Cat in the Rain

by D.T. Iverson

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Consensual, .

Desc: Romantic Sex Story: I spent a decade in Washington working with NSA and later DHS. This story depicts the DC culture as I witnessed it. I posted the original on another site, a while back. I thought I'd spiff it up and re-post it here. A few of you might think that I'm describing a den of iniquity. In the immortal words of Francis Urquhart "You might very well think that; I couldn't possibly comment."

There are a lot of ways a guy can discover his wife is cheating. There’s the ever popular, “unexpected arrival home.” Then there’s the tried and true, “a friend clued me in.” Of course, there’s always the time tested, “overheard a conversation.” Me? I was tipped off by The Washington Post. That might seem a bit extraordinary. But most guys aren’t married to a woman who is fucking a U.S. Senator.

I work in private intelligence. We do the same thing that the alphabet agencies do. But it pays ten times better. I started with the 704th Military Intelligence Brigade at Fort Meade. Military Intelligence might sound like an oxymoron. But my unit was headquartered at the same Fort as the NSA. So, I took part in some serious technological shit.

I was just a 23-year-old kid; fresh out of Carnegie-Mellon and totally full of myself. I had a badge to go with the title “Special Agent.” But I was just a Rot-C nerd from the little city of Madison, Wisconsin. Madison might be the State Capitol and it might have a big university in its center. But you don’t have to go very far out of town to be hip deep in cow shit. Consequently, the Beltway culture was both a target-rich environment and kind-of overwhelming for a Wisconsin farm boy.

I hung around with another shavetail. He was named Art. Both of us liked to party. So, we hung out in the Fells Point section of Baltimore. There was nothing to match the perpetual party atmosphere of the Broadway Square area. It was also a lot easier to get back to our off-base quarters from there; since we lived in Glen Burnie.

I was sitting with Art in The Horse You Came in On Saloon. How can you NOT patronize a place that has been “serving drinks since the 18th Century?” We both were a little buzzed. But it was nothing like we were planning for later that night.

We were scoping out a table full of girls. There is nothing like a covey of visibly drunk chicks to attract the predators. And the wolves were beginning to gather. As I watched a few of the women were dragged off to dance. It was clear that everybody was in a happy-place. That is until one of the more obviously wasted dudes decided to cut-out a woman who was not interested in dancing.

There was some pulling and a little yelling followed by a shriek and a loud slap. As the fracas started I nodded an “I got this” to Art and wandered over toward the table. The slapee was about to do something stupid when I grabbed his upraised arm. I said in the calmest voice I could muster, “You need to leave, Sir.”

He was pissed and clearly not in the mood. So, he spun violently to confront me. I just continued his momentum, do-si-doing him around until his arm was twisted up between his shoulder blades. I showed him the badge, which I was holding in my left hand. I wanted to encourage him to reason with me. He gazed at it blearily and muttered, “But she hit me Officer.”

I said, continuing the cop tone of voice, “No harm - no foul, Sir. You’ve ALL had a little too much to drink. Why don’t you and your friends just find some other place to do it?” He looked at the rest of his crew. They shrugged and started toward the door. I released his arm and he staggered after them.

Fortunately, none of them had gotten around to noticing that the badge was issued to an Army Counter-Intelligence Special Agent, not a Baltimore cop. I had the jurisdiction to arrest him; but only if he was involved in a national security crime. At “The Horse” it was just a piece of tin.

The woman looked shaken. Physical confrontations do that to people. I sat down in the empty chair next to her and said, “Are you okay? Can I get you something?” That was the first time I had looked at her. I could see why the college dude had been so insistent.

Women like to think that men pay attention to qualities that they can control - like dress, hair, or makeup. That’s true if there is nothing more intrinsically appealing. But let me assure you ladies. A massive pair of perfectly shaped titties is the ace of trumps when it comes to getting noticed by a guy.

This woman had a pair that even under a modest white silk blouse would set-off civil insurrection in some countries. She was sitting down. So, I couldn’t see anything south of her chest. But once I tore my eyes off her bouncers I realized that she had a lovely face. She looked Italian or Greek; with dark auburn hair, dusky complexion, beautifully proportioned features, and huge, luminous dark eyes.

Those eyes were currently clouded with a mix of anger and fright. She was struggling to calm herself. I put my hand sympathetically on her forearm and said, “It’s okay. I understand that must have been scary but you’re among friends. Nothing is going to happen now.”

The fact that she didn’t yank her arm away was a good sign. I said, still trying to calm her, ‘What’s your name? My name is Paul.” She looked up and focused on me for the first time. I was lost. The crackling blue spark that jumped between our eyes must have lit up the whole bar.

She said shakily, “Janet.” I wasn’t sure whether the shakiness was caused by her recent ugly experience - or what had just passed between us. I said, “Can I get you a drink?” Nothing like a little alcohol to calm the nerves. “What are you drinking?”

She said rather off-handedly, “gin and tonic” and continued to stare into my eyes. Her concentration was unnerving. It was like she was scanning my soul. I said, “I’ll be right back” and rushed a little too hastily up to the bar. I wanted to get away from her for a second just to screw my head back on.

I returned with her G&T and an English IPA for myself. She downed hers in one gulp; impressive. She looked at me and said, “Thank you for stepping in Officer. He scared me. But I don’t let anybody maul me like that.” And she looked down at her incredible girls.

I said, “First I’m not a cop. I have no more jurisdiction than you. The badge is for a federal agent. I am with the Army at Fort Meade.” I really would have thought she could tell who I worked for by the high and tight. I said, “I just flashed the thing to get him to do what he should have done for himself. Authority tends to get your brain working again - even drunks.”

She said, “So you just rode to my rescue on your own. What can I do to thank you?”

That was an open invitation if I ever saw one. I said, “You can have dinner with me tomorrow. Unless you’re already taken. In which case a sincere handshake and a kiss on the cheek will do.” She kissed me on the cheek and said, “I’ll see you at 6:00 tomorrow. I have to get back to the hen party but here’s my address.” And she wrote something on the back of a card.

I turned it over and it said, “Janet A. Wilson JD.” I thought, “Shit! A lawyer!!!” Nevertheless, I was pressing her buzzer at exactly 18:00 the following evening. She lived in a classic single girl condo in Bethesda. All I heard was a lot of yapping and the sound of somebody kicking a dog away from the door.

Then she opened it and every hesitancy about her profession vanished like the morning dew. Last night had been confused with all the drinking and general chaos and I hadn’t really gotten a look at the whole picture. Truth be told I couldn’t take my eyes off her massive rack last night.

Now, the goddess Venus herself was standing in the doorway in a pair of skin tight jeans and a loose sweater. She had incredible curves, long legs, wide hips, tiny waist and of course those double D’s. She was still wrestling with something that resembled a hairless rat. But which I assumed was a Chihuahua. Finally, she bent down and picked it up, displaying a perfect apple shaped ass as she did it.

She was distracted enough by her animal that she didn’t see the look of consternation that crossed my face. There is a constant re-balancing process going on in the single set; whereby everybody seeks their proper level in the social scheme. And I wasn’t so sure that I was playing in the right league.

She gave me a look that was so hot that I was sure my socks were going to burst into flame and said, “Sorry about this but Chiquita thinks she has to protect me from everybody.” The rat showed me its teeth and gave a low warning growl.

I said, “No problem. I love dogs.” She underhanded her varmint back into the room and closed the door. Then she stepped into the hall and took my arm in that universal gesture that women use to indicate possession. She said, “Where are we going?”

I said, “I thought we’d try the Blue Duck. I want to get to know you better and their outdoor terrace is a quiet place to do that.” It was a beautiful clear fall evening in DC. She seemed delighted. She said, “I’ve heard about that place and I’ve really wanted to try it. Rumor has it that it’s very romantic. You don’t have anything sexual planned, do you?” That said with a coquettish grin.

I said jokingly, “Only if you do.” And she hugged my arm to her colossal bosom. I drive a turbocharged silver SLC. Like all good German lads, I need superior engineering and nobody does it better than my people. Okay; maybe my people settled in Wisconsin in the late 1800s. But as far as the family was concerned once a German always a German.

She was surprised; pleasantly, I hoped. She said, “I thought all you big macho studs drove muscle cars?” I said, “This thing is fast enough” I engaged the smooth as silk drivetrain and the 362 horsepower under the hood gave me an instant response.

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