by 26 Nights (Memoirs of a Contemporary Gentleman) [MF] (retail) (epub)
“Just another minute,” Tamara pleaded. “Oh, damn! Okay, here!” She put down the charcoal and took off her panties. Her breasts swayed as her body bent over, and an abundant tangle of pubic hair was revealed as she slid the garment over her hips and down the long columns of her legs. She stepped out of it to face me naked, and to consolidate the obvious success of this maneuver, she even turned completely around so that I could see all of that marvelous body. Then she quickly picked up the charcoal and went back to work.
This time my recalcitrant member stayed where it was until she was finished. Even after she was done I remained aroused, for in spite of myself my active imagination had begun to conjure up images of that naked body in various positions, and of various activities I would have liked to pursue with it.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ve got the basics down. I can do the painting from this sketch. Of course, if you’d like to come again and pose for the actual painting, that would be—”
“I don’t think I could stand it,” I said. “Damn it, Tamara, put some clothes on or something. Unless you want to—”
“I don’t do it with guys, darling,” Tamara said. “Hmm, it’s not going down this time, is it?” She moved toward me to give it a closer look. Still naked. “How come?”
“Because your body has got me crazy,” I said. “Get dressed, for God’s sake.”
But she didn’t. In fact, she stood there and stretched provocatively. “You like it, huh?” she purred. “Well, I’m sorry, Steven. I didn’t mean to tease you.”
“What do you think you’re doing now?” I asked indignantly. “What the hell’s going on here?”
She came closer, but when I instinctively reached out for her she danced back. “No, no,” she said mischievously. “No touching, Steven.” Standing just out of my reach, she struck a pose, hands on hips, legs wide apart, breasts thrust forward, her erect body swaying just a tiny, tantalizing bit. “But you can look all you like,” she said. “And if you want to … you know … help yourself …”
I stared at her. “You’re kidding,” I said.
She shrugged, which made her breasts jiggle and my cock twitch. “I just don’t want you to suffer, darling,” she said. And she began to run her hands suggestively over her own body.
“Damn it, I am suffering,” I said. “But I’m not a damn kid any more, Tamara, and I’m not about to—Oh, Christ.” She had gone to her knees now, and was leaning back on her hands, her breasts straining upward, her legs wide enough for me to see right into her vagina. It was as if she was inviting me to try something, but I was pretty sure that if I did I would be met with a kick in the groin. This lady may have liked women, but she obviously got a kick out of teasing men. Now she lay down full length on the floor, twisting her body, caressing herself and rolling from side to side, her legs opening and closing salaciously. It was all I could do to stay where I was, and I have to say that I was tempted to do as she had suggested. But even I have my limits sometimes.
“Stop it, Tamara,” I gritted. “You have a great body, but I’m not going to jerk off over you. Now if you’d like to at least give me a hand—”
“A hand?” She stopped wriggling and seemed to consider. At that point I would have settled for a hand—hers, that is. It wasn’t what I wanted, but it would have been better than nothing. “No,” she said finally. “I couldn’t do that, Steven. You understand, darling, don’t you?”
“To hell with you,” I said. Not without some effort I turned away from her and began to get dressed. I stuffed myself into my pants and with some difficulty zipped myself up. By the time I finished dressing I had subsided enough (I hoped) not to be too conspicuous. Tamara called to me as I went out the door, but I didn’t stop. I was angry and frustrated. I thought of calling Tina, but it was very late by now, and anyway it was the vision of Tamara’s naked body that was churning around in my mind.
I settled for going to a bar and getting tanked.
Which accounted for my headache the next morning. My conversation with Miss Greenglass was the result of a forlorn notion that perhaps my evening with Tamara, unsatisfactory though it was, might actually be considered a sexual encounter. After all, we had both been naked. But the terms of our wager, however euphemistic their expression, had been understood by both of us to stipulate sexual contact, and there had been, unfortunately, no contact whatsoever. I could not truly convince myself that it met the necessary standards, and so when Miss Green-glass, before even hearing the circumstances, left it to my own conscience, I knew that hope was lost.
So later that day I called Tina.
David had been right. I didn’t have to work very hard. “Hey, hi!” she said when I identified myself. “I’ve been hoping you’d call. Dave said you wanted to screw me.”
“Uh … well … the thought did cross my mind …”
“Cool! Come on over! Dave’s out right now.”
“Um … cool,” I said.
I can’t in all honesty say that the memory of Tamara was completely absent from my thoughts during the pleasant hours I spent that afternoon in Tina’s company and in her—and David’s—bed, but Tina’s own lissome, athletic and extremely talented body did a great deal to dispel it—most of the time. Her blond hair, it turned out, was dyed, but that did not detract from her appeal. She was smaller than Tamara, and thinner, but she was as curvy as a corkscrew, and she was certainly no tease; she was hot and inventive and utterly tireless. When she was underneath me she moved as though the bed was a trampoline, and when she was on top her twisting, bouncing body was a blur of motion. After my first climax—and her third—she brought me to life again with her incredibly knowledgeable mouth and tongue, and then begged me to, as she delicately put it, “ram that big cock up my pussy.” Always willing to go to any lengths to oblige a lady, I complied. I was buried deep in Tina’s tight, clutching cunt, one hand playing with her clitoris and the other clutching a quivering, hard-nippled breast while she, on knees and elbows, moaned and whimpered and squirmed and pleaded with me to do it harder. Right about that time, David walked in.
I stopped moving, which brought a groan from Tina, but David only grinned at me. “Hey,” he said. “Quite a stud there, my man. Yesterday Tamara, and now Tina. Way to go.”
I didn’t really want to take credit where it wasn’t deserved, but I felt this was hardly the time to disabuse him. “Uh, Dave? Could you give us a little privacy here? Just for a few—”
But Dave had other ideas. “Hey, don’t mind me, man,” he said, and then quite casually he unzipped his jeans, pushed them down—I noticed he wasn’t wearing shorts—and sat down on the bed, positioning himself so that Tina could reach his crotch with her mouth. This she swiftly did, taking his cock with one gulp and at the same time squirming her backside as a signal to me to continue with what I had been doing. Which signal, with some amusement, I obeyed.
Four climaxes later—one each for David and me, two for Tina—in the peace of afterglow, I related the true tale of my adventure with Tamara the previous night. When I had finished, David burst out laughing.
“Very funny,” I said bitterly.
“It is, man,” Dave chortled. “You don’t know. Listen, that chick is no dyke, that’s just a routine she does. Turns her on or something. Tamara Tease, we call her. You should have stuck around, she’d have come across sooner or later.”
I stared at him. “I don’t believe it.”
“Honest to God,” Dave said. “Hey, don’t worry. If she likes you, I bet you can still get in?”
But, of course, after Tina, Tamara was now out of bounds until my damn wager was over. My reaction to this might have been more pronounced had not Tina at that moment rolled over and started kissing my body again …
But when I got home, just for the hell of it, I called Tamara. “Oh, Steven darling!” she said. “So glad to hear from you! Why did you rush out so quickly last night? Darling, you didn’t really think I was gay, did you? That was just kind of a way I have of testing
a man’s character, you know? And you passed marvelously, Steven. Why don’t you come over tonight, darling, and we can really celebrate, okay?”
I took a long, deep breath. And when I said …
But never mind what I said. Some things just can’t be printed, even in a book like this.
Chapter 22
UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES WHATEVER WILL I accept this invitation,” I said to Miss Green-glass. “It will be stuffed shirts and windy speeches and unmitigated dullness. Tell them thanks but no thanks.”
“But it’s a real honor, Mr. Walling,” protested my lovely assistant. “To be asked to share your views with a Senate committee, and then to have lunch at the White House! Surely you can’t turn that down.”
“Surely I can,” I said. “They have these conferences every year. They invite a dozen so-called business experts, everybody gabs a lot without saying anything, they put out an impressive-sounding press release and everybody goes back to business as usual. No thanks, I have better things to do with my time.”
Miss Greenglass just looked at me. She can say more by being silent than anybody I know.
I looked down at the letter of invitation on my desk. “This senator is a sleaze anyway,” I said. I looked more closely at the signature to see if I could tell whether it was genuine or photocopied. “I wouldn’t—”
I stopped, because something had caught my eye. There beneath the signature, at the left-hand margin, neatly typed, were the senator’s initials in capital letters, followed by a slash and, in lowercase, the letters “uj.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “Ah … Miss Greenglass. You are no doubt more familiar than I with the arcana of correspondence etiquette. Perhaps you can confirm for me that this means what I think it means.”
I circled the symbol with a pencil and held the letter out to her. She came forward and took it, and as she glanced at what I had circled one eyebrow rose very slightly.
“As I’m sure you know, Mr. Walling, these initials constitute a record of who is responsible for this particular piece of correspondence. The capital letters stand for the initials of the person who dictated or originated the letter—in this case, obviously, the senator—while the lowercase initials are those of the person who typed or otherwise processed it.”
“And as I’m sure you know, Miss Greenglass,” I said, “I have recently arrived at a point in my progress toward winning our most exciting wager at which the initial U holds a certain interest for me. U is not the most common initial in the world, you know. In fact, I know no one personally who possesses it at this time. If, however, our dubious senator has in his employ a young lady who does boast that precious asset … well, it might even be worth attending this dull charade just for the chance of … getting to know her better, as it were.”
Miss Greenglass returned to her desk. “I need hardly point out, Mr. Walling,” she said dryly, “that you have no idea whether the lady is indeed young. Or whether the person who typed the letter is even a lady. To state only the most obvious of the many things you don’t know about this person.”
“That’s quite true, Miss Greenglass,” I said. “And so the logical thing to do, before committing myself to a day of tedium, is to find out, wouldn’t you say? Why don’t you call the senator’s office for me and see if you can get this U.J. on the phone?”
Miss Greenglass gave me a look which I will not attempt to describe. Her lovely and placid features hardly changed a bit, and yet I knew without question that if I wanted to call the senator’s office that day, I would have to do it myself.
Which I did, as soon as Miss Greenglass went out for lunch.
The person who answered the phone was a man, and I could only hope that this was not U.J. But then I realized that a senator probably had a quite extensive office staff. I was right, and I believe I must have spoken to every one of them, trying to explain who I wanted to talk to and why, before someone finally said, “Oh, I think you must want Ursula. Hold on please.”
Ursula! “Yes,” I said. “That’s who I want, all right.” But he was already putting me through, and the next voice I heard said, “Hello? This is Miss Jennings. Can I help you?”
She sounded young enough, as far as I could tell. At least she didn’t sound old. “Ah,” I said. “Miss Jennings. Miss Ursula Jennings, is that right?”
“Yes,” she said. “Who is this?”
“This is Steven Walling, Miss Jennings.” When this information elicited no discernible enthusiasm, I went on. “You—that is, the senator—wrote me a letter inviting me to the Senate Conference on Business and—”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Yes, Mr. Walling, I remember. If you are calling to accept, I’m afraid we will need your official—”
“Ah, no,” I said. I liked her voice, but of course for all I knew she could have been fat as a house, or looked like Bela Lugosi, or been a confirmed lesbian. But I decided to take the chance. “That is, I do expect to attend, but I just want to clear up a few things first. For example, the invitation mentions that the conferees will be having lunch at the White House.”
“Yes, sir?”
“And it says here, let me see … yes. It says ‘Spouses welcome.’ ”
“Yes,” she said, and then added, with a hint of amusement in her tone, “It used to say ‘Wives welcome,’ but that was considered sexist, assuming that the conferees would all be men, so—”
“Of course,” I said. “We wouldn’t want to be politically incorrect, would we? But you see, Miss Jennings, I don’t have a spouse, or even a wife. So what I was hoping, Miss Jennings, was that you would do me the honor of accompanying me to that luncheon.”
There was a long pause.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Walling?” she said finally.
“Well, I’d hate to be the only one there without a date,” I said.
“But—Mr. Walling—we don’t know each other. We’ve never met.”
“So it will be a blind date,” I said. “I’m not too bad-looking, Miss Jennings—may I call you Ursula? And I’m sure you—”
“I know what you look like, Mr. Walling. We have your picture in our files.”
“Oh, I see.” That knowledge made me a little uneasy, but that’s our government. “Well, what do you think?”
“Mr. Walling, I—I don’t understand. Why would you want to ask a total stranger to … to something like that? I don’t …”
I wished I could just tell her the truth, but I have learned in the course of my life’s adventures that truth, a most commendable virtue in the abstract, is in practice unreliable and can often screw everything up. So I lied a little. “I can’t reveal my source,” I said, “but I have it on good authority, Miss Jennings, that you are a highly attractive and personable young lady, and I would be grateful for your company. What do you say?”
Another pause. “I—I don’t know what to say,” Ursula said finally. “It’s really most unusual. I don’t know what the senator would—”
“Don’t worry about the senator,” I said. “As this invitation indicates, Miss Jennings—Ursula—I happen to be a most influential businessman, the head of a large and wealthy financial organization. I strongly suspect that nothing would give our senator greater pleasure than to cater to my every whim, unless it was knowing that you were doing that for him.”
I thought I heard her suppress a giggle, though I wasn’t sure. Still, I took it as an encouraging sign.
“Have you ever been to the White House, Ursula?” I asked.
“Well—only on a tour,” Ursula said. “But not—not as a guest or anything. Or even as a guest’s date.”
I knew I had her now. At least for the date. But I was after more than a date, so I pressed my luck a little. “Then you haven’t lived,” I said lightly. “They tell me there’s nothing like it. Eating in the state dining room, seeing the Oval Office, making love in the Lincoln Bedroom …”
Again there was silence, and I half-expected her to hang up. But she only said, “Well … I don’t t
hink we should plan on going that far, Mr. Walling.”
“Call me Steven,” I said.
The conference was every bit as dull as I had expected. The senators spouted platitudes, and the businessmen—myself included—gave them back bromides and clichés. Everybody smiled for the cameras and nobody gave a damn about anything that was said. Throughout the long morning I could only keep hoping that Ursula would be worth it.
Well, she was.
Not that she was a great beauty or anything. As a connoisseur, I would have rated her only average in the looks department, though she had a wonderful smile which lit up her whole face when she used it. Her figure was fine, but hardly spectacular. Her longish, light brown hair was neatly tied back, and though she wore no makeup that I was aware of, her bright fresh face did not suffer for lack of it.
She met me, as we had arranged, after the hearing, and we joined the group headed for the luncheon. After some initial reserve, she loosened up and we chatted easily as the official limousine bore us toward the White House. I liked her straightforward manner and her ready laugh, though I had the disquieting suspicion that this girl was nobody’s pushover—not even mine.
The President greeted us all cordially, more platitudes were exchanged and we had an elegant if not especially tasty lunch. Afterward the President, along with a couple of his aides, accompanied us on a swift tour of the White House, including the Oval Office. I was hoping we would see the Lincoln Bedroom too, but we didn’t. Even if we had, I had no idea how, in the circumstances, I could accomplish there what I had suggested to Ursula. But for some reason I now felt almost certain that if I had any chance with Ursula at all, it would only be in that very location. Maybe it was something in her voice when I had made that semifacetious suggestion. In any case, it seemed futile now, for our group was preparing to leave. And then I had a wild idea.
Who, after all, would be more sympathetic to the cause of seduction, the call of flesh to flesh, the ways of a man chasing a maid, than the current President of the United States of America?
