Other books by Barbara Berger
The Road to Power
– Fast Food for the Soul
The Road to Power 2
– More Fast Food for the Soul
Gateway to Grace
– Barbara Berger’s Guide to User-Friendly Meditation
Mental Technology (The 10 Mental Laws)
– Software for Your Hardware
The Spiritual Pathway
– A Guide to the Joys of Awakening and Soul Evolution
Are You Happy Now?
10 Ways to Live a Happy Life
The Awakening Human Being
– A Guide to the Power of Mind
Sane Self Talk
– Cultivating the Voice of Sanity Within
First published by Roundfire Books, 2014
Roundfire Books is an imprint of John Hunt Publishing Ltd., Laurel House, Station Approach,
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Text copyright: Barbara Weitzen Berger 2013
ISBN: 978 1 78099 779 7
All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publishers.
The rights of Barbara Weitzen Berger as author have been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Design: Stuart Davies
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
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Chapter 1
The Vice-President of the Republic Group was grinding away, his red hot ramrod stuffed between Pebble Beach’s slim thighs. He was panting and puffing, and the sweat poured from his brow. He was an ugly, disgusting toad – the type of man Pebble would never have considered going to bed with. How she ended up here, with him deep inside her, was something she couldn’t quite figure out. She didn’t want to remember his face with the friendly eyes behind the toad-like grin or the idiotic sexist comments he was always making when he wasn’t pinching her ass or grabbing her tits.
How can I do it?
How can I sink so low?
What’s got into me anyway?
This isn’t like me at all.
Not at all.
Pebble Beach you see was a good, nice, honorable, hardworking woman.
This will surely screw up my career.
Nobody ever goes to bed with their boss and gets away with it, unless their brains are fluff and all they’ve got going for them is body. Of course this had to happen to Pebble just when everything was going great and she was finally making good money. Just like Pebble Beach.
No sense of proportion, my mother would say.
None whatsoever…
And a razzmatazz to you too!
If Pebble Beach could climax with the Vice-President of the Republic Group, then she could climax with anybody, a dirty dog included. She thought he was making an awful lot of noise for a vicepresident as he grabbed her tits.
Too hard!
Squeezing her nipples till they hurt. Of course that was when her cunt caught fire.
My nipples hurt!
Holy shit!
Suddenly she wanted it, too. Wanted it bad – and wanted him. Wanted him to come and wanted to come with him, no matter how toady-looking he was.
Who cares about his face anyway!
Or toads at this point in the game.
It’s his cock I want…
Cock, cock, cock….
Come on man, what d’ya waiting for kiddo!
She forgot the wart on his nose, too, and the fact that his name was Einar Bro. A name she considered quite idiotic, and especially considering the fact that she thought he was the most unattractive man she’d ever met in her life. Of course that was when one other minor detail popped up: Einar was her boss. She worked for the bloody toad. Or up until tonight, she did. You see, he’d invited her out for dinner, which had happened before, only before she’d been able to withstand his advances and talk about business, and stay cool. The Republic Group you understand was a booming Danish advertising agency, skyrocketing right up to the clouds, and Pebble Beach was their star American copywriter. She knew the score and he knew the score and just about everybody else in the business knew it, too.
Einar needed her, he needed her smart, tight English copy to meet the growing demands of European companies scrambling to go international in the global marketplace of the 21st century. And Pebble, darling Pebble, was talented enough to deliver what Einar needed to keep those heavenly cash registers at Republic headquarters humming. And what’s more, Pebble mostly enjoyed knowing he knew.
Mostly, that is.
So even if he mostly really wanted to slip his hands under her sweater, he managed to control himself most of the time. She wasn’t that young either, but she was pretty. And most of the time, she did her level best to head him off.
At least until tonight.
Tonight, she failed miserably, and there he was grinding away while her cunt turned from lukewarm to red hot. She’d already forgotten the majestic room he took her to at the Hotel D’Angleterre.
How did I end up here?
Did I drink too much?
She couldn’t remember how she got from the bar to the room.
My mind’s a blank.
Look at that pretty ceiling, will ya?
What am I, some kind of bimbo?
I mean I’m supposed to be a woman with brains!
Brains, ya understand!
Not just some dumb cunt…
Her breathing quickened…
Oh God, dear God, if only his prick was a little longer and a little thicker, you know…wider…more filling that is…a little more like Albert’s…just a little more…oh God, you understand what I mean, I mean…if only he wasn’t so short and fat…and had a little more muscle on his body…just a little more, it would make all this a lot more, well you know…fun, you know, and less embarrassing when I wake up later, oh God, can’t you move me a little closer, you know to the less cash/more dash department and pronto…
The trouble was, Pebble wanted his sweaty little piece of meat and wanted it bad. So bad that suddenly it didn’t matter anymore that he didn’t have broad shoulders like Albert and firm muscles and all that stuff that usually got her off…old Einar was grinding away…grinding and grinding and grinding. And no matter his title, face or stature, the old boy had finally reached Pebble’s sweet spot…
“Please,” Pebble was moaning, “please hurry up…” She almost forgot his name, her love juices gushing now, the tension building, the heat of her body booming.
Suddenly Pebble loved life, liked who she was, and thought Einar Bro, in spite of his face, his millions and his turdy title, had what it took. He had that mysterious piece of meat she loved and dreamed of and, “Oh God, Einar, now,” but Einar had broken his rhythm, which was the rhythm of life itself, the rhythm she loved so much, to put his ravenous mouth to one of her taunt nipples…
Which was when or why Pebble Beach woke up, all alone in her bed, bathed in sweat – a dream of an orgasm only an inch away.
God, the sweetness of sex!
And not wasting time to analyze the bed-partner of her dream, Pebble finished off the job herself, groaning loudly in he
r empty bed.
Hope to God Adam and Jon are sleeping soundly tonight… Adam and Jon were her kids, you see. Pebble being a single parent.
When it was over, she just lay there, stoned on comfort.
Am I ever going to grow up?
You see, Pebble Beach was not newlywed, but newly divorced and not as gorgeous as she used to be. She was also more than a bit over 40, and all alone in her bed in Copenhagen, Denmark, of all places.
Pebble Beach, or Pebble, as they sometimes call her, was, or is, as you may have guessed, the name of your average insecure woman in her 40s. You’ll find her living in most big cities around the world today, and since she was born during the 60s, she’s probably something like 43 today, or God forbid, 45. She wasn’t a knock-out either, not in any language. But somehow, with a little help from Lancôme, a decent haircut, and some color out of a tube, she occasionally got away with being sensational.
Especially if the lighting’s right kiddo – or the party’s getting on…either age-wise or booze-wise!
Well at least I’m being honest with myself.
Pebble was sitting up in her empty bed now, holding her head, looking around her dark, empty bedroom; still hoping that maybe she’d find a man tucked away somewhere.
It sure is awful being lonely.
Why did I have to fall in love with a man who lives so far away? I could’ve just as well picked the accountant down the street for all the fun I’m having…
But she laughed anyway, having just divorced her husband, and pushed her newly highlighted hair back from her forehead. And being almost brave, she didn’t cry. After all, what would have been the point? She’d just given herself one damned good orgasm, considering she was all alone, and she figured, all things being equal, good orgasms never hurt.
* * *
Pebble Beach lived on Gothersgade, right across from the King’s Garden in Copenhagen, Denmark, a most fair and cool city where the sun shines brightly, but not often. A short stop on most package tours of Scandinavia, Copenhagen has the distinguished honor of being the charming, old capital of that unusually small country which Danes unabashedly regard as the center of the universe.
But Pebble didn’t care. She was shamelessly in love with wonderful Copenhagen.
When people asked her if she was going to move back to America now that she was divorced from her Danish husband, she’d smile and say, “Well maybe I will.” But she knew damn well she wouldn’t.
I’d have to be a fool to trade this for the crime and violence of America.
Where else in the world can a woman walk the streets all alone at night and feel safe?
Still, it was doubtful if Pebble would ever win the Danish Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, she was too laid back and American for that. Always would be. And besides, that stuff was probably not for the single mothers who worked their knuckles to the bone trying to feed their kids on their own.
No more lies, kiddo, not to myself or anyone else for that matter.
That’s what divorce is all about, right.
Getting things straight.
Cleaning up your act.
Figuring out what’s going on and what’s important to you.
For some reason, Pebble was in the mood to say to herself that the idea that having kids was what prevented her from getting divorced ages ago…was really a bullshit idea…
A bullshit idea?
Being scared cause you’ve got a couple of kids to support and might not know how?
Are you kidding?
Lots of women are afraid of getting divorced because of their kids.
Pebble put her hand under her warm Danish down comforter and touched her wet cunt and smiled. She liked being honest with herself, even if it was a little late in the game.
I was just scared shitless of being on my own!
That’s all!
And with that off her chest, Pebble snuggled contently under her warm comforter.
Oh God, where’s that one wonderful person who’s gonna save me from myself and this awful loneliness?
Is this what all my dreams have come to?
And not wanting to think more about life, Einar Bro, or her lover on the other side of the moon, Pebble Beach fell sound asleep.
* * *
Which was why, she was immensely relieved when she had to dash around like a maniac the next morning to make her nine o’clock appointment.
What if I’d been condemned to bed all morning?
I’d have been forced to think about my wet dream with Einar.
Fun way to spend a morning, right?
Feeling sorry for myself.
Stuff like that can be real tricky for a newly divorced woman. You know, dangerous.
Potentially suicidal.
But Pebble, our Pebble, was lucky – she had this nine o’clock meeting out there in the real world, waiting for her. And if she was good enough and smart enough, more real work and more real money would be waiting out there, too.
Her morning progressed at gunshot speed so she didn’t have time to consider when she’d ever get to touch Albert’s marvelous body again. He was so far away.
Not another adventurer, her mother would say.
Pebble, you sure know how to pick ’em.
You think he’s having deep-frozen wet dreams about you all the way up there on icy Greenland where he’s holed up for the winter?
All Pebble had to do that morning was face her kids. Something only mildly daunting in comparison to all the other existential questions she was facing at the moment. Jon, who was l6, was not only smart and beautiful; he was into “spiritual matters” too. Which meant that besides the fact that Pebble loved him dearly and that Jon’s own bedroom was as tidy as a glossy picture in Better Homes and Gardens, he rarely, if ever, lifted a finger to wash a dish in their house.
How did I manage to raise my own son to be such a male-chauvinist pig?
Jon’s kid brother, Adam, was mad about Coldplay and righteous causes and mad as hell at Jon for never doing the dishes, especially when his instincts told him his mother might be feeling a wee bit lonely. Then Adam couldn’t think of any other way of showing his love besides doing the dishes. Which meant poor old Adam was doing an awful lot of dishes lately.
Sometimes that kid really gets to me.
Especially since Adam was a more plodding type than Flash-in-the-Pan Jon, as she sometimes fondly called her firstborn.
“Well,” sighed Pebble, watching Adam pack away his second breakfast that morning. He usually got up early and ate his first breakfast before Jon and Pebble even opened their eyes. He sure does eat like a man.
14-year-old boys, now you tell me.
When they’re not eating and acting like men, they’re farting around like they’re eight-year-olds or something.
On mornings like these, when everyone was rushing around and the whole house was a mess, Pebble was ready to shed a tear; she loved her kids so much. Now does that make sense?
Pebble Beach’s nine o’clock meeting was at Fem-Ads, a brash, new advertising agency specializing in ads for women. The ad house was owned and run by men – which never ceased to amuse Pebble, who wasn’t particularly crazy about going to meetings. Everybody at meetings was usually so together, or so it seemed to Pebble. Since her divorce, she’d been forced to face innumerable moments of minor terror in her valiant and determined effort to succeed in the world-at-large. She knew she couldn’t possibly expect her blooming career to really take off if she wasn’t cool and competent in the de rigueur world of meetings – no matter how together she perceived other people to be.
No big deal, she would say to herself. Where’s all this newfound insecurity coming from anyway? A child of this brave new world for women shouldn’t be feeling this way. Remember, kiddo, you’re a winner and you’ve been out there too doing things for the world – so you know a thing or two! Pebble told herself all kinds of drivel when things were looking bleak like how she was in Auckland when they blew up the Rain
bow Warrior in 1985. Not that anybody at Fem-Ads would appreciate such feats. God forbid they should know! The thought absolutely terrified Pebble. What would happen if any of her newfound business contacts found out she wasn’t as straight and innocent as she looked? People might think it was fun to read about women on the barricades, but to actually work with one of them…All my assignments might just evaporate overnight. Pebble didn’t want anyone to know that underneath her “trying-to-be-a-winner” clothes she was just an insecure 40-something woman of experience getting older every minute…
Why can’t I just be a talented copywriter anyway? Why do I have to go through all this show-and-tell business? I’ve got my idiosyncrasies and I’m proud of them! Why do I have to love meetings and explaining myself and my brilliant copy to every nerd around a fat gleaming, designer table? Any jerk can read what I write! When I’m famous enough, I’m going to email my copy to them, she thought with satisfaction, and I’ll never show my face at one of these hair-raising meeting rituals again!
Meetings also reminded Pebble of her highly inadequate wardrobe. Obviously she hadn’t put in those obligatory years and years of dedicated shopping. And why should she have? It just so happened that Pebble wrote her best copy at home in her sweat pants. She didn’t need Armani or Prada outfits to produce brilliant headlines and copy. But to make matters worse, Pebble hadn’t learned the fine art of making do with what she had – another invaluable working woman skill. Sigh as she might, she’d never become one of those careful bees who read women’s magazines for tips. If Pebble could have worn whatever she wanted, she would have thrown on one of Jon’s shirts – the ones he loved so much that he bought at G-Star or Diesel. But she knew his shirts would never work. A touch too wild for Fem-Ads, so Pebble settled instead for her black skirt and grey sweater. At least I’ve worn this outfit often enough to feel comfortable in it. Comfortable! Great God, that’s not how I want to feel. I want to feel Great. Superb. Smashing. Good God, look what age and single parenting has done to me – am I really willing to settle for Comfortable instead of Great?
Pebble took one last look at the newspapers and dishes spread all over the kitchen table while Jon heard the last few verses of “Angels” by Robbie Williams. No time to clean up now. Adam had already left. “Hurry up, Jon, we’ll be late.” She came rushing, face aglow. They raced out the door and dashed for the stairs. No more time for Great/Comfortable debates now. Running down the stairs together, Pebble’s heart melted looking at her appealing 16-year-old in his worn jacket. Pebble pulled herself together. No more of this sentimental crap…MOM…who’s going to pay for the new jacket Jon needs? She gulped, gave Jon a peck on the cheek, then turned and ran down the windswept street after a taxi.
Adventures of Pebble Beach Page 1
