Chapter 1

Hi. Oh, sorry. My name is Winston Young, Win for short, Winston Allen Young, III for long. I've been in the steel business for almost ten years. It has been my career choice since I graduated from college, but I must admit that I didn't immediately go to work that first June. I had managed to scrimp during college, not spending all of the money that my grandparents had left me for that purpose, and taking in some extra income by charging my roommates rent on the their portion of the house we occupied. I failed to mention to them that I was the actual owner of that house as well, and thus collected enough to make the mortgage, insurance and utilities payments each month without even tapping into the funds set aside by my Grandparents for those expenses. I mention this only to explain how I managed to have enough money upon graduation to spend a year traveling around the country, mostly to places that were warm and inviting. I even managed to get to the south of France that summer, just to peruse the natives during their annual month long vacation.

Since my mother is a native of that area, I have been fluent in that language for my entire life. It comes to me almost as a native tongue, and I was able to meet and attract several young maidens presenting myself as a French bachelor sufficiently enough to allow them to award me their initial charms during the later portions of evenings. In my extended month of August in France, out of the numerous young ladies with whom I spent time indoors, usually in a prone position, I only slipped up one time. It was of no matter, fortunately, since our evening was winding down already. My cell phone rang as I was recovering from a period of robust physical activity with a certain young lady. Without thinking, I answered it in English and conversed for several minutes before remembering that, to my bed-mate of the evening, I was native French. Damn. Oh well. Her recent demonstration of physical skills was not all that memorable anyway. As soon as the phone call ended, she became the Chief Inspector, demanding to know who I was, really, and why I had deceived her. I tried to maintain my characterization of a Frenchman on the make, but once her suspicions were aroused, she would not believe anything else I said. So much for that evening. She got dressed and made her departure well known to anyone within earshot.

It is a curious thing the pairings of young ladies for a night on the town. Seldom does a person find a young lady out by herself for the evening, they most always travel in pairs, or worse, threesomes. The "pairs" thing is understandable, lest she might be perceived as a working girl if she was alone. It is the threesomes that are most troublesome to a single guy on the prowl. I can always find another guy to join in pursuit of two young ladies; that's seldom a problem. But that leaves the third girl unattended and unnoticed, usually for a reason. Somehow, it is destined that in every group of three girls, two will appear cute or pretty or even better, and one will only have a great personality--period. She will be the unnoticed one, either because she is anything but cute or perhaps and also because she has spent too much time in front of her dinner plate over the years. It may sound lecherous, but if I spend all day on a beach in the south of France surrounded by cute, pretty and beautiful girls, I am definitely not going to spend much time, if any, paying attention to those that apparently have a great personality as their only asset. (I know! I know! Not every girl is going to be beautiful--but then I am not trying to entice every girl into my bed.)

It was a great summer. I learned to appreciate the various talents of the Girls of France, to borrow a title from some porn magazine. They definitely seemed to have an edge on their American counterparts, and a true distaste for the missionary position. This may have contributed to their being decidedly more vocal in their utterances of erotic joy. Many was the morning when, while enjoying a cup of coffee on the patio of my hotel, one or another of the males guests would comment about easily overhearing the cries from the next room the previous evening. French girls seem to be screamers. Of course, given the climate and balmy evening temperatures, most of us allowed the windows to be opened, and the noise from one room traveled easily up and down the length of the building.

Following France, I moved on to Germany and then as winter approached, to the ski slopes of Switzerland. Here, too, beautiful girls descended, not only the slopes, but onto my manhood as often as possible. Interestingly, many of these girls were already married, traveling alone or with another married girlfriend while their husbands toiled away in the financial centers of Europe. It did not take me long to conclude that said husbands were spending far too much time in their jobs and, thus, ignoring the charms of their partner. These women were starved for attention, starved for affection, starved for what was obviously a long overdue orgasm and determined to fill up on everything they were missing. The frosting on the cake, as far as I was concerned, was that they wanted to pay for my room and food and skiing and liquor for their entire visit, which in the case of one young wife, extended to nearly four weeks. That woman was insatiable. We would fuck in the morning, get up, shower, have a light breakfast, fuck again, ski for several hours and then sit in the hot tub or sauna directly outside the room door. If we didn't fuck in the hot tub, we did it again as we entered the room. The balance of the afternoon and evening was spent in the lounges around the city, dancing and cavorting and admitting to her traveling companions our activities of the day.

I spent most of the winter in one resort or another, timing my arrival to be one day before the weekend, which is when most of the unaccompanied arrived. The Friday evening welcoming party thrown by the resort made meeting the newest group very easy. By early Saturday, or for certain by mid day Saturday, I would become confident that I had another woman interested in being my financial hostess for the duration of her stay. Hey! It was great sex, great company, great food, great drink-- and it was free! About the fifth week, the resort would suggest that I needed to move on, but true to their sensitivities for the happiness of their guests, they always suggested another resort which was on the "circuit". Not wanting to wear out my welcome, I happily obliged them and headed in a new direction. It seems that my sex starved sources of connubial bliss visited a different resort each year, always with the same purpose, but more or less in a rotation. So, off I went to another of their destinations.

By early spring, it was time to head home, and to the sunshine and beaches for spring break. Not much was different save that the girls were not as free with their money as the frustrated wives of Europe had been, and because most of the girls on spring break were single, there was actually a fair number of virgins that one encountered. While the mental enjoyment that a guy receives by being her "first" may be high on some guys list, the physical discomfort associated with it can, on occasion, dampen the enthusiasm of both participants. Add to that the likelihood of a less than stellar performance by the girl in that situation and a guy has to ponder the merits of virginal pursuit. That being said, my preference for the petite version of female form more or less assured me that I would experience more than a random share of first timers. Being twenty four years old, I had to be additionally cautious of the real age of some of the girls that I convinced to join me in horizontal workouts. The very least desirable outcome of a year of worldly tail chasing would be to end up in jail because some girl lied about her age.

As spring breaks came to an end throughout the south, I decided it was time to start the process of securing gainful employment. By the first of June, I was assigned a territory as a sales representative of a major steel producer, calling on manufacturers and selling the products of my employer during the day and when lucky, bedding the receptionists and secretaries of my customers at night.

Either it was a very lucrative territory or my sales ability is unusually great because I became the rising star in the region and was soon promoted, and then promoted again. After three years on the road each night, I was transferred to the regional headquarters and found myself assigned to a very plush office, not at the top, but certainly at an executive level. My days became less calling on customers and more in my office, tied to my desk or in meetings or planning sessions, and occasionally attending conferences. At the direction of my bosses, I began to specialize in selected product lines and soon was designated as product line manager for those products. This changed my role, once again, away from pure sales and moved it closer to teacher and specialist, which brought invitations to speak at seminars instead of just listening to others.

At first, the seminars were small, with twenty or thirty attendees, being a part of a larger group convention. I would present my information, answer questions for an hour or so and then repeat the process the following day or two, or three, depending on the size and length of the convention. What I discovered, in doing these, was that every convention has a staff responsible for its planning, and for the coordination of its speakers, and for their well-being. That staff is managed by the convention planner, a man or woman about my parents ages but who was surrounded with young, vivacious, intelligent administrative assistants, mostly fresh from college with a marketing degree. These young women find themselves in strange cities, living out of suitcases from convention to convention, sometimes for weeks at a time. This was nothing like the life after graduation that they had imagined. Where are the handsome guys to meet after work? Where are the fancy restaurants at which one is dined? Where are the nightclubs to dance the evening away? Since I had already been introduced to them during the planning of the seminar, it was not hard at all for me to find one to accept my invitation to dinner and whatever.

As I look back it it now, I realize that it was almost not fair to them. Sure, they were all college graduates, and had donated their virginity to some guy at some time in years past, And most of these ladies were in their first year after graduating, and had no real idea of how the working world really worked, or, to use an old, tired phrase, what was expected of them in their jobs. The result was that many of them ended up spending the night with me. A few even had boyfriends at home, wherever that was, but still joined me in bed because they thought it was a part of moving up the corporate ladder. I wasn't going to tell them any differently.

At one of my earliest seminars, a strange thing happened. One of the attendees looked very familiar to me. She sat in the back of the room, and I had no opportunity to converse with her directly. But something about her appearance told me that I had seen her before, or met her somewhere in years past. It wasn't that she was beautiful, nor stunning, nor any of those descriptors, so I was pretty confident that she had not shared my bed, but I just couldn't place her. I tried to jog my memory by studying the list of attendees and the limited bios that they submit upon registration, but there was nothing in the data to help. I let it go.