Chapter 1

Where I find out that I'm not the only guy in the world.

I wasn't supposed to be there. I should have been at the annual reunion of my old college frat house, two states over. It was a tradition we started seven years back. It usually consists of an evening of boozing followed by a day of golf and a dinner. Not the best golf after the night before, as you may imagine. But the getting together is great. We are expected to be there Friday afternoon and return on Sunday. Myriam never accompanies me. It is a male thing; spouses and girlfriends are not invited.

My name is Bruce Pierson. Myriam is my wife of nine years. We met at that same college. Funny thing is we only got together at the last possible moment — during a party after graduation. It wasn't because I hadn't lusted after her in the years before. She just happened to be out of bounds, being with one or the other of the more popular football jocks. No reason for her to look past the bulging muscles, I guessed. I understood she had broken off the most recent relationship just a few days before. She never told me why. I never asked.

Myriam has a great body. It was why I wanted her. Well, don't call me shallow — it was why half the male population wanted her. Isn't it always the body at first? She was tall and lean. She had the kind of hair they call auburn and legs that don't seem to stop.

Funny thing was that she always tried to hide all that. She never flashed her legs or wore anything to accentuate her tits. Her wardrobe was expensive. Extremely tasteful too — she looked the essence of a thoroughbred New England girl. Mohair sweaters, streaming slacks and knee-length skirts, custom made jackets and modest heels. A string of pearls was her most outrageous attempt at jewelry. But of course they were real pearls.

Myriam dressed like a stylish prude. She essentially wore what my auntie would have worn had she been rich. The amazing thing was that it still made her look sensual and provocative. And not just to me. For a prude, there was always quite a lot of lewd gossip going around about her. I suppose it was out of spite and frustration,.

We didn't have sex that first booze-soaked night, although sex was the thing to do — it happened all around us. But there were two reasons why we didn't: her eyes. They are maybe the only eyes able to pull a man's gaze away from a woman's tits and keep them up there — mine at least. Her eyes are gray as a calm sea. But it always feels as if there is a storm brewing behind them. We talked and drank and danced and talked. We walked and talked. We hugged and even pecked a kiss. Then we danced some more. And yes, my cock grew hard against her thigh.

It didn't take us long to have sex, though. The first time was after I fell in love with her. Which happened to be on our first date. Which happened to be the very next day. I fell head over heels and so did she, she said.

Her body was all it promised to be — and more. But I guess that was because she lived inside it. There was always this patient, sweet, soft and incredibly tender force, just under her skin. It never exploded or got out of control, but it was there — shimmering, glowing. She could become quite passionate once we started, though she hardly ever initiated sex. She also was pretty limited in her sexual expressions. She loved foreplay, as in kissing, caressing and having her pussy licked. She loved to kiss me everywhere, including the tip of my cock. But that was exactly how far she went.

Making love mostly meant missionary for her. Sometimes she allowed me to enter her pussy from behind, but she had to be very horny for that. Her other entrances were no-go areas. When I tried 69 once, it really seemed to confuse her. When I attacked her in an elevator she was shocked. My hand got slapped when it crept up her thigh during a Thanksgiving dinner at her family's. But as limited as her variations may have been through the years, when we made love, we made passionate love. I never felt anything lacking. We always stilled each other's hunger. Then again, I guess our hungers were compatible. I always liked to think of us as a well-balanced, mature couple — we shared a love that grew way beyond mere sex.

The first year we made love almost daily. During our first months we did it on our kitchen table, on the couch, in the bathroom, even in our bed. Everywhere, as long as it was in the privacy of our house.

Anyone who met Myriam with her cool, stylish manner and modest outfits would have had no idea of the passionate Myriam within. It felt great to know I was the only one to enjoy that passion.

We married a year after graduation, when I got this job here. She found a good job too and I guess we were quite the yuppie couple. Nice apartment, exotic holidays, dinners with friends, some clubbing, some partying. And the money to pay for it. But good jobs and lots of socializing breed schedules, calendar planners and PDAs. Soon they started to rule our life.

The PDAs won, of course. Don't they always, even when they change their name to palm tops or Blackberries? By our second anniversary "bed" and "sex" had become synonymous. So had "weekend" and "sex." We knew what was happening and why. We fought it. But we more and more had to plan our fun and that killed half of it. Vacations were our last resort. We spent careless weeks on Jamaica and in Europe. But they just emphasized the barrenness of the times in between.

Myriam works as a legal advisor for a big import and export firm. She negotiates and writes up contracts. She is damn good and gets to hear it often. I am the managing director at the local branch of an international software company. I don't know much about computers, my talent is money. And I was talented enough to be kicked up the ladder quickly.

As a matter of fact, that was the reason why I was not at the frat reunion, that day.

Early Friday morning I had packed a simple bag and kissed a rather drowsy Myriam goodbye. The plan had been to take the afternoon flight and be in time for the first drinks at cocktail hour. I would fly back in the afternoon after the day of golf and dining. I already knew how my head would feel by then, so I took Monday morning off too.

Then my phone rang.

Jeremy Onslow is the second man at Headquarters. When he calls, it has been known that people drop to their knees. Mine are too stiff for that. But I must admit that my heart beat quickly. I expected the call. Not necessarily right now and not exactly from him, but there had been rumors around that made it plausible. You see, I've gone as high as I could go where I'm currently located. The only step up now would be to headquarters in New York. And that would be more than a step — it would be a leap.

Myriam knew it could happen; she had mixed feelings about it. The money would be great, so would living in Manhattan and all that. We'd often dreamt of it. But the move would also mean she would have had to leave her job behind. She loved me. She loved her job too.

Onslow had asked me if I could see him that night. It was rather important and as he was in town, this would be an excellent opportunity. I wondered why he wasn't here at the offices when he was in town, but one doesn't ask the Onslows of Corporaria why they are where they are. You also don't tell them "no, sorry, I have a reunion." So I phoned my buddies two states over that, alas, I could only arrive tomorrow and hope to be in time for the golfing. Start the boozing without me, guys.

I also phoned Myriam, but she did not pick up. Not on her cell and not at home. At her office her secretary said she was out. I tried once more later on, but without success. I shrugged and returned to my intricate dance with the quarterly figures.

The bar at the local five star hotel began to slowly empty. I pocketed my cell phone after another fruitless call to Myriam. At her work I only got security. She wasn't at home either.

The Excelsior Hotel ranks as about the poshest place we have in our pedestrian city. I had never been here on my own before, but I had often been here with clients — it was that kind of place. Drinks were twice the usual price and so were the hookers. One smiled at me as I nursed my soft drink. After two beers coke had seemed a smart change of pace. There'd be stronger stuff later on, no doubt. Where the hell was Onslow? It was getting close to 7:30, almost an hour later than agreed. Why the hell do these guys always have to rub your nose in their ego-shit?

Then I saw him. Thick set, gray where he wasn't bald, expensive suit, impressive eyebrows. We had met before. I didn't particularly like his aggressive management style, but it seemed to get things done. He was very successful.

Tonight I was to see quite a different Onslow. He went on and on, apologizing until he had reached the humblest bottom of his excuse-bucket. He'd had a meeting in town, you know. He had already arrived late. Couldn't get out of it. Tried to reach me. Didn't I get his calls? Damn secretary. And so on. Seeing Onslow grovel isn't good for your ego. You might start to think he finds you important.

I just smiled and asked him what he wanted to drink. Then we talked shop, football, news and sex. He even dished up a dirty joke — not a bad one either. Into the second drink he asked me if I had eaten. Of course I hadn't — I had been waiting. He hadn't dined either, so we decided to have a bite in the hotel restaurant. Being after eight, some of the tables were already deserted. At others people were having their dessert or coffee. Some were just stretching out their dinner and finishing their wines. People don't eat late in my city.

We found a small table in a far corner and ordered our meal. I had left most of my appetite at the bar. Onslow decided to choose a crazily expensive wine. He made quite a show of tasting it. Then we toasted and I must say the wine was good — even after two beers, a coke and a scotch on ice. Any vintage that survives a torture test like that must have its merits.

I felt tired. It was the kind of tiredness that turns the bustle of a dining room into a muffling blanket of atmosphere. I stretched my legs and looked around. Jazzy music seeped in from an adjoining lounge. I did hear Onslow, but his voice was veiled by the music and the bustle. He indeed probed me for the job. There were a few problems at headquarters. They were of the kind I had successfully solved at our branch, last year. The scale was much larger, of course. But I knew I could handle it. There also were big plans, Onslow said — amazing new developments. He told me my income would almost double, with bonuses and perks. They even knew a wonderful apartment for us. It had a terrace with park view and all. And very friendly mortgage terms.

I watched his face. I saw what he thought. He must be feeling like Father Christmas. Surely he would not often have the pleasure of dumping such a glorious treat on such a lucky bastard. In fact, he probably thought this should be an absolute no-brainer for me. I bet he wondered why I didn't grab the chance at once; why I looked away, clearing my throat. I knew the Onslows of this world. They would never understand men who loved their women enough to consider their wishes, too.

In the distance the lounge was filling up with festively clad people. They wore lovely gowns and sharp tuxedos. The music sounded mellow in a nice and snobby way. Then my breath stuck in my throat. Right at the entrance stood Myriam.

I knew it was she and yet it wasn't. I shook my head and looked again. She was dressed incredibly sexy. I had never seen her in the shimmering, sea-green evening dress she wore — or should I say, hardly wore. It just about hung on to her bare frame and it plunged at all the risky places. Her chest displayed more cleavage than she had ever shown in public. Nevertheless it seemed she was quite at ease. Her hair was done up, leaving her gracious neck free. She arched it elegantly to make her scarlet lips almost touch the ear of the man she clung to. She whispered with a smile. Both her hands were on his arm.

I didn't know the man. He was tall and dark, Mediterranean maybe, and about forty-five. He smiled at her whispers. Then he laid a hand on hers and answered. Myriam giggled.

Of course, my first thoughts were that this was a professional function — it wouldn't be unusual for her. But somehow that first impression didn't stick. You see, there is content and there is wrapping. There is the "what" and the "how," the brain and the gut. Even if this were business, all details screamed the opposite. To begin with, Myriam had never told me about her having a business appointment, let alone at a posh place like this. It was the most glamorous location our town had to offer. It would have been impossible for her not to tell me about it.

Then there was the evening dress. It must be new and very expensive. I had never seen her wearing it or even heard her talk about buying it. Well, to be sure, I had never seen her dress even remotely like this. It was the antithesis of everything she stood for. Its top freely showed the entire insides of her tits. It must be impossible to wear a bra with that.