Chapter 2

Instead of flying directly to the Yucatan from New York — an easy hop in the Executive Aviation Gulfstream 5 — I flew from New York to New Orleans early Sunday afternoon. This allowed me to have dinner at Antoine’s and breakfast Monday morning at Brennan’s. Two utterly magnificent meals were consumed back to back. Since it was only about 700 miles south to the Yucatan, a 9:30 takeoff got me to Mexico by 11:00.

Customs at the terminal would be rated cursory ... at best. In just moments I had cleared customs and immigration along with my luggage and found myself face to face with a lovely young woman wearing a tailored gray uniform. I could see she had a sign which I guessed had my name on it, but it was under her arm, not displayed. Instead she came up to me with her hand outstretched in greeting.

“Mr. Cameron Harris?” she asked in a beautifully throaty contralto. When I smiled and nodded, she continued, “Welcome to the Yucatan and The Wilkerson Institute! I’m Liz.” The girl was a green-eyed brunette, about five feet seven with a magnificent figure, wearing four-inch heels. “May I take your luggage out to the car for you?” she asked.

“Here,” I said, handing her my attaché case. “You carry this and I’ll take the rest.”

“But, Mr. Harris... !” she protested.

“Me, man. You, girl. Me carry these. You carry that. Now move!”

“As long as you don’t say a word to anyone, okay,” she agreed reluctantly. But then Liz giggled and added, “Good grief! You really are different. Some of the patrons act like they want me to carry them to the car, too. And then there are those who would really like to walk to the car on a path of tits...” She looked up at my face as we walked along and added, “But we were warned about you. Terry told us about you and what to expect, and so far she’s been dead on the money.”

By this time we had reached a dark gray Cadillac limousine at the curb. Liz popped the trunk lid and I deposited my two suitcases in it, taking the attaché case from her to keep with me. Quickly, she had the rear door open, holding it for me.

“Would it bother you a great deal if I rode up front with you?” I asked. “I would like to continue this conversation without having to talk to the back of your head.”

That request really took her aback. Her eyes widened for an instant but then she grinned and said, “The patron is always right. So if you insist...”

“I do.”

“Then okay,” she said warmly. Then in a voice scarcely above a whisper she added, “You really are nice.”

I slid my attaché case onto the back seat where it could ride in solitary splendor, and then beat Liz to the passenger-side door.

Again she giggled, but then went around the car to the driver’s side. The vehicle was between her and the terminal building as she looked around quickly, saw no one, made a quick movement, opened her door and quickly got in. Only then did I realize that she had taken off her skirt and was only wearing her suit jacket, a gray thong, and her gray thigh-high stockings. Her legs were tanned and utterly magnificent.

In no time we were moving smoothly out of the airport and onto the road to the Institute. I learned that it was more than an hour away. “It’s only a bit over 20 miles,” Liz explained, “but with the condition of the road, that’s about how long it’s going to take.”

“You are absolutely stunning, Liz,” I commented. “You’re on the staff here?”

“Oh, no! I’m a student. We rotate in jobs, but there really aren’t very many of us who like to drive, so I find myself driving back and forth to the airport quite a bit.” She paused and then added, “It’s not very often we get a pickup from a private plane, though.” A longer pause this time, and then, “How do you like it? It really seems so neat! I saw you land, and that’s a pretty big aircraft for just one guy.”

“It is large for one guy — it will carry 17 in its max comfort configuration, which is the way it’s set up today — but it’s got real advantages. It leaves when I want, and it avoids the security hassles that are really getting to be a pain in the butt. These days, unless you’re traveling a pretty significant distance, with the early check-in times, security and such, you’re spending more time in the airport than in the air. Today, for example, I was down here from New Orleans in less time than I would have spent checking in.”

She was driving slowly, carefully steering around the worst of the potholes, and doing her best to ease through the ones she couldn’t drive around. She handled the big car with skill and great care.

Changing the subject, I asked, “What did you mean when you said some patrons would like to walk to the car on a path of tits?”

She glanced at me and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, sir. That comment was totally out of line. And it may not be true, but other girls and I think that it is.”

“It might have been out of line, but it was true, though.” I paused and then continued, “Look, Liz, let me be very clear about one thing: Anything said in this car, stays in this car as far as I’m concerned. Okay?”

She glanced over at me, appeared to like what she saw then said, “Could you do me a favor, sir?”

“The name is Cameron, Cam to my friends. I hope you will consider yourself my friend, Liz.”

“Do me a favor, Cam?” she repeated.

“Sure. What?”

“Would you fondle my thigh? I just adore the feeling.”

Well, this was an all-time first. No girl had ever asked me to fondle her hand, let alone her bare thigh. I reached over and began lightly to stroke her inner thigh beginning just above her stocking top. It was warm, smooth as satin, and felt wonderful to the touch. “How’s that?” I asked.

“Just lovely!” she sighed. “Can you go a bit higher?”

At that point she stopped the car right where we were in the middle of the road. Realizing that it was more of a track than a road and we hadn’t seen another vehicle on it yet, it didn’t matter much. After putting the vehicle’s transmission into Park, she reached up and slid her thong down her legs, over her shoes, and set it beside her on the seat.

Turning in the seat toward me she spread her thighs as far as the seat permitted and asked, “You like?”

Her pussy had been shaved completely bare. Her labia were engorged, and I could see her clit poking up between them. (Thank God for the Internet! If I had had to rely on personal experience, I wouldn’t have had the foggiest idea what it was I was seeing.)

“Simply luscious,” I replied. “And it’s another first.”

“First what?”

“First bare pussy.”

“That’s not true,” Liz protested. “You’ve seen Terry’s.”

“How much do you know about me, anyway? And what did Terry do? Broadcast it over the Institute’s PA system?”

Liz giggled at my comment. “There are a few old-timers around here,” she said, “and I’m one of them. Terry is one of the sweetest, nicest, most considerate people ever to come through here. And, unlike most of the others, she stays in touch.”

Liz went back to driving and I went back to exploring her thighs and crotch. By then, vaginal fluids were flowing in a steady stream, but if she knew, she certainly didn’t care.

“Path of tits?” I reminded her.

“Boy! You’re impossible to distract, aren’t you?” Liz took a deep breath and said, “Unfortunately, there are a number of patrons who like to abuse the girls. To them, we’re trash.” At that point I saw tears appear in the corner of her eyes as she continued, “And you know what? You’ve heard the adage, ‘The truth hurts’? Well, it does, because that’s exactly what we are: trash. The guys I’m thinking of would love nothing better than to have girls lie across a walk side by side so they could walk on a path of tits. They’d really love it, and would probably get off on it too.”

“Trash? Liz, you’re crazy as hell. Aside from your occasional ... eccentric ... behavior, you’re a very classy girl.”

She giggled at my comment and then said, “By the way, first lesson for you: We’re trained that women can appear in only three basic ways, classy, flashy, or trashy. Of course, there are a great many variations on the three basic themes. With our backgrounds, ‘trashy’ is our natural condition.”