?"

"Yes, just to chat, I guess. . . . Well, he did ask me out to dinner for last night when I said you were out of town, but I said I couldn't do that."

"Why not?"

"Oh, come on. Do you really think I would have?"

"Well, you could have called and told me, to get my reaction."

"Well, I didn't. We just talked about family and such. He says he's doing fine, thinks of me fondly, thought we could go out and catch up. I told him that with you out of town, I wouldn't feel comfortable with that, and we signed off."

"OK, so did he tell you where he's staying?"

"Let me see - it was the Holiday Inn or the - no, it was the Hilton near the airport, now that I think back."

"Ah, now that you think back, you'll note that he told you where he's sleeping. I'll bet he left the door unlocked and was sorely disappointed to wake up alone this morning. Uh, he did wake up alone this morning, right?"

"How would I know? And why do you want to know where he's staying?"

"So you can call him back. Call him and invite him to dinner at our place tomorrow."

"No - I'm not that interested."

"Right. But I am. If there's nothing between you, you won't mind seeing an old friend. If he's still hustling you, it'll be obvious, and I'll get to say 'I told you so.' Besides, this is a turn-on, getting to see you with an old lover, especially one I know a little about. By the way, I presume I know more about his sexual experiences with you than he does about ours?"

"Of course, as in he knows absolutely nothing about ours. But you're not going to go there with him, are you?"

"Of course not - just clarifying, dearest Claire. You do know how I like to clarify," I said, referring to the pun on her name that I'd long since adopted as our code word for having sex.

She resisted and I persisted, and eventually, she called him at his hotel, invited him, and basically said, "nyah" to me to show she had nothing to hide. At this point, we were still enroute home from the airport and dinner. While she talked on the cell phone and I drove, I was grabbing at her tits and crotch, and she was fending me off, trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy. We were both enjoying it, her objections all mock, my attacks all gentle and affectionate. By then, I had an erection, for reasons I couldn't quite explain but that were for reasons beyond the grab-ass games. We got to the house, and I pretty much attacked her when we got inside. She was eager as well, and we laughed as we stripped each other and went at it in the living room, then ran to the bedroom where our bed is much better for that sort of thing. She was voracious, and I was in good form for me, and we had a pretty terrific fuck out of the whole thing.

I had the next day off, so with not much to do, I got to dwell on the prospects. We took a morning run (she runs farther, I run faster, so it's only occasionally but nice we compromise and run together), cleaned up and puttered around the house a bit, and went off to the grocer in town to shop for dinner. Settling on spinach salad for openers, then salmon with crabmeat for stuffing, I knew the dinner would be terrific. I promised to cook the main course, so she could fix the salad ahead of time and be a proper hostess while I chef'd.

By 7, the salad was set, the wine chilled, the crabmeat stuffing fixed, and the salmon ready for the oven, so there wasn't much of a need to desert the two of them, but I intended to anyway. I'd already gotten ready, and while she showered, I laid out a jersey material sort of a peach colored sundress that I love, along with some filmy beige lace "boy short" panties. The dress doesn't allow for a bra. In the front it dips down, showing the inner rise of her breasts, and its sides are pretty open. It laces from the sides across the back, showing more back than strap and dipping low to where her hips start to flare without quite getting down to her nether cleavage. Meanwhile, the skirt is flowing, coming just above the knee. It's so damn sexy, I get randy every time she wears it, and we have great sex as a result, and so it's pretty much another Pavlovian thing itself. She doesn't like thongs, and I wouldn't either if I were Claire - the boy shorts do great things for the view of her ass, and they're comfortable enough that she feels good and feels sexy in them. The beige ensured no visibility no matter what the light, which implied maybe nothing underneath, and which looked great when she was in just the panties, her trimmed bush lending the barest of shadows to their flesh tone.

When she emerged from the shower, I watched for her reaction to the clothes on the bed. "What's this?" she asked, and I knew there wasn't much mystery to it.

"I figured that even if nothing comes of the conversation and reunion, at least with that dress on, he'll leave with a hard on, and I'll get a great piece of ass tonight. Merely Machiavellian, my dear."

"You expect me to greet him without a bra, and with those flimsy things on underneath?"

"Well, ok, if you don't want to wear the flimsy, it's ok with me," I joked back.

"Yeah, right. I don't know. This is all well and good that we tease about this sort of thing, but I don't want to give him the wrong impression, and I don't want you getting that either."

"Just humor me, Claire. Think of it as my harmless little fun, and we'll go with the flow and see what a fine evening you can have in the company of two men who have loved fucking you, one who intends to do it again this evening, and one who probably hopes he might be so fortunate again."

At that, the doorbell rang. She was standing naked and visibly jumped. I told her I'd get it and, giving her a quick kiss, I left for the front door.

Skip had never quite been described by Claire, other than he was shorter than my 5' 11", and under duress (applied over the years by me, gently, of course) that she vaguely recalled that maybe his cock was "a little shorter, maybe a little thicker." I had no way of telling, of course, if that were true, but it was a nice way for her to tell it - no put down, no recollection of equine dimensions, a safe answer. Of course, that answer was probably given never expecting to see him again, so she "knew" that whatever she invented would have been whatever I believed, without risk. For a woman who rarely forgets anything, including exactly where everything in her college dorm room was as well as what I might have said months ago in passing, not being able to remember a cock she'd fucked repeatedly wasn't exactly convincing, but it had always been her story and she'd stuck to it.

What Claire didn't know was that I'd met Skip by coincidence a few years back, when we both ended up at a seminar together. I recognized the name and verified the background during small talk. I never introduced myself, and he never let on if he got or recognized my name, and so maybe he was oblivious, and maybe we were both checking each other out.

He hadn't changed much since I'd last seen him, about 10 years ago. He was a little chunkier than I was, and an inch or two shorter than my 5' 11" ('never could stretch that to 6 feet, not the only thing I wished I could have stretched to a 6). He had more hair, since I'd lost mine over the years and made no effort to hide the result. Claire never complained, just made sure she always referred to Sean Connery as being hot, hotter without the toupees, probably for my benefit, but appreciated nonetheless.

"Hello, you must be Jim," he greeted me with outstretched hand, holding a bottle of wine in the other. Neither of us had gone to pot, and we quickly checked out each other at the door. I suppose if we'd been dogs we'd have warily sniffed each others' crotches, with our hackles up - human beings, however, do the same thing in what we perceive to be a more subtle way. I invited him in, got him his requested rum and coke (rum and coke?! give me a break - that was a great thing for him to order if he was trying to make me feel confident - I should have thanked him), me a scotch and ice. I didn't let out that we'd met before, nor did he show any sign of that. I had white wine chilled and opened for Claire when she joined us. Cobbling together some cheese and crackers, we went into the living room and made small talk.

"So, I understand you dated Claire before we met," I ventured, safely. No reason for delay.

"Yeah, that was a long time ago. I'm glad to see she's doing so well." Obviously, we were still in the dance of the cautious males, trying to keep each other off balance, no risk, trying to position for position.

"She was surprised to hear from you. When's the last time you two saw each other, anyway?"

"Gosh, let me see," he said, glancing up and left. Was that a classic liar's body language give-away? " - it's gotta be a good 20 years - I don't quite recall. We just sort of lost touch, I guess."

(yeah, sure, so much so that you tracked her down, and somehow found her, eh? Claire definitely told me that she told Skip she'd met someone, i.e. me, so she wouldn't see him anymore - quite a segue to "lost touch")

"Well, since we both have great affection for her, this should be a great evening - a husband on the verge of jealousy, and an old lover dropping by with all those old memories rekindled."

I think he didn't know what to make of that, my surprising him by being pretty blatant yet just this side of offensive. He turned away, strolling to look at the artwork around the living room, finally responding, "Uh - huh. I guess." then after a moment, "Listen, I don't want to make this difficult for you, by the way. There's no reason for you to be jealous. We're just old friends at this stage."

"Oh, don't worry - I think I'm going to just relax and enjoy the evening, and I hope you do as well." I appreciated his willingness to be straight, or to seem that way at least, and decided I actually liked the guy. That was a real relief as I realized it, which cheered and relaxed me.

At that moment, Claire entered the room, looking ravishing and embarrassed to be dressed in the outfit she knew I loved for its sensuality. But, she was wearing the dress - something she had all the power not to. Duly noted. I was turned on by the sight of her as usual, and more turned on by the situation.

"Skip - you haven't changed - great to see you," she offered safely, and crossed the room to accept his hug and kiss on the cheek.

"Claire, you look even better than I'd remembered - Jim here has been good for you, it appears."

"Yes, he's great - and how's Sheila?"

"Ah, we got divorced two years ago -- when the kids went away to college, we lost the reason to stay together, I guess."