In the weeks after the surreal adventure in Rhode Island, I had a hard time focusing on my work. But as fate would have it (and won't it always?) there was a huge merger opportunity hitting us right then. The company concerned was not into software at all. They were large-scale brokers -- they invested for big clients. Enthwistle was amongst them, I saw.
Onslow had long since tired of getting his money via the indirect way of first producing stuff. He wanted to expand into this first-hand money. He wanted to set up a second leg of the company and this merger was a great way to start.
I didn't object to this strategy. Numbers had always been my game. I was supposed to be the octopus, stretching my tentacles in every conceivable direction to collect data and do my magic with them. I had to ponder their validity -- separating the wheat from the chaff.
At first I was too distracted. Since I had to travel a lot to meet the people behind the data, I was often alone. And alone meant brooding -- mulling over my frustrations in empty hotel beds or at lonely breakfast tables; or worse -- at bars, over slowly melting ice cubes in empty whiskey-glasses.
That is where I met Shireen.
The girl should be called a woman, I guess, but she looked too young for that. She and I seemed to be the last people at the bar when all the others had gone to have dinner.
She was blonde, in a modest, honey-colored way -- the hair was cut in a bob style. It left her neck and the lobes of her ears free, while covering her cheeks with sweeping tresses. She had a long and very kissable throat. Her dress made me think of old movies -- Audrey Hepburn, maybe.
She had the fragile frame and the huge eyes to go with it.
Her smile was hesitant, almost wounded. It must have been caused by my rather rude attention. I was so deep in thought that I didn't realize I was staring at her. It made her blush.
When I got out of my daze, I saw her embarrassment. I apologized with the rasping sound of an unused voice. Then I asked if she was waiting for someone.
She was, she said. But she feared she had been stood up by her dinner date. I started giving her the obvious compliment about the guy being stupid to miss out on a date with her. Then her cell phone rang. She fished it from her purse and mumbled into it -- her face turned away for privacy.
She had a lovely neck.
"That was him," she said, turning back to me with her insecure smile. "He can't make it -- business." She started collecting her purse and waving to the bartender.
I cleared my throat. Then I asked her if I could suggest substituting for her absent date -- just to add some delightful company to my otherwise barren dinner table. It was a gamble and a silly one, but she never said no.
She extended a narrow, white hand and told me her name was Shireen and, yes, the waiting had made her quite hungry. So I told her my name and minutes later we shared an intimate little booth in the back of the hotel restaurant.
"I never do this," she said, after we had ordered.
"Neither do I," I assured her and we laughed. Her laugh was wonderful. It was held in check by her guarded lips, but her big eyes lit a sparkle that suited the silvery sound of it.
She was married, she said. Only now did I see the modest ring she wore on her left hand. She thoughtfully turned it around on her finger. "My date was not with my husband."
I considered the range of implications. Then I told myself it was none of my business. I smiled. "I assume the date was meant to be as innocent as ours will be?"
She laughed again. The waiter poured our wine. We toasted. "To absent loved ones," I said.
She sipped. "Loved ones?" she asked, emphasizing the s.
"Long story," I said.
"Aren't they always?"
The waiter brought an amuse gueule -- it was that kind of restaurant. It was a simple spoon holding a mousse of truffled venison. She lifted hers from the table and brought it to my lips. The intimacy shook me, but I opened my mouth and let her feed me. Then I lifted mine and returned the compliment. She smiled. "Love birds," she said.
I studied her giggle. There was a forced quality to it. "What about your husband?" I asked. She pointedly looked away. When her eyes returned they were darker. "What about your wife, Bruce?"
"Ex-wife," I said.
"Ex...." she mused. "You feel married, though." And again she laughed her silver laugh. This time it was real. I joined her. "Look at us," I said. "Jetsam and flotsam."
I raised my glass in a toast.
***
Shireen was an efficient seducer. She never missed a shortcut during our meal to make the route to her end-goal the quickest possible. That goal was my bed. And her stepping-stones were flirtatious looks, little touches and rather shockingly direct remarks. On top of that there was her incredible laugh.
When we concluded the dinner with espressos and brandies, her body ended up being very close to mine. Her hand had long since disappeared under the exquisite damask tablecloth. The slow caressing of my thigh made my cock swell. She touched it and smiled.
I guess she knew how powerful the contrast was between her naïve, almost childlike appearance and the sluttiness of her conduct. I'm sure I didn't always hide my embarrassed arousal successfully. It amused her. Her laugh got throatier with every sip of wine she took.
Then her lips were on mine, followed by her tongue.
The ride on the elevator didn't interrupt our foreplay. Her tits were small and delicious. I had imagined them exactly like that, before taking them out of the top of her dress. Her mouth sunk over my cock before I even closed the door to my room. I lifted her face off of it to prevent my coming -- which would have been much too soon.
Carrying her glowing body to my bed was another step up to heaven. Her mouth sucked mine as one hand slowly stroked my poor defenseless cock. The other kneaded my ass, her fingers running the length of its crack.
After dropping her on the bed, I looked down on her. My hands were on both sides of her face. She stretched her body like a kitten, smiling wickedly. "You have a fine cock, Bruce," she moaned. "Can I have it?"
She could and she did. Not two minutes later my boiling sperm tore its way through my cock to splash against the entrance of her throat. She just swallowed, making tiny, satisfied sounds from deep inside. Her eyes had never left mine during the entire time she blew me. They were dark pools of quicksand sucking me in.
***
Shireen proved pretty much insatiable. We did it three times that night. She had numerous orgasms. If she faked any one of them, she must have been a great actress. I ate her between erections. She loved it and didn't exactly whisper her appreciation.
When we lay on the bed together -- exhausted and at the furry edge of sleep -- I turned to her, imitating her voice: "I never do this."
She laughed.
