Chapter 1

May 3

I stopped the Porsche at the curb outside the main entrance of the lower Manhattan office of the largest investment bank in the country, and waited. It was 5:30. The traffic immediately backed up behind me and started leaning on their horns. I waited for her to come out of the building.

Two minutes later she opened the car door and slid into the leather bucket seat. I handed her a single white rose.

“Be my Valentine?” I asked. She took the rose, smiled but didn’t answer; after all, Valentine’s Day was three months ago. After a while, I ventured, “Tough day?”

Martha Hamilton was a VP of investment services at the bank. Note that I didn’t say ‘the VP’ but ‘a VP.’ A bank this large handed out VPs like candy corn at Halloween. Nevertheless, she had several subordinates, who each had subordinates of their own; she had responsibilities. She was thirty-four, with a blonde shag cut, and pale blue eyes. The eyes were almond shaped and set wider than normal – it was striking. She would have been my height at six feet even, and that was counting her three-inch heels – but of course, we were sitting in a car. Her breasts bore the signs of the two children she’d nursed, and her legs were long, well formed and easily her best feature. Her face was nearly symmetrical, missing perfection only because of a single, almost-large freckle on her right cheek. That and a tendency to smile slightly off-center. I didn’t think she smiled often at work; she was young for a VP and had to compete with a lot of males – doesn’t lead to a lot of smiles.

I put the car in gear and began to slip into traffic, and head toward the Holland Tunnel, thence toward the small suburban town in New Jersey, where she lived. It was about fifteen minutes from where I lived in the next town over.

She smiled at my Valentine joke. “Not so bad,” Marty answered. “Frank said he wanted...” She paused, interrupting herself. “I don’t want to get into all that.” She popped the can containing six ounces of double martini, and took a long drink. Marty drank too much.

I turned up the heat against the slight chill of the May evening. “You’re going to be too hot in that coat. Unbutton it, and slip if off.”

She gave me a long look. She didn’t take orders; at work she gave them. But I’d worked for several months at getting her used to the idea that when she was with me, I gave the orders. I didn’t respond to her orders or even suggestions.

...

Once, about four months ago, I stopped at the train station in Hoboken when she’d said – with an attitude – that she’d make her own clothing choices. I’d merely said that I liked her in a skirt or dress that was not so form fitting. I like a looser skirt. I’d pulled over at the station and waited for her to get out.

“Look,” I’d said. “You’re an executive at the bank. You give all the orders all day to almost everyone. Probably you’ve fucked somebody in the back room. Maybe several somebodies. They fucked you just the way you like it. You go home to your husband, and tell him what to do. You have two small children who need somebody to tell them what to do. The first time you seduced me, you were in charge. That ends now! When you’re with me, you’ll follow instructions or ... you’ll ride the trains on Tuesdays from now on.”

She’d thought about it for several minutes. Then she nodded. “What about length?” She had great legs and enjoyed showing them off.

“A few inches above the knee. You’re forty. You shouldn’t be flouncing around in a thigh high skirt. Nothing cheerleader length,” I’d said with a smile.

“I’m thirty-two. But, okay,” was all she said. I let the small fib about her age slide, since I’d inflated her age, too. She’d worn a middle of the knee, pleated skirt with a flowery print the next Tuesday, and matched it with a similar getup since. On Tuesdays – I doubted she’d worn something similar the other days.

...

She loosened the tie at her waist and opened the plain-looking, calf-length coat. She folded it back. Slipping her arms off, Marty took another long pull at the martini-in-a-can. “This is much more comfortable,” she admitted. She slipped off her heels and wiggled her toes into the carpet.

I was in line at the tunnel, stopping and going as traffic demanded. “Show me your legs. They are fantastic, as I’ve told you before.”

“You said once that I was too old to flounce around.”

“I never said that you were too old to show them to me,” I retorted. “In fact, I never said you were too old. You are too young to stay married to Carl. He’s a lush, and not good enough for you.” There was a pause as I moved the Porsche behind a semi. “Why are you still married to him, anyway?”

I’d met her, Carl, and Sue (my now-deceased wife) sitting around a bridge table at the University of Michigan. She and Carl were juniors – twenty years old – while I was an early admission at sixteen. I was a sophomore, having finished most of my freshman year while still in high school. Sue, my eventual spouse, was three years older than I was, a junior. They were fair, if undisciplined, bridge players. I needed a permanent partner, since my move to Ann Arbor from Dayton, Ohio. And I was shopping for one. My regular partner was a forty-eight year old man named Roy Robson back in Dayton. We placed highly in several pairs regional tournaments. But bridge – tournament or not – is not a part of this story.

“The kids,” she answered. “He’s sober enough to get them from daycare. He’s still recovering.”

‘Recovering’ meant recovering from being canned as an auditor because he was drunk. She hid his drinking problem behind a euphemism.

“That’s a piss poor reason. Can he even get it up, any more?”

I carried an addiction for her ever since Marty had dragged me into her bed one weekend, while she was pissed off at Carl for his drinking. She was my first, and I was hooked immediately. I learned that she came like a man: quick and hard, intense, losing track of her partner. But of course, she could cum over and over. At seventeen, I could almost match her cum for cum. I was still growing and my six incher grew to eight in the next few years, as I grew from five foot nine to a shade over six feet.

Eventually, she forgave Carl (it didn’t take long, she was back with him on Monday, when he dried out), and I was just a memory. And also eventually, I made friends with Sue. I always harbored the illusion that it was Sue’s deepthroating that got me longer. Sue and I got married at her graduation, and I started an internet business.

Carl and Marty married, too, and moved to North Jersey when they each went to work at competing banks. Sue and I lost track of them but by coincidence moved to a suburb in N.J. I re-hooked up with Marty when her bank was part of the syndicate that bought me out. It was too much money to turn down, so I sold out. I was surprised at Marty’s appearance; she looked great in a business suit. She, of course, was a junior in the tide of up-and-comers who were in attendance. We were surprised at how close our living arrangements were and we resumed our bridge playing. Not seriously, of course. It turned out that Sue wasn’t that great at bridge and Carl was drunk too often. He’d passed out once – not from alcohol directly. He’d had a stomach ulcer from too much alcohol; the ulcer started to bleed, and that led to a trip to the hospital. Created quite a stir at the small bridge club.

Over the next few years, Carl and Marty had done some little wife swapping with me and Sue, before my wife died. Sue had said he never got more than semi-hard.

...

“YES!” Marty almost shouted. “He gets it up plenty.” She drained the martini-in-a-can, fumbled in the pocket of her coat and got another. Marty popped the lid and looked out the window. When she finished this one, it would be the equivalent of four martinis. I may have mentioned that she drank too much – not as bad as her husband, but pretty bad.

I let her loud response settle in the air. “I said before that I wanted to see your legs.”

She pulled the skirt of her dress up to mid-thigh. “There. Satisfied?” Now there was attitude.

“I’ll be satisfied when you do that because I ask it of you ... not because I demand it of you.” She was looking out the windows. “Now, take off your panties.”

This was new territory. I asked it because she was fighting me. There was silence in the Porsche. We were nearly out of the tunnel. Then with a shrug, she lifted her ass off the seat and shimmied out of a pair of conservative, pale blue panties. She balled them up in her left hand.

The traffic was stopped as cars merged into various lanes. I extended my right hand, palm up, and said, “I see I need to be more specific. Give them to me, girl.”

Girl? Even when we swapping spouses, I had never called her that.

“When you’re with me,” I explained – again –, “you obey. You are NOT the VP of a big bank. You’ve handed the reins to me. You are whatever I want you to be. A girl showing her legs; a slut with no panties; a horny schoolgirl who wants her daddy to do things to her ... You never gave me a real response to my question. Why are you still married to Carl? Why are you in this car?”

I wouldn’t have pushed this far, except that she had downed about three martinis and was not in shape to argue. She took a pull on the can – probably most of the fourth martini.

“You changed when you sold the company. When Sue got diagnosed with breast cancer,” she half-mumbled.

I had changed, she was right. That’s when I went through a mid-life crisis – at age twenty-five, three years ago. I bought this Porsche. I spent some money on a series of escorts, to warm my bed. Something like six months ago, Marty had asked me what I was doing. She was a bunch of martinis into what turned out to be a long make-out session. Carl was asleep on the other end of the couch. I told Marty that I was unbuttoning her blouse. Then I was going to nibble on her nipples.