Women crave me. I'm not boasting—it's a known, proven fact.

You don't need to know my name. In fact, I prefer that you not know it. I might be your neighbor or golf partner or a visitor in your office. If I am—and you have wives, girlfriends, daughters or secretaries about—something will happen that may upset you. So, you see—it's better this way.

It's not surprising that I'm the answer to every woman's dreams. I am, after all, six foot two with an outstanding physique. Although I'm pushing forty, I still maintain my washboard abs (or was that six-pack abs?). Anyway, they're pretty good. My hair is thick and sandy colored; eyes blue. The rest of me is equally good looking. It gives me an air of confidence and women eat it up with a spoon. If that's not enough, a glimpse of my nine-inch cock can be pretty convincing. So, it's not a big surprise that women crave me. And I am very good at scratching all their itches.

I like all kinds of women—tall or short, thin or curvy, old, young (well, not—you know—too young), happy or sad. I don't care about the last part, because after getting acquainted with "The Big Niner" (that's what I call it), they're all happy. I do have standards. For one thing, they can't be smelly or fat. Also, I only consider swallowers; no spitters, please. (I hate messy broads.) I may sound demanding, but I have earned that right. Ask any woman who's had the pleasure; she'll tell you.

It was late one sunny Saturday morning. A few hours earlier I'd arrived home, having just spent the night with the secretary at a company where I was consulting. It was "Suzy-something" (or maybe Sally). I'll have to figure that out before I go back there. I think she carved her name into the skin on my back with her fingernails as she was having one of her many orgasms. One reason that I am so successful is that I am thorough.

I had a few hours to kill, so I thought I'd polish my classic 'vette. I stripped off my shirt and ventured out into the driveway in gym shorts and sandals. I like to show off my six pack abs (or is that washboard abs?). The Big Niner was pushing a nice-looking bulge out of the front of my shorts. It was sunny, but not too warm. Life was good.

Across the street my new neighbor was loading his golf clubs in his trunk. His name was Tom-something. All I knew is that he and his wife had recently moved in right after their honeymoon. He was a junior-executive type, probably hurrying off to lose a round to his boss. He looked like kind of a wuss to me, but I didn't really care. I heard that he and his new wife were big in the local Evangelical Church that made so much noise on Sunday mornings. He gave me a wave and a stupid grin and I waved back.

Seeing him going off to play golf reminded me of my own neglected golf game. Of course, I'm a scratch golfer, but I wanted it to stay that way. It's just that it's hard to get out on the course when so many of one's nights (and early mornings) are full. Some choices are tough; I came to realize that golf is just my hobby. Screwing is my life.

I could have afforded to buy a Lamborghini with the seven-figure income from my computer consulting business. I went with the classic 'vette, instead. I just hate it when people get pretentious, don't you?

So, I was out there minding my own business buffing up the hood of the 'vette, watching Tom-something pull away when the newly-married Mrs.-something (I think her name was Darlene) appeared in her front yard and started weeding her garden. From long-range, I could see that she was barefoot, wearing a red halter and cutoff blue jean shorts.

We had only met once when they first moved in a few weeks before. I remember that she was pretty, like a newly-wed. I also thought she was kind of giggly, like she was a little self-conscious to have recently had her cherry popped by Tom-something. Maybe she was embarrassed because she liked it, and at the good-old Evangelical Church liking it too much was a big no-no—married or not. It didn't matter to me; different strokes, and all that.

I was wearing my shades, so I could check her out properly without drawing attention. I hadn't noticed before, but she had a nice little body to go with that pretty face. I saw her sneaking a glance my way from time-to time. I decided to let her see the profile, just in case she was interested and probably wondering about—you guessed it—The Big Niner.

About a minute after her husband pulled away she stood up and started walking across the street. As she got closer, I could see that what I had mistaken for a halter top was more like a glorified bandanna. She had giant tits—I would say 37 DD's—which were to die for. So were her long, lean legs. In my mind's eye, I could see a picture of her sculpted ass.

"Remember me?" she asked as she came up my driveway. "I'm Darlene."

"Hi, Darlene," I replied. "What can I do for you?" I really knew the answer already, but it was polite to ask—and I'm always polite.

"I was just hoping you would show me your... car," she replied. I saw her eyes glance down to where my turgid cock was threatening to burst out of my shorts.

"That's funny," I thought, "I've never heard it called a 'car' before." I kept that thought to myself. "Do cars excite you?" I asked.

"Oh, yes; especially long, strong ones."

"Well, I've got just the thing to excite you," I told her. "My car, I mean."

"What else could you mean?" she asked, and then licked her lips.

"Want to buff it?" I offered. I took off my shades, so she could see the sincerity in my eyes. (I'm good at that.)

Darlene took the cloth from me and leaned over the car, showing her voluptuous profile (did I mention that it was to die for?) and looked at me with her wide eyes. She started moving her arms in a circular motion, which made her fantastic tits sway in a rhythm.

"You're doing a great job, Darlene," I lied. "Do you think you can keep it up?"

She just looked at me and giggled that giggle that made her look like she had just remembered that she wasn't a virgin anymore. She circled a little faster and I bobbed my head up and down to the rhythm to show her that I approved.

"I have a confession to make," she tittered. "I'm supposed to be writing Tom's sermon for Sunday church tomorrow."

"I'm not stopping you. Maybe you should do that and we can buff later."

"I just can't bring myself to write it right now. It's about sin. It's always about sin."

"So you thought you'd stop writing about it and come over and get some first-hand experience?" I asked. I've learned that the direct approach works best in these types of situations.

She cupped her hand to her mouth and tittered that recently-non-virgin titter, which I knew meant 'yes'.

It must have been the faster pace of the buffing that made her halter fall away from her body. I got a quick look at her glorious boobs before she could clutch the tiny fragment of cloth to her chest. It was too late: I already had an eyeful. It confirmed my hunch that they were to die for.

"I'm sorry, it must have gotten untied somehow," Darlene said as she grinned at me. I didn't say anything, but The Big Niner was shouting out by throbbing painfully against my shorts. "Can I just go in your house and fix it?" she asked.

"Sure," I said. "The best mirror is upstairs in my bedroom." Darlene bounded into the house. I stayed behind, finishing the job on the hood of my 'vette. I didn't plan to stay out long. I just wanted to give the dough a chance to rise.