by 26 Nights (Memoirs of a Contemporary Gentleman) [MF] (retail) (epub)
When finally I was able to make the acquaintance of the remaining attendant, however, my spirits rose again. Encountering her alone in that same lounge area, I was pleased to find that she was extremely pleasant and outgoing, and indeed that she appeared to be at least as attracted to me as I was to her. She had lively dark eyes and a mischievous smile; her dark brown hair was pinned up under her blue stewardess cap, but her uniform did not conceal the ample beauty of her figure. After a few minutes’ conversation I had no doubt of her availability; but of course I knew it was unlikely that I would be able to take advantage of it. I held my breath as I waited to hear her tell me her name in reply to my casual query—and could hardly keep from grinning when she answered, “Catherine. What’s yours?”
At least that’s what I thought she said. That’s what I wanted her to have said. But of course after a moment it occurred to me, as it will have occurred to you, I’m sure, that I might be wrong. That she could have said not “Catherine,” but “Katherine.”
Inwardly, I prayed (I don’t know to whom or to what, but pray I did). “Pretty name,” I said, smiling at her. “One of my favorites. Is that Catherine with a C or with a K?” And again I held my breath.
“A K,” she said, smiling back. “My mother was a Hepburn fan.”
I cursed her mother silently. I cursed her father too, for allowing her mother to make such a nonsensical decision. I cursed Katharine Hepburn, and I cursed Spencer Tracy as well, just for good measure. “Ah,” I said. “What a shame. I mean—” I added hastily as she raised an eyebrow at me, “I mean it’s a shame that we don’t have more time to get to know each other.”
She gave me a slow smile that went straight to my groin. “We have the rest of the flight,” she said softly.
Turning away an available woman is one skill I am not practiced at, nor had I any wish to develop much expertise in that area. Certainly not with this woman. But I had no choice. “Not the best of circumstances,” I said ruefully. “Not much privacy on a plane, is there?”
She smiled again. “Oh,” she murmured. “I’ll bet we could arrange something.” She took a step toward me until the tips of her breasts just grazed the front of my shirt, and gazed up into my eyes. “Don’t you think so?”
I knew damn well so, and I won’t pretend that I wasn’t seriously tempted, bet or no bet. I admit the thought was in my mind that I could have a brief airborne fling with this lovely morsel, and Miss Greenglass need never know.
Katharine glanced at her watch. “I have a break right now,” she whispered. “Come with me.” And she brushed past me, the movement setting my loins throbbing, and walked up the aisle toward the section where the lavatories were.
Now in spite of my disingenuous protestations, I had shared airplane lavatories with females before, and I knew it was quite possible to conduct amorous activities in such quarters; and further, that the ingenuity required to maneuver in that cramped space could even intensify the pleasure. And watching the movement of Katharine’s hips and buttocks as she glided up the aisle, I was sure her ingenuity would match mine. Damn! Why had I ever agreed to limit myself to the alphabetical succession? What did it matter if I sampled one or two others in between, as long as I accomplished the primary goal? But rules were rules … and I was following Katharine up the aisle just so that I could explain to her that I couldn’t …
But before I could catch up with her she had popped into one of the lavatories. Of course the “Occupied” sign did not come on; she was waiting for me to join her. Well, perhaps it would be better if I could make my apologies in the privacy the bathroom afforded. Being careful that no one was watching, I slipped in also, sliding the lock after me.
The lack of space in the tiny cubicle of course thrust us together, and Katharine cooperated. Her arms went around me and her body molded itself to mine from shoulders to knees. “Hi,” she murmured. And then she kissed me, thrusting her tongue immediately into my mouth.
This woman had the longest and most agile tongue I have ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Before I knew what was happening, it was so far down my throat that I almost felt I could swallow it, and what she was doing with it made me weak in the knees. For several long moments I could do nothing but enjoy the sensation, and of course attempt to reciprocate that enjoyment.
When our mouths finally parted I was nearly breathless, and my stiffness was making a sizable dent in Katharine’s belly. But the thought of that damn wager had not entirely deserted my spinning head; although every nerve, every cell in my body was telling me again that it wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference, and Miss Greenglass need never know about this.
But I could hear her voice in my mind, that cool, steady, disturbing voice. “Of course I have absolute confidence in your word. You do have many failings, but untruthfulness is not among them. I will trust to your honor in this matter.”
Damn the woman!
With what strength I had left I attempted to push Katharine away from me, an action which neither the tight space nor her clinging arms made very easy. But I managed to get an inch of space between our bodies, and to recover enough breath to say, “Katharine … I’m sorry … I can’t.”
“What!?” She stared at me for a moment, but she must have decided I was joking, for with a grin she pushed her hips up against me again, twisting herself against my all-too-obvious arousal. “Oh, I think you can, all right,” she whispered. “Oh yes, indeed.”
“Don’t.” I tried to push her away again, but now my back was pressed against the wall of the cubicle, and I couldn’t separate us without actually hurting her. Besides, I didn’t have the strength. And now Katharine began to slide down my body, lowering herself slowly, letting her breasts rub against me all the way down, until she was on her knees. “Let’s just see,” she murmured, and her hands were tugging at my zipper.
Oh dear Lord, I thought. Maybe … if I just let her … if there was no actual intercourse, would that really count? I tried desperately to convince myself that it wouldn’t. Her fingers opened my fly and found my erection and pulled it out, and her head bent to me, and …
“No!” And somehow I managed to turn away from her, putting my hands down to shield myself, using them to tuck myself back in and zip up. “I’m sorry,” I muttered, fumbling for the door lock. “Really, I’m … I’m really …” With my head swimming, and stammering as I had not done with a woman since I was twelve years old, I got the door open and lurched through it, leaving Katharine there on her knees, astonished and, I was sure, furious. As well she might be.
I slumped against the wall by the lavatory door, trying to catch my breath, and feeling that everyone on the plane was staring at the red-faced, panting man with the very obvious bulge in his trousers. Oh, Miss Greenglass, I thought. Look what you’ve brought me to. Lord, I hope you’re worth it!
I was still waiting for my erection to subside when Katharine emerged from the bathroom. She did not look happy. “Katharine—” I started to say. “Let me explain …” But she swept by me without even looking at me, and I didn’t have the heart to go after her, even if in my condition it had been practical.
I had known my initial luck was unlikely to hold, but this seemed to be rubbing it in a bit. When I returned to my seat I was feeling so low I even considered the matronly Carolyn in seat L-13. After all, older women could sometimes be extremely passionate. But no. No …
When I arrived home, still feeling frustrated and morose, I reported to Miss Greenglass not only my success with Belinda, but also my aborted encounter with Katharine—adding that I hoped she appreciated the honesty, restraint and strength of character I was displaying in this matter.
Her only reaction was a ladylike shrug. “But of course, Mr. Walling,” she said coolly. “I hardly expected anything else.”
I didn’t know whether to kiss her or strangle her.
“Now hear this, Miss Greenglass,” I growled. “Tomorrow I intend to call Christine Dunmore—you may remember her, I did s
ome business with her father.”
“I recall her vividly,” Miss Greenglass said. “As do you, I’m sure. A quite pretty young lady, who had a very obvious crush on you. Her father’s presence precluded you from taking advantage of her youth, I believe. But by now she will be of age, will she not?”
“Indeed,” I said. “I intend to ask her to come here, and I intend to make love to her here in this office. In fact, right here on this desk. Now you may perhaps wish to absent yourself from the office at that time, Miss Greenglass. That is entirely up to you. But by God, it’s going to happen!”
Miss Greenglass did, of course, choose to be elsewhere at the time of Christine Dunmore’s visit; and I did make love to Christine, though out of some perverse impulse I did so on Miss Greenglass’s desk rather than my own. But though Christine was as passionate, sensuous and inventive as a man could wish, I must admit that even as I bared her lovely young body, and kissed her breasts, and reveled in the clutch of her legs and the warmth of her eager pussy, my concentration was less intense than is usual for me in such situations; my body brought her almost automatically to ecstasy, as hers did for me, but my thoughts were elsewhere—with Katharine, who had gotten away … and even more, with Miss Greenglass, who, I desperately hoped, would not.
I decided it would be best to keep these activities outside the office in the future …
Chapter 4
DESPITE THE FACT THAT, SINCE ATTAINING maturity, I have never felt the desire personally to participate in those strenuous athletic endeavors which so delight the boyish hearts of many of my colleagues—believing as I do that regular and frequent amorous activity is exercise enough for any man—I do nonetheless occasionally enjoy watching professional athletes at work. My preference is for individual rather than team sports—being something of an individual type myself—and of these, perhaps my favorite is tennis, an activity that provides the viewer with the spectacle of physical grace and skill, while avoiding, on the one hand, the sanguinary violence of boxing, and on the other the soporific longueurs of golf.
I was reminded of this occasional indulgence of mine by two circumstances. The first was that it was nearly Labor Day, which meant that our city was about to be graced by one of the premier tennis tournaments of the season, the United States Open—an event which I had an invitation to attend as the guest of one Mrs. Mergandahl, a prominent socialite whose very wealthy husband reserved a block of seats courtside each year, and who, with admirable civility, had shared both his seats and his wife with me on several occasions. And the second was that Mrs. Mergandahl’s first name was Deborah.
Nearly a week had elapsed since my enjoyable if somewhat distracted session with young Christine in my office. As I had accomplished the first three stages of my wager with Miss Greenglass in nearly as many days, I was not overly anxious on that score, and the sad fact was that my aborted encounter on the plane with Katharine had left me so bemused that for several days my libido sagged. This shocking state of affairs could not last long, of course, and the thought of Deborah’s bountiful charms was just the thing to turn it around.
“Miss Greenglass,” I said, looking up from a report my lovely assistant had just typed for me with her usual impeccability, “could you please check my calendar and tell me when I’m scheduled to attend the U.S. Open with the Mergandahls.”
“Thursday, Mr. Walling,” this amazing lady said, without looking up from her keyboard. “Mrs. Mergandahl called this morning to remind you. There will be a seat for you in her box at the Open—no doubt at her side.”
“You know, Miss Greenglass,” I said slyly, “I just thought of an amazing coincidence. I’m up to D in our little wager, and Mrs. Mergandahl’s first name happens to be Deborah.”
She shot me a glance of such disdain that a weaker man would have been knocked over. “I deem it rather unfortunate, though inescapable,” she said, her voice matching her look, “that you have such a backlog of women to utilize when necessary. I see now that I should have limited our wager to new conquests only.”
“But you didn’t,” I said smugly. “Even the terrifyingly efficient Miss Greenglass slips up once in a while, doesn’t she? Which means that the irresistibly alluring Miss Greenglass will soon be slipping into bed with the overwhelmingly charming Mr. Walling, who—”
Miss Greenglass never stopped typing. “There is still a very long way to go, Mr. Walling,” she said.
Sure enough, my VIP pass was awaiting me when I paid a visit to the USTA National Tennis Center a few days later. It was now over a week since I had been with a woman, and I fully intended to join Deborah (and to be joined to her) as swiftly as possible. However, while strolling toward the stadium, I stopped to look at a posted listing of the day’s matches.
Since it was still early rounds, there were no really exciting matchups. I was about to pass on, when another name caught my eye, though I had never seen it before. A Ms. Dolorosa LaPensa, of Chile, was playing another unknown, one Peggy Rinehart, an American, on one of the outer courts.
Dolorosa, eh? A female tennis player, who would doubtless have a finely toned, wonderfully supple body and a great deal of stamina … as well as a name beginning with D.
I felt my libido perking up already. Perhaps this line of thinking wasn’t very loyal to Deborah, but a fresh conquest is always more stimulating than a repeat performance. Of course this Dolorosa could turn out to be a disappointment; but what the hell, it was worth taking a look, and I began the long trudge out to Court Sixteen.
I had to assume that Ms. LaPensa was the dark-haired one, and if so she was most definitely not a disappointment. Small but solidly built, she flung her impressive body about on legs that improbably combined the muscularity of an athlete with the sleekness of a model. Those short, bouncy tennis skirts are one of the blessings of civilization, but lamentably few players have legs worthy of such a showcase. Dolorosa did.
She was winning her match handily, and enjoying the hell out of it too. With each winning shot against her hapless opponent she jumped up and down with excitement, looking around to make sure the spectators appreciated it as much as she did. Unfortunately there wasn’t much of a crowd out there, and those who were watching didn’t evince much enthusiasm for this unimportant contest. So I began to cheer and applaud for her each time she hit a winner, with the idea of trying to ingratiate myself with her.
When she won she practically turned a cartwheel on the court before running to the net to shake hands with the blonde. I watched carefully for signs of anyone who might deflect my approach, but after receiving a few desultory congratulations from dispersing spectators, she picked up her things and started off alone.
Luck was with me, but I didn’t yet know how much. I approached her as she started out of the court.
“Nice match,” I said.
She gave me a grin that could have lit up all of her native country. “Ah! I am win, yes?” she said with a heavy (but charming) accent. “I see you watch me. You cheer for me. I am good, no?”
“You are good, yes,” I said. “I wonder if I could—”
But this happy, bubbly and very sexy young lady was too high on victory to listen. “Yes, I am good player,” she burbled. “I be number-one player some day. I am win good. I am love to win always.”
“I can see that,” I said. We were walking toward the building that housed the locker rooms. Not the ones reserved for the top seeds, but those for the lesser lights, though I suspected it wouldn’t be long before Dolorosa would be moving up. “Maybe after you change,” I began, “we could—”
“I am feel good,” Dolorosa said. “When I am win I am feel like—it make me feel—how to say—excite?”
“Excited,” I said. “Of course.” But I thought she meant something more, and I decided to take a chance. “You mean passionate? Aroused? Hot?”
“Pasión,” she said, giving it a Spanish inflection. “Sí. Yes. I am want to—” She stopped then, and looked at me. And I mean looked at me. “You like m
e?” she asked suddenly. “No?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes I do.”
By now we had reached the building. “You come,” she said, and entered. I followed her until we were outside the locker room door. “I’ll wait right here,” I said. “Don’t take—”
“No. You come.” She opened the door.
“No, no,” I said. “I can’t go in there, Dolorosa.” I wondered what people called her for short. Dolo? “That’s the women’s locker room.”
“Wait,” she said, and went inside, but she was back in a moment. “Is okay. Nobody here. Come.” And grabbing my hand, she pulled me into the locker room after her.
“But someone else might come in,” I protested. “Why don’t I—”
“I no care,” she said. “I am win, I feel good. Someone come, I chase them out. Or if they stay, is no matter.”
“Well, that’s a very enlightened attitude,” I said. “But—” And then I stopped myself realizing that once again, as with Katharine on the plane, I was ruining a perfectly good opportunity—and this time with no real reason. What was wrong with me? What was wrong with a little risk? Nothing. I throve on risk. I welcomed risk, damn it. I may have been stimulated to this realization by the fact that Dolo had started to unbutton her shirt.
“I am take shower,” she said, pulling the shirt off. “All sweat, yes? I play hard, I sweat. I am good.”
“Oh yes, you are,” I said fervently, as her bra came off. I would have taken her, sweat or no sweat. She grinned at me now, posing for a moment, sticking her high, full breasts out.
“You like? I am sexy, no? You come with me in shower.”
