It all started with my husband Richard’s crazy idea for a family Christmas photo. He fancies himself as a photographer – he has a lot of equipment, anyway – and for some reason, he wanted to get a photo of us in running gear. I’m a serious runner, I qualified for and ran the Boston Marathon, whereas Richard is a modest runner and only does the occasional 5k. But he’s always been proud of my athletic prowess.

I’m Gretchen Lovewell, 26 years old, and just out of law school. I’m a new associate in corporate law at Brewster Bailey Hamilton LLC, Counselors-at-Law, one of the biggest law firms in town. I have bright red hair and very blue eyes, with the lean musculature of a committed runner. I work out very hard to maintain my perfectly sculpted abs, traps, and delts, and have little fat except for a rounded-but-tight ass and firm breasts. Men who like athletic women often tell me that I’m attractive. Richard is of medium height, a bit chubby and balding.

So here we were on Dorran Meadow, a wide flat expanse of low scrub on the ridgeline of the hilly city park. I was on my knees on a blanket, with our small baby propped up on my thighs, swathed in blankets. We were parked in the upper parking lot that abutted the meadow. It was late afternoon in December and an early dusk was falling. While it was a bit chilly, it was warmer than usual for December. I was wearing nothing but my Boston Marathon sports bra with the Boston Athletic Association logo above one breast, colorful tights and running shoes. Richard wore a T-shirt emblazoned front and back with “Turkey Trot 5-K”.

 “Hold still, Gretchen,” Richard was saying. “I’m almost done setting up the timer and light filters. We’ll get a great shot for our family Christmas card.”

“Richard, I’m freezing my butt off here,” I complained. I was born and raised in Germany, so even though my English is excellent, I have a slight foreign accent. “You said this would take five minutes. We’ve already been out for fifteen minutes and you haven’t even set up the camera yet. Thank God I decided to dress Junior warmly.”

“Just a little while longer, darling,” Richard said. “You can’t tell the temperature in the photos, and it will look so good to have you in your Boston Marathon gear!”

“Then we should have taken the photos indoors!” I said, my tone belligerent.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man come running up the steep trail from the lower parking lot. He had generated a lot of heat, for his running jacket was now tied around his waist and he wore Lycra – a T-shirt and tights, both emblazoned with Boston Marathon logos. He came pounding up to the top of climb and on to the trail toward us. From the far side of the meadow, the first thing I saw was his hard, firmly muscled body. His Lycra T-shirt clung to him, revealing his well-defined abs, chest and biceps.

The man came up behind Richard on the trail and stopped as my husband continued to fuss over the camera. He looked into my big blue eyes and immediately discerned my spark of interest. To my dismay, this encouraged him and he dropped his eyes to stare at my breasts. My nipples are quite long, and had stiffened to their full length in the cold. They poked very clearly through my sports bra. As I was breast-feeding, they were now disproportionately thick and my breasts were fuller and rounder than normal.

He was staring at my breasts so obviously that I flushed. The cold was getting to him – he put on his running jacket and zipped it up. Then he pulled out his phone and typed something into it.

I was hugging myself against the cold, when my phone buzzed. I reached into my Fendi handbag for it, and tapped it open. I saw a text with an identifier picture of the man and his name – ‘Jack Grierson’.

Jack: Hi Gretchen, I’m Jack. When did you run Boston?

When I saw the text, I looked at Jack in surprise, growing even more embarrassed as his eyes ranged over me even more suggestively, lingering on my crotch and belly.

My phone buzzed again.

Jack: You’ve got beautiful breasts. Your nipples are incredible, standing up so stiff.

I colored more deeply, but now I was more angry than embarrassed. I rapidly typed into my phone with both thumbs.

Me: F U.

Jack: That’s what I want to do – fuck you.

Me: You’re bad.

Jack: That I am.

I hesitated.

“Richard, hurry up now,” I said to my husband.

“I’m almost ready, dear,” Richard said.

Jack: I can’t see a panty line under your tights. Are you wearing panties?

Me: You’re a prick.

Jack: You’re gorgeous. And smart too. I love it when you talk dirty.

There was an attachment, and my curiosity led me to tap it open. It had my official law firm website with my picture, dressed in a dark business suit with an Hermes scarf knotted around my neck. It listed that I am German by birth. It also listed the year of my college and law degrees, indicating my age. It also had details of my phone and Richard’s phone with a picture of him in a business suit as well as his e-card “Richard Pappo, Principal, Pappo Consulting”.

My eyes went wide when I saw all this information, wondering what kind of spyware he was using to get it all. I crossed my arms over my breasts. Just then Richard completed his camera set up and came over to my side.

“Uncross your arms, darling,” Richard said. “The camera will start shooting in ten seconds. You need to hold Junior.”

I obeyed Richard and he kneeled next to me. We all  looked into the camera. As the camera began to shoot, Richard noticed Jack who was unhurriedly undressing me with his eyes. I hoped Richard would make Jack go away, and when the camera finished its first round of shots, I was gratified when my husband rose angrily.

“Look here, sir, you have to business staring at us like this. Please keep going down the trail.”

“I wasn’t staring at you,” said Jack, smiling. “I’m not into men.”

“Well, move along, now.”

“It’s a public park,” said Jack. “I have every right to be here.”

Jack locked eyes with Richard, who looked away quickly.

“Suit yourself,” said Richard. Then he dropped his voice to a whisper and said, “Bastard.”

“What did you say?” asked Jack.

“Nothing,” said Richard. He went back to setting up the camera for the second set of shots.

Seeing Richard so dominated, I felt my heart beat faster. I did not know if it was disappointment, fear, anger or something else. I picked up my phone.

Me: You’re a bully!

Jack: I’m not a bully. I like looking at you – you’re a sexy. Why should I leave?

Me: Because I’m someone else’s wife!

Jack: I ran Boston – we have that in common.

Me: So did thousands of others!

Jack: What do you have in common with your husband? He’s not a serious runner like you.

Me: He just wants to love me and make me happy! And he does, all the time.

Jack: I just want to fuck you and make you cum. And I will, many times.

I could not believe I was carrying on like this. But somehow, I could not stop. It was so naughty, texting with Jack like this in full view of my husband.

Me: Well, you can keep hoping, you’ll just be frustrated.

Jack: Will I? Then why is there a spot on the crotch of your tights?

My immediate reaction was to look down. I knew that this banter and Jack’s bold stares had made me feel a bit warm down there. And my tights were pale blue with white splotches, so I was worried.

Me: There’s no spot!
Jack: I can see it from here. Feel it with your hand.

I hesitated and then touched the crotch of my tights. Sure enough, there was a tiny spot of wetness. I colored again.

Jack: See? I told you.

“OK, dear, we’re ready for the second and last set,” said Richard.

He came and kneeled by me again and the camera when through its shooting routine. Jack stared at me and I looked away from the camera at him from time to time.

Jack waited while my husband packed his camera and I picked up the baby. We headed back to our car in the upper parking lot. I could feel his eyes on my straight back and on my chiseled shoulder blades separated by the Lycra strip of my sports bra. I was conscious as never before of the roll of my round buttocks under my tights. I wished I was wearing panties.

I settled the baby in the car and I got into the back, wrapping myself in a robe to change out of my running clothes.

Jack: Don’t put on panties when you change out of your running clothes.

Me: Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. But you’ll never know.

Jack: Nach Hause gehen? (Going home?)

Me: How do you know I speak German?

Jack: I’m interested in you. Sag mir. (Tell me)

Me: No, out for dinner to celebrate our Christmas photos.

Jack: Where?

Me: Get lost, you prick!

* * * * *

Richard drove our small Mercedes to our rowhouse in an upscale neighborhood of the city.  He got out of the car with the baby bassinet and entered the house, but I remained in the car, as it was we were getting late for our dinner reservation. I twisted in my seat and looked down our quiet residential street. My blood ran cold, for Jack was at the end of the street, leaning on a brand-new Jaguar.

A few minutes later, Richard emerged without our baby, and assured me that the babysitter had everything under control as he started the car. We drove to the restaurant where we had a reservation, Cinque, a fashionable Italian place. We parked in the lot, walked in, and hurried to the podium. Richard identified himself and mentioned our reservation. The hostess looked us up on her iPad.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said to my husband. “Your reservation was for twenty minutes ago. We had to give your table away. We have no tables for two right now.”

“I told you that you were taking too long over the damn photos!” I snapped furiously. “Now you’ve lost our table!”

“How long is the wait?” Richard asked.

“About an hour, sir.”

“But I did have a reservation!”

I mouthed, “Moron!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the hostess repeated. She turned to look over Richard’s shoulder and we saw Jack. Richard looked thunderstruck. Even though I was half expecting him, I was surprised by his audacity. “Do you have a reservation, sir?”

“No,” said Jack easily. “I’m with these folks here. Jack Grierson.”

Richard looked at Jack, shocked.

“No, you’re not– ” he began.

“Do you have anything that would seat three?” asked Jack, cutting him off. As the hostess checked her list, Jack unobtrusively slipped her a sheaf of twenties. “A table for four would do just as well.”

The hostess made a show of running her finger up and down her list, while she counted the sheaf of bills Jack had given her. When she realized how much he had given her, disbelief showed in her eyes.

“I have a table for four just opening up,” she said. “Do you want to be seated?”

“No– ” began Richard.

“Yes, that would be great,” I said, smiling at the hostess and cutting my husband off again.

“Follow me,” said the hostess, picking up a set of menus.

Jack leaned forward and I heard him whispering to hostess, “A booth if you have one.”

As the hostess began to walk away, Richard hissed at me, “What are you doing?”

“Hol uns einen Tisch,” I said. (Getting us a table.) I lapsed into German, even though I knew my husband did not understand it. But I was very irritated with his ineptitude – we Germans value punctuality above all.

I wore a white chiffon semi-diaphanous blouse over a blue silk bra with black lace trim and straps, and a short, black, very tight skirt. I had changed into strappy black slippers with high spike heels and carried my Fendi handbag. Jack followed me, nimbly outmaneuvering my husband, who moved awkwardly. Again, I could feel Jack’s eyes on my ass, so I swung my hips provocatively as I walked on my high heels. I could feel my buttocks moving with delicious sensuality. Jack pulled out his phone as we walked down the restaurant corridor toward an interior room.

Jack: So, are you wearing panties?

I had my phone in my hand and texted right back.

Me: Was denken sie? (What do you think?)

Jack: I think you are.

Me: You’re guessing.

Jack: Your ass looks delicious. I want to go down on my knees and bury my face between your butt cheeks.

Me: Asshole.

Jack: That’s where I want to put my tongue.

The hostess showed us to our table. Jack smiled when he saw that she had given us a booth with high backs by a window. I slid into the inside on one bench and Jack sat facing me. Richard sat beside me, glowering. The waitress came by, gave us our menus and recited the specials. The busboy filled our water glasses. Jack ordered a very expensive bottle of Pinot Noir saying, “Don’t worry, it’s all on me.”

We had barely begun perusing the menus when I felt a sockless foot on the inside of my calf. I kept my eyes on the menu, moved my leg, but confined between the window and Richard, I could not avoid Jack.

“So, do you run, Richard?” asked Jack.

Jack’s toes ran further up my leg, caressing the inside of my knee.

“No,” said Richard, sipping his water. “Running is boring. I prefer more exciting pastimes.”

Jack’s toes went higher, even as I squirmed in my seat. I put my hand under the table to try and dislodge his foot, but his leg was far stronger than my hand and he kept pushing upward.

“Exciting, huh, Richard?” said Jack. “Like what?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” said Jack.

His toes were now high on the inside of my thigh. I knew his object and my mind told me that I must resist. But the feeling was his foot was not unpleasant and I did not discourage him as actively as I could have. I found that I had created a warm snugness between my thighs for his foot.

“Skydiving,” said Richard with a touch of bravado.

“Really!” said Jack, sounding impressed. “How many jumps have you done?”

“I done five–” Richard began, but then he looked over at me and paused.

“Richard hasn’t been up in a plane yet,” I said, my tone sharp. I didn’t know which made me more annoyed, my husband’s exaggeration of his exploits or Jack’s sexual aggression.

“I’ve done all five classes,” said Richard, sounding petulant at my interruption. “I’m scheduled to go up any day now.”

“Tandem, with an instructor,” I said.

“Really, Gretchen!” said Richard angrily. “You really don’t have to keep butting into the conversation. All you do is run, you’re too chicken to even try something filled with risk like skydiving.”

“What do you think of skydiving, Mr. Grierson?” I asked, my tone syrupy sweet. “Have you tried it?”

“No,” said Jack, and a smirk came to Richard’s face.

“Is it something you want to do?” I persisted.

“No,” repeated Jack. “I did my share of jumps when I was in the army. Many were under enemy fire. I have no desire to do any more.”           

“You served in combat?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Jack.

There was a brief silence, but Jack did not elaborate. Richard’s expression went pale. I felt a grudging respect.

“You speak German?” I asked to fill the silence.

“Yes, I was based in Germany,” said Jack. “Ich habe nie einen Deutschen mit einem Nachnamen wie Lovewell getroffen.” (I have never met a German with a last name like Lovewell.)

“What did you say?” asked Richard, interrupting loudly. “What does it mean?”

“My German name was Liebegut,” I said, ignoring my husband’s outburst. “I changed it to the English translation when I enrolled in law school here.”

The waitress arrived with the wine. She poured a small portion and offered it, saying, “Who’s going to taste it?”

“The lady will do the honors,” said Jack, indicating me.

“No, no,” I said. “I’m breast-feeding, I can’t let the baby have alcohol.”

“That’s OK,” said Jack. “You don’t have to drink, just approve the wine.”

The waitress handed me the wineglass before I could say anything. Just as I sipped the wine, Jack pushed his foot hard and I felt the hardness of his big toe on my pussy. My panties prevented full penetration, but the thin silk offered scant protection against his incursion. I gasped and coughed as I felt his big toe touch me intimately. I coughed again as he ran his toenail over my vulva and then my clitoris through the silk. His ministrations drew more moisture from me, and I felt my panties grow damp along my slit.

“Are you OK, dear?” asked Richard.

“Fine, fine,” I gasped. “Just swallowed the wine the wrong way.”

“Here, drink some water,” Richard said.

I set down the wineglass and took the water glass that he offered me.

“Is the wine OK?” asked the waitress.

“Fine, fine,” I said.

The waitress looked doubtful, but she set the wine bottle down and left. Jack used his big toe dexterously to slide the crotch of my panties aside. The skin of his big toe touched the flesh of my crotch, and he felt my smooth pubic down, trimmed to a narrow line along my slit. I was soft and furry down there, not crinkly like most women.

I involuntarily squeezed my thighs even tighter together, making it easier for him to push his foot into the tight space. The very extremely illicit nature what Jack was doing to me had me in a dither of excitement, especially with my husband sitting right beside me! He felt my clit without its silk panty shield, and it was slippery wet. Then, just as I drank the water, he pushed his big toe into me. My...