All characters within this story are at least 18 years of age.
*****
Liza Marlow tooled down the long drive at the Wilson estate in her top-of-the-line Lexus, looking and feeling like a million, and quite literally. The exceptionally wealthy widow, said to be the richest in town and worth well in advance of $100 million, was dressed to kill in her short, clingy breezy white summer dress, her silvery blonde hair wispy on her slender shoulders.
An attendant up ahead waved her into a huge grassy parking area on the estate. Beyond was a huge tent, under which were other members of the area's rich and elite, the occasion being a $1,000-a-ticket fundraiser for the arts in a nearby city down on its luck and in need of the largesse of the wealthy who were more than eager to do their share by nothing more than writing a check.
"Park over there, ma'am, by the Lincoln if you would," the good-looking male attendant with the fluorescent baton in his hand, waving her by. "There are golf carts to give you a lift to the event if you don't want to walk."
"Thank you, young man," Liza cooed, dropping her sunglasses down her nose to check out the fine looking specimen and stopping at his nameplate. "Will you be here later, when the event is over, Bradford?"
"Likely I will, ma'am," the shaggy-haired blonde college student beamed, adding "How did you know my full name? Only my grandmother calls me that!"
"I'm good with young men, I guess," she smiled. "See you later, I hope. I want to give you something a little special."
The young man's puzzled look pleased her as she drove by. She parked where instructed, got out and sure enough, a golf cart appeared. The caterers had taken care of everything, not leaving the wealthy to walk the last 100 yards to the soiree by the seaside Wilson estate.
"Ride, ma'am?" a smiling driver asked Liza.
"Certainly, young lady," Liza smiled back at the beaming teen brunette, a pretty little thing with the name of Cassie on her nametag pinned above a smallish but pert tit. "How do I look?"
"Oh, goodness, you look beautiful, ma'am," the teen said as the cart puttered across the lawn, casting a sidelong glance at the gorgeous 65-year-old widow who now crossed her lean, muscular legs in the cart. "Just beautiful."
"Why thank you, my dear," Liza laughed, the slight breeze blowing through her silky hair. "Even in your uniform, you look quite lovely yourself. Quite, quite lovely."
The girl stiffened as Liza cupped her solid thigh through the snug black uniform pants hugging them.
"Uh, thank you ma'am, thank you," the girl stammered nervously.
"Not at all," Liza laughed easily, squeezing the girl's hard thigh. "Solid legs. Like an athlete. You're an athlete in college?"
"Yes...ma'am, I am," the girl answered with a mix of caution and pride.
"Love athletic young people," Liza sighed, finally removing her hand.
She left the cart, enjoying the warm rays of the late afternoon sun. The event started at 5 and would run until 8, with drinks and appetizers served, a silent auction held, all of it gathering up tens of thousands of dollars for the arts cause.
She strolled through the lush archway to the estate's main grounds, the gently undulating green sea beyond. Hundreds of people milled about, drinking, gnoshing, schmoozing, most of them at least her age or much older, some with canes, all oozing money.
She looked around and smiled as a young man in a tight white shirt and black uniform pants approached with a tray of champagne. The worker stopped and offered a glass to Liza, who graciously took it and eyed him up and down.
This was the reason she was here, young people like this lovely, apparently athletic stud, no doubt a college student working a catering gig in summer.
"Why thank you...Marcus," she said, eyeing the name tag on his neatly pressed white shirt on a wonderfully sculpted chest.
"No problem, ma'am, any time," Marcus smiled, turning to walk away.
"Uh, not so fast, young man," she stopped him, Marcus turning to face her. "I was looking for something else besides champagne, something a bit more suitable to my tastes."
He cocked his head in confusion.
"Ma'am?"
She looked around and saw a small, unused structure near the estate's beach, a short walk away, lined by trees.
"Follow me," she said somewhat more sharply now, walking away from the crowd unnoticed.
"Ma'am?" Marcus said, standing still, totally unsure of what to do.
"Oh for heaven's sake, Marcus, just follow me, you'll see," she said curtly, nodding at the drink tray. "And put that down, you won't be needing it."
"But ma'am," he said uncertainly. "I have...I'm working...I have to..."
She walked up to him, his back to the crowd under the tent about 20 feet away from where they stood near the tree-lined walkway she was attempting to guide him down. She looked up into his big brown eyes and reached down to cup his crotch. Startled, he jumped back, the glasses swaying on the tray, spilling sparkling liquid on it.
"You are here to serve the guests, that is your job, and I'm a guest, likely the most wealthy one here," she snarled, squeezing his cock and quite pleased to feel it thicken in her slender, practiced fingers. "Now serve me."
He gulped, looking around nervously. Backing up, he quickly put the tray down on a high-top table near the edge of the tent and walked back toward the lovely, leggy widow making her way down the path. He looked around nervously to see if anyone were watching. No one was, all the guests caught up in their mindless conversation about their portfolios or latest luxury vacations or trying to top each other with stories of their Ivy League-attending grandchildren.
