Chapter 17: Practical Seduction

Another familiar awakening, Joe emerged from a sexual dream to find its cause. The source surprised him. Red hair framed a round thinned face and big green eyes glinting mischievously in the morning sun. With a wet sucking pop releasing his tumescence, Margie's mouth freed it and she crawled up and straddled his hips threatening to guide it in. "Wait!" moaned Joe. Marta moved and muttered incoherently but remained asleep.

"You promised."

"Roll on a rubber."

"I'm ... Okay." She found her purse and removed a packet, ripping it open and rolling on the beige rubber.

"You get tested and we'll see."

"I know. Sorry."

Protected, she climbed back on. Her passage proved narrow though well oiled.

"Take your time little one," Joe suggested.

The exquisite pressure threatened premature ejaculation. He thought cruel thoughts of fat ugly men bearing knives and guns. After three strokes he met her shallow cervix with over an inch to spare.

"Ow," she complained.

"Turn over, little one."

He had to reenter her when she turned onto her back. He watched her respond and kept it slow, measuring the depth to prevent further pain. "You can cum when you want," she told him.

"I want to wait for you," he responded.

"I rarely cum this way. It feels good though. I can tell you're near."

"Let me help," rasped Marta through the remnants of sleep. She enclosed most of Margie's breast in her mouth, retreating to the nipple and suckling. She repeated with the other breast. Her hand slid between the two humping bodies and found the tiny clit and rubbed.

"Ooh," moaned Margie. She lifted her torso dangerously as Joe descended. "Harder."

Gauging the depths kept Joe distracted. He sped and intensified his thrusts. The quickening caused more exquisite friction. Her moans also encouraged release. Pleasure nearly evaporated all control. Marta's vigorous nips and rubs and Joe's high fast strokes pushed Margie over the threshold.

"Oh God," she wailed. The rippling tunnel surrounded Joe's stilled cock as it pressed as lightly as possible against her cervix and throbbed and expelled spurts of sperm safely into the thin jacket.

"Fuuuuuck," Joe roared.

"Sorry to wake you Marling."

"It's okay," she smiled, kissing Margie and lingering on Joe's kiss. "Goodnight," she murmured and turned away. Joe rested on his side proudly gazing into Margie's eyes. He left the condom on.

"Wow," intoned Margie. "I never..."

"I know little one. You should sleep."

"Okay." She grasped his head and pulled their mouths together. Several kisses later had his penis resurrecting. Joe kissed his new lover on her broad forehead and scooted out of bed.

"Sleep," he insisted.

"Yes master," she grinned and turned on her side facing Marta's back.

The condom remained dangling while Joe prepared his coffee. He removed it in the bathroom, adding his waste to the toilet and flushed it away. Eating a bagel and cream cheese and sipping the coffee, he gazed at the two beauties comfortably asleep, Marta quietly snoring.

He shook his head and wondered about the amazing changes to his life, the abundance of pleasure and love replacing abstinence and loneliness. He wondered if he could ever live a solitary life again. He mouthed a silent prayer to the goddess of fate, Arachne, weaving webs of lives, requesting Marta to be forever enmeshed in the tapestry of his life.

Once the last of the cup passed down his gullet, he put on his coat and headed out to jog his early morning two miles.

Mary had only slept three hours when the insistent ringing of the home phone finally awoke her. She picked it up. "What!?!" She glanced at Roger looking up at her on the edge of consciousness.

"Get dressed. Wake up Marianne. We have things to do," chuckled Marta.

"Fuck you."

"Have Marianne bring a change of clothes. She's closest in size to Margie. We have to see a man about a house."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'll explain later. Trust me, Miss Contrary."

"Fuck you."

"I need you here in a half hour."

"Alright, goddamnit!"

"And Mary?"

"Yeah?"

"L sends her love."

"Thanks," Mary responded quietly and hung up.

"Gotta go," she said to a semi-conscious Roger, slipping on panties and collecting her clothes for the day.

"Where to?"

"Beats me."

"You're going to reek of me."

"Can't help it. Oh hell, I'll make it fast. Go to sleep." She removed her panties and carried her clothes to the neighboring bedroom. "Get up, sleepyhead. We've got to go. Marianne?"

"What?" Marianne blurted groggily.

"Get up. Get dressed. Now."

"Yes ma'am."

Mary waited for Marianne to sit up. "I'm taking the fastest shower on record. No time for you. Grab a change of clothes for Margie, something tight on you. And bring a belt."

His daughter had been right about the house. Harold stayed there early in the summer and found it large and lonely, deciding to let gardeners and cleaners keep it from turning to a sea of weeds and a blanket of dust and a lair of spiders building webs in corners left to become cobwebs.

Filling the house on weekend evenings with his contemporaries for cocktail parties intended to disrupt the loneliness, but when they straggled out late or early the next day, emptiness created a vacuum of absence. Even more so when his guests consisted of young adults from his workshop/lecture class at Northwestern. Saturating the walls with exuberance left them echoing in his mind disturbingly until petering out and becoming painfully silent.

Even with the distraction of Denise, a vibrantly beautiful blonde with full firm youthful breasts and matching behind and a strong musculature softened by a comfortable and becoming layer of fat whom he had noticed attending class (what man wouldn't) and figured age difference would never allow their meeting beyond it despite her catching his eye often and smiling and sometimes blushing, and enjoying her beside him much of the evening until they shared a night of bliss, waking from that night and walking alone in the house, he felt alone.

The end of school party had brought them together. She stayed through the weekend and visited a couple more times, building on the relationship, but aside from enjoying him, she felt bored by the environs. He had his apartment on Lakeshore Drive. He decided to move there and invite her to stay. It made her happy. It made him happy too. A two bedroom looking over the lake with a lanai at the corner to bring the skyscraper city into view had enough room for them and not a lot more. No room for distracting parties, the white noise of the city below and the voluptuous bedmate satisfied him.

His daughter may have been right about Denise as well. The confrontation produced a seed in his mind which took root and sprouted. The beautiful young blonde had entered his life at a perfect moment. Like his novels, his women had been of his generation. He felt communication and sexual maturity made them welcome bed partners. But the book he worked at presently had been nostalgic in its milieu, centering on a young man around Denise's age and a similar silver spoon background. She became source material.

Though intelligent, gaps in her knowledge from a lack of aged wisdom and sharing less than half of the social history he witnessed created holes in conversations. Disinterest in his concerns and a lowering opinion of her intellectual abilities formed a slowly enlarging rift as well as a ranking in his mind. Her youth and beauty bestowed a pedestal of awe, but her mind made him feel like he had the upper level, and her level slowly descended.

They met through a writing workshop. Thus she wrote fiction. Unfortunately it sucked. He offered opinions at first once the class ended and the relationship began, but he'd already skewered her attempts at stories during the class. She didn't care. She left writing behind.

Her true interests lay in the peculiar social philosophy known as interior decoration. Not so much an artistic or architectural interest, although those aspects couldn't be ignored, her philosophy aligned with a sort of Feng Shui which involved not just the space itself but the psychology and sociology of the people occupying it. She gleaned everything written about how color and spatial relations affect people. It proved esoteric and difficult, but she persisted. Her interest was intense.

Unfortunately he didn't share it. At least she didn't attempt transforming their living space. What she showed him, collages of furniture juxtaposed in a virtual room created on her computer, actually worked well. The outcome impressed him. Her taste impressed him, including her wardrobe and the suits she insisted he buy for himself. But the process left him lost or confused or profoundly uninterested. Her infectious enthusiasm brightened the moment and brought enjoyment despite the subject.

A dedicated fan, she read everything he wrote since her early teens. She stared at the picture of him on the jackets of his novels and fantasized. She found the writing sexy and the writer even sexier. She wanted him. Being beautiful and rich and spoiled, she got what she wanted.