This tale starts immediately after "Office Mating Ch. 3" where I got reinstated to my Director position by my boss's boss and met Clara's latest visiting niece Rose, a runner with strong legs who had a lesbian incident with her coach and was vehemently against letting me probe her pussy with my prick. I mean, what's with young women these days, anyway?
The next morning I awoke with thoughts of Rose, my neighbor Clara's niece, who got some great oral attention but rejected the thought of full-on sex. Maybe I'd be lucky; Clara would work her over with a vibrator and send her home, artificially satisfied.
My day was all planned out: bowling in the morning with Smith and Jones, and then Harriett's return with her British assistant. And, if I were very lucky, somewhere in between or during, I'd find a young woman who'd appreciate eight inches of the Midwest's finest man sausage. There had to be at least ONE!
Smith hadn't been thrilled with the idea of bowling at ten A. M., just as the lanes opened. There wouldn't be many pretty young female bowlers to ogle, and his favorite waitress wouldn't be working that early in the day. Maybe she'd be in class at a local university or working her day job. None of us knew who she was or what he life was like when she wasn't dolled up in her waitress uniform at the alley.
I got out the old bowling bag, dusted off my Black Beauty ball and knocked the cobwebs out of my shoes. I'd had the same size feet since college, when I first bought that gear. Other bowlers probably considered them antiques, belonging in a locked glass case in some bowling museum, but they still worked for me. And the shoes saved me a few bucks on rentals when my buddies and me went out to the local lanes.
Traffic was moderate, putting me at the bowling establishment a few minutes early. The guy behind the counter, with his name Stan embroidered on his shirt, was still doing opening duties when I asked for a pair of lanes, so Smith and Jones and I would have some elbowroom. And, if I were off target, I'd just be throwing my ball down an alley we'd rented.
"Bar's closed," Stan muttered. "Snack Bar is open, though."
A folding metal gate blocked entrance to the normally dimly lit bar area. Neon flickered to life down the way at the Snack Bar counter, as somebody turned up that roller device that slowly cooked hot dogs to death. Heat lamps were tanning yesterday's nacho chips, and the smell of oil meant that popcorn would soon be available.
Smith came through the door just after my conversation with the clerk. "Hey, Harv, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" The greeting was punctuated by a hard slam on the back, one that contained more aggression than warm feeling. What did he have against me? I punched Smith's shoulder, and didn't pull it. He smiled but rubbed the point of impact.
Jones was through the door a minute behind Smith. "Hey Harvey." No physical contact, just a wave.
We jockeyed for position, taking seats around the electronic scoring desk. Combined, the smell of our socks and shoes polluted the air for six lanes in either direction. It took us no more than three frames each before we ran out of things to talk about, so the barb trading began. Smith wanted to know if I was gaining weight.
I ignored his question and parried. "Too bad the bar is closed. You won't have a chance to flirt with your girlfriend."
"She's not my girlfriend. I just like looking up her skirt, and she doesn't mind as long as she gets tipped for her trouble."
I held back a reply about how he might think about giving her a different tip, the tip of his dick, as she bent over. No need to flaunt my promiscuity with these two blabbermouths.
Smith asked about Annie, and I gave him some bullshit about her success at college. The truth was, I wasn't plugged into her schooling, just her coed pals. About half a dozen of them, one at a time back on my birthday.
"Jaqi is coming into town next weekend. She said if I saw you to say 'Hi.'" Smith wasn't happy about being the message courier, given his sour expression.
"Tell her 'Hi' back. What is she now, a senior?"
"Yeah, graduates next year. No more college bills, thank God. Too bad the job market is in the toilet. She'll probably come home and live off her old man." Smith wasn't too happy with that idea either. He put his emotions into his next roll, which splattered the ten pins in all directions.
"You know, Jaqi has a thing for you," said Jones.
Smith strutted back from his strike and aimed a finger at me. "Listen, you stay away from my kid." His face was redder than his favorite Christmas-themed bowling shirt, the one with "Ball Busters" on the back.
I raised my hands in surrender. "Sure. No problem. I don't expect we'll be running into each other. I don't hang out in the same places as college kids." Not that the idea hadn't crossed my mind.
Smith seemed to take me at my word, maybe the first time, and calmed down. However, from that point on he bowled awful. Maybe the mere idea of his daughter and me threw off the rest of his game. He didn't mark for the rest of the line.
We'd just started our third game when I saw the bend-over waitress come in and converse with Stan the opener. She was in a t-shirt and jeans. "Hey, look who's here." I pointed.
Smith dropped his ball at the sight of his favorite server.
"Hey, watch it!" hollered Jones. "I only got two feet."
The waitress looked over at the commotion, recognized us - I knew because she smiled - and headed straight to our lanes. She waltzed down two steps into our field of play. Unlike when she was working as a waitress, she had no make-up on, a distinct improvement. More pretty, less slutty. "Hi." It was a breathless sound, more exhaled than spoken.
"Smith here didn't recognize you in civvies," said Jones.
"Oh, maybe this would be more familiar." She turned to face away and bent at the waist. Even with jeans on, we all knew just how fine an ass she had. We'd seen it peeking out from her short black waitress uniform lots of times. She straightened, and so did my cock. "You're early today. Guess I won't have the chance to play our little game. Unless-" She approached Smith and took his chin between her thumb and index finger, "you'd like a cup of coffee."
Smith swallowed hard but didn't disengage from her light grasp. "Sure. Bring some for these two Bozos, too."
Her eyes rolled back and she shook her head. Her brown hair waved like the starting flag at the Indianapolis Five Hundred. "I'm off duty. What I meant was, would you like to go for a cup of coffee? With me?"
Smith looked at me and Jones. Shit, she was offering Smith the chance of a lifetime, to make good on his lecherous flirtations and have some quality time with a sexy young woman. I'd have accepted in a microsecond. But she'd asked Smith.
"Uhhhh," stammered Smith. "There's a Starbucks on the corner."
"Let's go to my place," she replied. "I make a mean latte, with milk that's really hot." The last word was a sharp exhale.
Shit! She was inviting him to her place? For coffee? For a bend over and fuck me, more likely.
She didn't wait for a reply. She led Smith away from our lanes, up the stairs and out the door. Any resistance on his part was feeble, because she led him out the door despite their relative differences in height and strength. Must not have been trying too hard to get away. I didn't blame him one bit. I shook my head. "I guess Smith forfeits this line." We had a standing deal, loser pays.
"He left his street shoes," said Jones. "I'll hold onto them for him. And his ball."
The young woman would be caring for Smith's balls within the hour. I was sure of it.
Jones paid for all three lines. I didn't have to outrun the bear; I just had to outrun one of my companions.
I was jealous that the sexy waitress picked Smith instead of me. I probably wouldn't have gone with her anyway, afraid to expose my promiscuous nature to my big-mouthed buddies. But the incident sparked lascivious thoughts. When I caught a glimpse of Sgt. Papa's Bytes and Pieces alongside the highway below me, I remembered the stealth videos of mismatched fathers and daughters that Zenellis had captured during his invitation-only encounter in Wisconsin. All at once, my curiosity overflowed about those videos. They were safely stored on four hard disks in my basement crawl space. I'd need a RAID drive cabinet to reassemble them into a useful configuration. In my town, the obvious place to shop for such an item was Sgt. Papa's used electronics emporium. I had time for a quick stop. Harriett and her Brit assistant wouldn't arrive for hours.
I swerved onto the immediately available exit ramp but made a sharp left turn before it became a highway merge lane. Just down the access road, his store was a rusty Quonset hut with a faded and flaked hand-painted sign that had seen better days. I parked on the gravel patch that served as his lot. Several cars were present. Maybe the Sarge was having a sale.
An electric chime played Revile as I swung the door open. Over a dozen long tables held mounds of surplus electronics, wires, batteries, motors, and logic boards for computers whose companies had long since disappeared but who lived on in my t-shirt collection. At the far counter, Sgt. Papa stood proud in his military short-sleeved shirt and matching cap. The caricature of his face on the sign depicted a younger proprietor. He was in an intense conversation with a young woman whose back was towards me. Only when her arm swooped her dark hair back did I see the blonde streak. Damn, he was tailing to Nashta, the pizza delivery girl.
.... There is more of this story ...