Chapter 1

"You're nuts."

It was a sentiment Pete had expressed far more than once, but repetition didn't keep it from pissing off Steve Oldham.

He and his buddy Pete were side by side on treadmills at the gym, talking above the buzz of the machines. Steve's T-shirt was slightly more sweat-stained, his socks a bit droopier, but otherwise the two men were as alike as a pair of shoes. Scuffed black oxfords, perhaps, although in Pete's case, loafers might be more appropriate. Their fading hairlines were identically black, now that Pete had reverted to his natural color, albeit an unnaturally uniform shade. Their bellies were identically flat, in spots. And their faces were identically, generically what, in their youth, was called handsome, but had settled later into the less enthusiastic category of good-looking. They were about five years away from "distinguished."

The differences had been more pronounced when they were younger, when Pete was the classic California beach bum and his best buddy Steve was merely a young fuddy-duddy. But that was before a string of brief marriages to beautiful and tragically well-represented women forced Pete to seek increasingly boring employment, money tending to have an inverse relationship to occupational pleasure for everyone between the extremes of pro athletes and men's room attendants. And those days also were before the age gap between Pete and the most reputable of weed merchants put a severe crimp in his recreational endeavors.

Thus they had become almost indistinguishable on the surface. Underneath, though, Steve realized he was, still, a fuddy-duddy in comparison to Pete.

Not, he thought, that there was anything wrong with that. Pete's wild ways had littered his life with ex-wives. Steve was proud of how different his life was, still married to the same woman, the wondrous Paula, with a cozy home and two great kids -- lithe, flame-haired Suzy, their oldest, and Ricky, a little bookworm who somehow managed to keep his rich tan even though he spent most of his time indoors studying.

Fourteen years he and Paula had been married, next month. That, in fact, was what had prompted Pete's belittling comment.

"Fourteen years?" Pete had sounded stunned. "Geez, dude, I knew you've been married forever, but, yikes! It's the double seven-year itch, bro. Who you gonna prong to celebrate?"

Steve had tried to brush off his friend's crude questions, but they kept coming. It was an argument they'd had again and again. Pete took his frequent marriage vows as seriously as most people took speed limits. The fact that one wife after another had revoked his license couldn't change his opinion.

Steve, on the other hand, was proud to say he'd never strayed and never would. "Fidelity," he said, "that's the key to a good marriage."

That was when Pete had questioned his sanity.

"You're nuts. You know that, don't you? There isn't a married man in the world who wouldn't try the field if he could. You telling me you don't think Paula's ever... you know?"

Steve lunged at him, forgetting about the treadmill. Next thing he knew, he was flat on his face six feet away, feeling like crap.

Paula looked around at a kitchen full of open drawers and swore.

No darn batteries! At least, not the C cells she needed. Little A's, teeny AA's, lunking D's -- were two C's too much to ask? What kitchen didn't have C batteries?

She took a step toward the door and caught herself. It was no use. She'd searched everywhere. Even -- she shuddered -- the garage. Just the thought of it made her sneeze. But no C batteries.

Well, it was no use now. If she drove to the store, it would be just her luck to get caught in a traffic jam and not get back until Nanny brought the kids from soccer practice. And by the time all of them went to bed, Steve would be home from his night out with the boys -- as the boys had gotten older, their nights had gotten unfortunately shorter.

With a sigh, she walked around closing drawers. Sliding home the last one, she picked up her black plastic vibrator from the counter and marched toward her bedroom.

The doorbell interrupted her midway down the hall. She started toward the door, then stopped and stared at the vibrator. Not even time for a hand job now, she grumbled as she dropped it into the pocket of her white shorts. They were as loose as anything she wore, but that wasn't saying much. The rod bulged along her slim hip. She considered detouring to put it back in the bedroom, but the bell chimed again. It was such a pain, not having enough servants.

The caller was a man who looked vaguely familiar, as if he had been a minor soap opera star or a former lover or something. But he introduced himself as Ed Carson, and the name didn't mean anything to her.

"Bobby's dad," he said, unhelpfully. "From the soccer league? Our kids are on the same team?"

Paula blinked. "Soccer? Whatever. Did you need something?" The battery-powered dildo was digging into her. Would this man never get to the point?

"Oh, gee, I'm sorry. Where are my manners? Am I interrupting something?" He smiled. Paula decided he had intriguing eyes. On the whole, in fact, he wasn't bad -- not too muscular, but tall. She liked tall. And very cute dimples when he smiled.

Ed seemed to have been talking; she tried to pick up the thread. "So, they asked me to distribute the new uniforms, but they didn't give me the list of sizes. If you'll just tell me what you need, I can dig it out of the trunk and I'll be out of your hair."

Paula supposed she should know her son's size. Surely Nanny would have mentioned it? Nothing came to her. "Medium," she said, taking a stab. "He's about medium, I'd say."

"He? Huh? Who?"

Ed looked even cuter when he was puzzled, she thought. "Ricky," was all she said, though.

"Ricky? Oh, no, Mrs. Oldham. I must have confused you. Ricky's your son, isn't he? No, I need a size for Suzy."

It was Paula's turn to look puzzled. "But you said your son was on the team?"

"Yeah, you know, the traveling all-star squad that Suzy plays goal for. She's a real firecracker, isn't she? Bet we'll see her in the Olympics someday."

"Whatever." She had a dim memory of Suzy insisting on being allowed to play with the boys, an argument Paula had been glad to take her side in. Could she have been talking about soccer?

Ed shifted on his feet. "So, anyway, about the uniform --"

"Wait. I don't understand. If you've got the uniforms, what are they doing now? Playing naked?"

That earned her both a smile and a furrowed brow. She lightly fingered the vibrator, thoughtfully.

"No," he said with a chuckle. "There's no soccer today. Season hasn't even started yet."

"Oh," she answered, flatly. "Oh," she repeated in a higher key having suddenly remembered Nanny was taking the children to the zoo that day. "Oh," she said, in a drawn out purr, realizing the zoo always meant a late night because they'd catch dinner on the way home.

"Why don't you step inside," she said, "and I'll check on those sizes." She led him down the hall -- past Suzy's closed door, but he didn't have to know that -- and into the TV room, with its nice, soft couch.

He murmured appreciation of the house. She let her fingers brush his arm as she acknowledged the compliment. "It is lovely, isn't it? But such a chore to keep it up. Still, with the children and all, we needed the extra space."

She slithered her hands down her body. "I guess bodies aren't the only things that expand when you have a family."

It was a test, and he passed with flying colors. "You look great," he said. "No one would ever guess you had two kids!"

"Hardly," she giggled, pulling her T-shirt taut so her nipples were outlined clearly. "But now where are my manners? Would you like something to drink?"

His protest was weak, her rejoinder quick. He gave in, and she sashayed into the kitchen. Ditching the dildo in a drawer, she poured two drinks, his a little stiffer than hers -- "I certainly hope so," she smiled to herself. Ed was perched on the couch. Good, she thought; less maneuvering. As she handed over the drink, she let her fingers trail across his.

He was wearing khakis. She noticed this in passing as she slid her eyes to his crotch, which was showing a promising bulge. His green polo shirt she took in as she slowly lifted her eyes to catch him staring at her. She was still standing next to him, and considered squeezing between his legs and the coffee table to sit beside him. But that seemed too obvious. She chose a chair across the room.

The conversation strayed to the weather, as it always does. Paula apologized for the heat in the house, neglecting to mention that she had adjusted the thermostat on her way to the kitchen. "It is positively sweltering," she said. To emphasize the point, she lifted the bottom of her T-shirt to fan herself. It took three times, finally lifting it high enough to give Ed a clear view of the lower half of her breasts, before she got an effect.

His hand shook so much that he spilled half his drink over his shirt and slacks. Paula knew an opening when she saw one.

She was up and across the room before his glass hit the coaster, waving the towel she had presciently stowed in her pocket. She had to move fast to reach his crotch before he could fend her off, but after that it was ridiculously easy. It was an old trick, she knew, but then, if a trick didn't work it wouldn't get to be old, would it? Her aggressive mopping of the stain changed smoothly to stroking and Ed offered no resistance.

By the time she had unzipped him and pulled his cock out of his briefs, he was beyond "no resistance" and fully cooperating, tugging off her T-shirt and then squirming out of his clothes while she shucked off her shorts and panties and pulled off her headband, shaking her long, blonde hair free.

She did not pause to admire his prick; it was not like he had anything she hadn't seen before. And she had more important things to do. If not for fear that he'd come in a flash and disappear, she'd have skipped the fellatio completely and gone right to the main dish. But she prided herself on her willpower, so she gave him her A-No. 1 blowjob. With, perhaps, just a smidgen of urgency. He came right on schedule. She sucked him back to life, pushed him onto his back and mounted him in less time than it takes to boil an egg -- a purely theoretical concept to her.

He filled her quite nicely, and she luxuriated in slow, sweeping moves up and down his pole. It was, she thought, much better than a vibrator, as long as she still got to call the tune. When he reached for her tits and proved to be very skillful at massaging them -- well, that was just icing on the cake.

She was surprised when he suddenly flipped her onto her back and took control. He was stronger than he looked. But he remained a thoughtful lover. And an enthusiastic one, which suited her.

In fact, he was able to do something with his thrusts that she wasn't sure she'd ever felt before. Then she was sure she hadn't: She would never forget the way it made her clit feel.

That particular maneuver produced her first orgasm, a rolling thunder down under that almost had her biting off the finger Ed had slipped into her mouth for her to suck.

He stayed hard, proving the value of her preparatory blowjob. Experimenting with various positions of her legs, he brought her to a second climax, less shattering than the first but still satisfying.

Much to Paula's disappointment, Ed came himself before she could reach the trifecta. Still, he had provided sorely needed relief.

Her gratitude for that kept her from being too impolite, but she was firm in ushering him out the door. It had been her experience that spending any time at all with men after the act made them clingy. While she appreciated his skill, Paula had decided to take a short hiatus from regular lovers to get some relief from the difficulties of scheduling -- and, truth be told, because her last partner had the audacity to suggest she get a divorce and marry him. Some people had no respect for the sanctity of matrimony.

The bar was smoky, the drinks were watered down and the pretzels were stale. Why Pete had suggested they meet there, Steve had no clue.

It had been a week since their argument -- you couldn't really call it a fight, since Steve was the only one to take a swing and the only one to get bruised. The ice bag on his face had cooled off his emotions as well, and he had accepted his friend's apology.

The guy who ran the gym wasn't quite as forgiving, and it had been suggested they take a break from their weekly visits. Steve had proposed meeting at a local tennis court. Pete said he wasn't going to pass up a perfect excuse to take it easy. Since Steve felt mainly responsible for their exile, he gave in.

That explained why they were at a bar. Steve couldn't come up with any explanation for why they were at this particular one. Pete said only that he liked the atmosphere.

At the moment, the atmosphere was so thick it almost made Steve gag. But he knew that with Pete, motivations usually came down to women, and the bar did have a fair complement of them.

One long-stemmed rose took the stool next to Steve. He snuck some glances at her. She was worth it -- killer legs in black hose, spiky heels, a gold minidress cut low to show off a nice pair of --

"Like what you see?" Steve's face burned as Pete whispered. "I thought it was all about fidelity. Not so stuffy when it's on display, huh?"

With one last peek -- just to make sure the woman hadn't noticed anything -- Steve swung around to face his friend and spoke in a low voice.

"Just because I'm faithful doesn't mean I'm dead," he said. "I look, sure. Human nature. But I don't do anything about it."

Pete's mouth twisted into a grin. "Doin' something about it's human nature too, buddy."

Steve was pissed, but too guilty to put up much of a debate. He stared sullenly into his beer. Pete drifted into a discussion of pro football, to which Steve contributed occasional grunts.

Pete was saying something emphatic about the Steelers when Steve first noticed something rubbing against his leg. He looked down. The woman next to him had extended one silky gam. He looked up; she was staring up at the TV over the bar. He shifted in his stool to get out of her way.

A few seconds later, though, her leg was sliding along his again. And it was pushing up his pant leg, rubbing against bare skin. His body tingled. He looked at her. That time she was looking right back, and she ran her tongue around her ruby lips and tossed her head, making her autumn hair shimmy against her shoulders. Steve looked away quickly, feeling like he'd been singed.

Then something came creeping across his thigh. As Pete droned on, Steve flicked his eyes down just in time to see a small hand with dark red fingernails start to massage his crotch. He squirmed away, but the hand chased him down and applied more pressure. The inevitable happened.

"That's a real boner, huh?" Pete slapped his friend on the back. Steve almost choked.

"Wh-what?" he croaked.

"Total boner," Pete said. "The Steelers will never go anywhere without a real quarterback who doesn't make bonehead calls like that. Am I right, or what?"

"Right, I guess," Steve mumbled. Sweat was trickling down the back of his neck. The hand at his crotch was making slow circles. He had to bite his lip to keep from groaning. He didn't want to make a scene; Pete would never let him forget it. The woman must be drunk, or -- or something. If he could only slip off the stool and get away, she'd probably pick on someone else.

"I've gotta hit the head," he announced, putting a hand on the bar to push off.

"Wait," Pete said. "Just a minute. Tell me if this makes sense..."

Steve tried to get up. Pete put a hand on his shoulder, pressing Steve back onto the stool.

He heard, cutting through the bar's buzz, the sizzling sound of a zipper opening. He felt his belt tugged. It came undone.

Steve turned to the woman in shock. Before he could speak, a ripe mouth was pressed to his. A hand snaked into his shorts, grasped his cock. Involuntarily he poked his dick into her palm, once, twice. The third time he came, jism bubbling out.

He half leaped off the stool, half fell. He tried to regain his balance but his pants fell to his ankles and he tumbled backwards, striking his head on the floor with a solid thump.

Steve was still shaking his head to clear out the cobwebs when something warm and wet descended on his cock. He blinked and saw the crazy redhead deep-throating him.

Dragging himself with his hands, he tried to scrabble away. She held on; he was afraid she'd bite his prick off. He started shouting. His eyes bulged. His face flushed. He felt his heart pounding in his chest. "Get her off me!" He put a hand on her forehead to lever her off. "Help!," he screamed, his breath coming in gulps.

"Ease up, Summer." Pete got his words out in between bursts of laughter. "Give the guy a break. Geez, he's gonna have a stroke!"

The woman stood up and stepped back. Pete gave Steve an arm, dragging him to his feet.

Steve looked around, dazed. Pete was still cracking up.

"You know her?" Steve indicated the woman, who was patting her hair back into place.

"Summer? Sure. Best whore in the joint."

The redhead interrupted. "We call ourselves escorts," she said. "And that'll be fifty bucks." She held out her hand. "I'm giving you a discount on account he's got a hair trigger."