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Glamour Shots, Chapter 4

A husband continues to discover his wife.
I’d gotten up at that point, that day, standing on shaky legs just long enough to strip off all my clothes and drop them in a heap on the floor before lying down next to her again. She was still on her stomach, facing my direction, her body limp and relaxed; my cock was in the same condition, temporarily out of service. I knew she had come numerous times – three before I got there, and several more times since - but I also knew she had not had one of those “Oh my God!” moments; not with me, since I’d gotten home, in any event. I also realized that she’d been extremely, incredibly aroused for some reason, and that one of those “Oh my God!” moments was what she’d been reaching desperately for – and that I’d come too quickly.

I got up on one elbow and leaned over her, softly stroking her hair and her neck, tracing my fingertips around her lips and her pert little nose, circling her closed eyes, moving her damp, dark hair off her forehead and gently stroking her cheek and then her ear. I leaned down and kissed her neck, nuzzling her, breathing gently into her ear before nibbling at it. I moved on, stroking her shoulders, running my fingertips down the valley of her spine as I traced her, drawing an invisible line across her back, out along her ribs to the bulging side of her breast. Lightly, lightly, just touching and stroking, more than a tickle, but less than a massage, I wanted just the very surface of her smooth skin to sense my touch.

I traced my way back up the arch of her ribs to her spine, and then across to the exposed side of her other breast, and then back. I continued slowly down her spine, feathering my touch until I got to the top of the cleft of her ass, at which point I allowed all four fingertips to drag across the roundness of her bottom, first her right side, and then her left, from the upper curve and down to the lower curve of her sweet little butt on each cheek before returning to the center, at the base of her spine.

From there I slowly dragged my fingers down her perfect cleft before tracing the underside curve, where her buttocks met her thighs. When I did this she moaned slightly and raised her pelvis off the bed a couple of inches, thrusting her dripping sex up and tempting me to touch. I resisted the temptation. Instead I continued lower, stroking the back of her thighs near the top, letting my fingers drift to the inside of each, to that sensitive, wonderful area that I know is one of her most vital erogenous zones. When I touched that area, that trigger point, her legs parted slightly and her bottom raised fractionally higher.

As I teased, she whispered “You’re tickling me.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No, don’t you dare!”

I chuckled. “I sorta thought you might say that.” I continued lower, past her knees, touching, worshipping, and down to her feet, where I gripped each one firmly, first one and then the other, and massaged her arches and Achilles area with firm pressure; while it might have been fun to tickle her feet, getting her giggling and thrashing around was not my intended goal.

I got her to roll over then, and with her now face-up I began to work my way north again, a long slow journey up those beautiful legs, again touching lightly, tracing, enjoying, drinking in the sight, sound, and scent of her, my senses flooded. When I got to the junction of thighs and torso, and began to trace the ‘V’ where they met, her hips started going again, on autopilot, her legs parting as she thrust herself up, begging for me to touch. Her clit was hard, swollen and ready, and the temptation to play with it was overwhelming, but I resisted – and when I did, when I passed it by and ran my fingers through her wet, matted thatch of curls instead and then moved upwards instead of down, she groaned in frustration.

“God! You’re driving me crazy!” She was breathing heavily, almost panting.

“I can always stop if I’m bothering you…”

“Stop saying that and get on with it! Why are you so mean? God, I feel like I’m about to explode!”

“Oh don’t do that! I’m sure that would make a big mess, and we just bought these drapes…”

“Uunnnnhhh God, David! Shut up and get busy! If you don’t, I’m going to start doing myself again!”

“Self abuse, my dear? Naughty, naughty! If you don’t stop that you’ll grow hair on your palms, you know – or maybe go blind...or both. I don’t know how the boys would feel about a hairy-handed blind girl.”

She weakly slapped my leg. “Mmmm, OK, that does it; you’re on my list…”

I had been tracing my way back up her stomach and had reached the lower curve of her breasts. I ran my fingers slowly up that delicate curve to her hard nipples, which I flicked with my fingertips, eliciting a sudden gasp. As I touched and toyed with her nipples she stopped objecting and started moaning; each time she inhaled I could hear the shudder in her breathing, a sign of her sexual tension, and that excited me.

After a brief but fun interlude of nipple play I let my fingers wander again up to her neck, and her ears, and her face, lovingly tracing the perfect contours. That journey complete, I replaced my fingers with my lips and started the trip anew, lightly kissing, meeting her lips with mine as our tongues tangoed, and then touching her with the tip of my tongue, her chin, her neck, her ears, my warm breath on her sensitive skin and my lips paying loving homage to her feminine perfection.

As I slowly feathered kisses down to her breasts I was vaguely aware of the fact that I was becoming hard again; I was proud that it was this soon, but not surprised that Ali was having that effect on me. I dawdled again at her breasts, enjoying their sensitivity and the feel of her hard, delicious nipples in my mouth. I kissed and licked and suckled, arousing myself as much as her, while she writhed and moaned beneath me, her arousal building, growing.

She had one hand on the back of my neck, charting my progress, while the other rested on her lower stomach, her fingertips resting at the upper fringe of her wet curls. I watched out of the corner of my eye to be sure she didn’t take matters into her own hands – or hand, as the case may be – but she resisted the temptation. I was utterly enthralled with her breasts, and with the effect my attentions were having on her, but too soon I left that matched set of treasures and kissed my way down her stomach, sometimes licking softly, other times letting my lips and my warm breath suffice.

As I moved down her tummy, pausing to stick my tongue into her navel, I approached that same beautiful downy triangle and she moved her hand out of my path. The musky, fecund scent of our lovemaking, of the combination of Alli and me, flooded my senses, and my cock became so hard that it ached. I loomed over her, on my knees in an almost worshipful pose as I leaned forward in supplication, my tongue touching her skin, my lips kissing the damp hairs on her mound. I paused there, my lips placing small butterfly kisses on her mound, the soft curls tickling my nose as I breathed in our scent; semen and woman, love and sex, heat and arousal. My heart was pounding so loudly I thought surely the neighbors could hear it.

When I finally began to move again it was to the top of her thigh, kissing, still breathing in her heat. As it began to dawn on Alli that I was going to once again bypass, for now, the one spot that she so desperately wanted to have touched and kissed, she moaned in frustration “Oh God Davey, please!”

Hearing her beg should have broken my heart, but it didn’t because I knew she was still experiencing intense pleasure – she just wanted more! I smiled inwardly, enjoying her frustration. “All in good time, my dear, all in good time.”

“Now, Davey - now would be a good time! Please?”

“Patience is a virtue, baby.”

“Fuck virtue - just do it!”

I laughed, even as I continued to touch all of those good spots on her inner thighs. “Tsk-tsk, such language!” She tried to thrust herself up and to my lips, desperately wanting my touch on her needy sex, but I stayed just out of reach. Failing in that effort, she moved both hands to her breasts and began to fondle them, paying close attention to her rigid nipples. I let her have those, for now, but I was going to save her slippery bits for myself; that, she was not allowed to touch!

I kissed and licked my way down one leg to her feet, where I sucked on her toes, driving her crazy, before starting back up on the opposite leg. I lingered for a long time on her inner thigh, just inches from her molten core, and when I got very close to her sex she pulled her legs up and apart, opening herself to my gaze like the petals of a beautiful pink rose…except much wetter, and slipperier, and more beautiful. I blew softly on her very center and she jumped like she’d received an electric shock, and gasped out loud. “God, Davey!!”

That did it! I’d pushed her past the breaking point some time ago, and now I reached my own, and I buried my face in her wet sex, licking and probing, tasting us. Some guys are squeamish about that, I guess, giving oral pleasure to a woman after they’ve come inside of her; it strikes me as the height of hypocrisy to expect a woman to let you come in her mouth if you’re afraid to have that same fluid in your own mouth! It’s never bothered me; I look at it as not being all that different than having my own saliva in my mouth, which, of course, we all do all the time. Now, if it was another man’s semen, that might be different…

The very first time I did it with Alli, went down on her after, she’d been somewhat surprised, but delighted – and she’d enjoyed it immensely. It was never a big issue for me, as her pleasure is always my number one priority, and now, with my lips and tongue at her cum-slick pussy, that’s what I was focused on. And so, quite obviously, was she, because she came almost immediately, a quick, explosive little orgasm that caused her to arch and thrust her pelvis up, making sure I was aware of her needs – which I was, of course!

Moments later, on the very heels of that orgasm, the earthquake struck; she had her fingers laced in my hair, but now those fingers closed into a tight fist – still holding my hair – and her legs clamped tightly on the sides of my head! She bucked upwards, every muscle and tendon in her body as tight as a bowstring as she pulled my face tightly to her sex and cried out “Oh God! Oh my God, OH MY GOD!”, each exclamation increasing in intensity and volume – which I could tell even though her thighs remained tightly clamped over my ears!

She came hard, huge and thunderously, and I eagerly lapped at her sex, diddling her clit with my tongue or trying to insert it as far as I could inside of her as I went along for the ride. I knew that for her to exclaim as loudly and eagerly as she had that it must be something really special, and I wanted to make it last…and to be able to claim credit for it, but that was just my own ego rearing its ugly head. The fluids that her contractions forced out flooded my mouth, and I swallowed and kept going until she suddenly collapsed on the bed, flat and limp, her legs releasing my head and her fist releasing my hair – although I’m not certain that a fair amount of hair didn’t go with it.

I slowed the movements of my tongue and lips incrementally, letting her slide down gradually, and then backed off far enough to suck in a couple of deep breaths, the lower half of my face wet and dripping. Leaning in again, I touched her jutting clit with the tip of my tongue, and she jumped as though she’d been shot. “Oh! Stop!”

I did, for a moment or two, and then I touched her again. “God! Davey, stop!”

I backed off then and rose to my knees, using the edge of the sheet to wipe some of our cum off my face. I stretched out alongside of her inert form, lying on my side so that my erection pressed against her hip; I just stayed that way for awhile, watching her breathe heavily, watching her hard nipples gradually soften and flatten. She had one arm across her face, covering her eyes, and I couldn’t tell if she was awake, asleep, or unconscious.

“Alli?”

“Mmmm?”

OK, she was awake; sort of, at least. “Are you all right?”

“Mmmm.”

“Was that a yes?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“So you are all right?”

“Ssshhh.”

“Are you basking in the afterglow?”

“Mmmm…basking.”

I grinned. “It sure seemed like you enjoyed that.”

“I could bask better if you’d shut up.”

I chuckled. “Is that any way to talk to the stud that just carried you to the heights of ecstasy?”

“Mmm. You are my stud.”

“That’s better.” I moved my hips, thrusting my hard cock against her hip, feeling it slide deliciously in the light sheen of perspiration that covered her skin. “Your stud is still kinda horny…”

“Knock yourself out.”

“What?”

She never budged, never uncovered her eyes, nothing. “You heard me. Do whatever you need to do – just do it quietly, because I think I’m going to take a nap.”

“Umm, I was hoping for maybe a little quality time with that hot little wet pussy of yours…”

“Fine. Just do it quietly please.”

I laughed. “You’re not serious!”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t even grunt. She also didn’t move. Just breathed, deep and even.

“Alli?” Nothing; no response whatsoever. I tried again. “Alli?” Still nothing. I touched her shoulder. “Are you asleep?”

“No, just trying real hard to ignore you so that I can be - so pipe down, stud.”

I rubbed my cock against her hip. “What about this?”

She reached down then with her other arm, the one that was not across her face, and her fingers found me. She touched and fondled, squeezing me, and I pushed my cock into her hand. “That’s pretty hard. You really are a stud.”

“Thank you. What do you think we should do with it?”

“I’m going to take a nap. I don’t care what you do with it – except don’t hurt it; I’m sure I’ll probably want it again someday.”

In the end she’d turned out to be kidding about lying there inert, like an inflatable doll. I’d known she was, of course, because that’s not Allison; when Alli makes love it is with a selfless abandon that never fails to astound me. She never seems to be about her own satisfaction, although I always try to be sure she finds that too; instead she gives herself in a way that is an open, unembarrassed affirmation of her love for her man, and her love of life, and I hope that I never fail to appreciate her for that.

And that’s how it was when she loved me that night. I was above her, and we kissed, and then she guided me into her slick, molten, liquid center and wrapped those long legs around my waist, and we made slow, tender love that seemed to both go on forever and somehow end too soon. I didn’t rock her world again – I’d known that I wouldn’t – but she did experience several “aftershocks “, those small, sweet, delicate orgasms that seem to slide gently through her body, and when I came it was with a slow surge, a tender rush that lacked the explosive urgency of our earlier coupling but which was somehow more deeply satisfying.

We’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms, slick with sweat and sex, the room redolent of our lovemaking, and when I’d woken some hours later and pulled the sheet over us she had sighed and snuggled more closely against me. There are moments in your life that you’ll always remember as tiny, fleeting, ephemeral things, snapshots in time where everything seemed to be perfect, when all of the stars or planets aligned and your world was all you’d ever hoped it could be. That night with my beautiful Alli was one of those moments for me, and the portrait that I now sat gazing at on the passenger seat of my car would always be a reminder of that – now that I knew that she had posed for and had it taken earlier on that same day.

And now here I was, in my parking place in front of our offices, with two logistical problems on my hands; one was the persistent pup-tent in the front of my pants, the one inspired by my thoughts of that night with Alli, and which seemed undeterred by my attempts at long division in my head, thinking about traffic jams, or limp spaghetti noodles, or any other mental erection-reducing strategies I might try. The other was how I was going to juggle my briefcase, Alli’s portrait, two cups of coffee that were slowly cooling as I waited for my erection to subside, and the bag with the Danish pastries, all in one trip; to make two trips would be to admit defeat, so that was not an option.

The thought occurred to me that had I bought donuts rather than Danish I had a method – a third hand, of sorts – by which I could have carried three, or maybe four, depending on the size of the donuts, but the thought really wasn’t all that helpful; and in any event, that option did finally begin to droop and lose its donut-carrying ability. I settled on carrying my briefcase and the pastry bag in one hand, with Alli’s picture tucked under that arm, and the two scalding cups of coffee in the other, trying to keep my grip limited to the heat resistant cardboard sleeves so as not to blister myself. As luck would have it, I made it to the door just as one of our newer young brokers was coming out, and he held it open for me.

When I made it down the hall Marci was at her desk, and she spotted my precarious predicament immediately and jumped up to take the two hot cups from my hands. “Mmm, Starbucks! Have I told you lately that I love you?”

I laughed. “Hey, not everyone has a boss as good as yours. One of those is a latte, by the way, and the other one is mine. I’ve got Danish too.”

“Oh my God, I think I just had an orgasm! Cheese, I hope?”

“Of course. I know what you like. Oh, and do me a favor, if you would – never say cheese and orgasm in the same sentence again, OK?” She laughed, showing all of her big, white teeth. Everything about Marci Willis is like that, big and bold, exuberant and exaggerated. She’s a big girl though, so that’s to be expected – not big as in a bulky, fat, or over-sized way, just big, in person and in personality. She’s about five foot seven inches tall, only an inch shorter than Allison, but that’s probably where the similarities end.

Where Alli is willow slender, lean and lithe, Marci is voluptuous, that old-fashioned full-figured type of voluptuous that made stars such as Jayne Mansfield and Marilyn Monroe so famous. She’s buxom, with large, heavy breasts, somewhat thick through the middle by today’s standards, but certainly not fat; her hips flare nicely, like a largish hourglass, and she has a large, firm, and well-rounded bottom. Today’s idiom is junk in the trunk, I believe - or, as Charlie puts it, more cushion for pushin’. She’s fair-skinned, and blue eyed, with light blonde, almost-white hair and almost invisible blond brows and eyelashes. What she has, I suppose, is one of those prototypical Scandinavian faces, really; round and open, guileless and welcoming, with a cute little pug nose and full, sensuous lips. I suppose some would call her plain; I think of her as cute rather than pretty, even though she is actually three years older than me - but there’s something else.

It’s not that she’s one of those classically beautiful women that draw your eye and leave you staring, because she’s truly not that, but I don’t say that in a demeaning way; what she has is a certain physical sensuality that sneaks up on you; you first look at her and don’t really notice it, but then you find that you have to look again, and then a third time, longer and maybe more closely this time, and you begin to realize that she just has that certain something… It works its way into your mind gradually, and you find that you think about her, and you wonder, and your thoughts go to forbidden places. Maybe it’s pheromones – or maybe it’s the whole earth-mother thing, the simple milkmaid, innocent farm girl, roll-in-the-hay vibe that she exudes. Whatever it is, it’s beguiling, and though I’d be an utter fool to act on my attraction to her – I have Alli waiting at home, remember – I am honest enough with myself to recognize that the attraction exists.

The deal with Marci, though, is that what you see is not what you get. I’m the one that interviewed her when I was looking for an assistant, some three and a half years before the morning that I came in with coffee and Danish; she’d come with good references and a resume filled with exactly the qualifications I was looking for. She’d worked in real estate offices before and knew the terminology specific to the profession – let’s face it, learning the lingo is often half the battle – and she’d interviewed very well, leaving me with little doubt that she was the right person for the job. She’d come across as extremely professional, responsible, and knowledgeable, and very sincere. If I’d had any doubts it was because she’d seemed almost too timid, too shy and reserved. She’d been quiet and respectful in the interview, almost fearful it had seemed, speaking softly and not volunteering much about herself unless or until I’d asked very specific questions.

Our office often runs wide-open, busy and harried, and we can get a little boisterous; I can be demanding, although I try to do it in a reasonable manner, and with humor, and although Louis is usually quite low-key, Charlie more than makes up for it. In addition, we have a stable of younger agents and brokers that work for us, mostly guys in their 20’s or maybe early thirties, and a couple of women in the same age range. At the time I’d hired her I had three guys and one young lady that reported primarily to me; Louis also had four total associates under him, and Charlie had three, and in addition to them we each had an administrative assistant, plus three secretaries that did general work for any of our associates that needed help. We weren’t yet quite successful enough to have an attorney on staff, but we did have one on retainer, and he often spent two or three day a week with us in an office we’d set aside for his use. It was busy, it could be hectic, and everyone could occasionally get a little crazy. Often we would blow off steam by joking and kidding around, and sometimes it could get fairly graphic. Frankly, given her quiet and retiring nature, I’d been afraid that Marci would be overwhelmed.

Well, it just goes to show you how wrong I can be when I form an opinion based on first impressions - and here’s a short story that illustrates how I found that out!

I’d hired her, despite some minor misgivings, and we spent the first couple of weeks tiptoeing around , getting to know each other and figuring out our working relationship and what our expectations were. After her first two full weeks with me she was just beginning to loosen up, to smile more and maybe even kid around a little, when I’d walked in on Monday morning of her third full week with us and found a huge vase of flowers on her desk.

I’d said good morning, and then commented on the flowers. “Wow, very nice! From your boyfriend?”

“Not exactly.”

“Hmm; a secret admirer maybe?”

She’d laughed. “No, unfortunately not that either.”

I noticed that there was a small card on a clip, in among the flowers. I touched it. “May I?”

She nodded. “Sure, help yourself.”

I opened the tiny envelope. Inside was one of those little florists cards, and all it said was “I’m very sorry. I promise it will never happen again!” It was unsigned.

I looked at it, than at her for a moment, then at the card again before laying it on her desk. “This looks an awful lot like Charlie’s writing.” She’d simply nodded, and I put my hands in my pockets and stood there for a long moment, weighing the options. “Marci, I’m almost afraid to ask, but what is he apologizing for?”

“We’ve resolved it already, you don’t need to worry.”

“Then why do I feel so much like I should?” I waited, but she remained mute. “Marci, you work for me, and Charlie is a partner in this firm – my partner. You should probably tell me what’s going on.”

She shrugged. “OK then, but we should probably go in your office.”

That sounded ominous - and with Charlie it could be almost anything, but more on him later; I was already dreading what I might be about to hear. She followed me into my office, a mug of hot coffee in her hand. She closed the door behind her. This just wasn’t looking any better, not at all. “OK Marci, what is Charlie apologizing for? I mean, I know he can be a little unpredictable at times...” My voice trailed off as she just looked at me, her direct stare not something normal for the Marci I thought I was getting to know.

I sat down behind my desk and waited, letting her do this in her own way. She took a deep breath and blew it out before taking a chair across from me, in front of my desk. She looked down at the floor, and then up at me. “This is so hard. Where to start…?” It was a rhetorical device, a way for her to organize her thoughts; it required no answer, and I gave none. She went on. “You remember that I stayed late Friday night, right, to finish up that copying and get that FedEx document package ready so I could drop it off?”

I nodded. I knew she had stayed, and I had thanked her for volunteering to do so – especially so early in her employment. It showed excellent initiative, in my opinion. I was the next-to-the-last one out the door – it had been after 6:00 on a Friday night, after all - and had told her I was locking her in, and to be sure to lock up again behind her when she left.

She continued. “Well, about half an hour or so after you left I heard somebody come in – I could tell that whoever it was had a key, so I just kept on working, trying to finish up. It turned out to be Charlie, stopping to pick up something he forgot. I could tell he’d been drinking; actually, he was a little sloshed.”

I nodded. “Yeah, he went out for a couple of drinks with a few of the other guys; I heard them planning it. Sometimes he indulges a bit too much. I hope he didn’t scare you.”

She waved her hands. “Oh, no, he didn’t scare me! Actually, he was very nice – at first. He stuck his head in to see who was here, and then he came in and started chatting, saying he was sorry we hadn’t had a chance to talk much yet, or get to know each other, and welcome aboard and all that stuff. He was slurring some words, but he seemed OK.” She paused, considering what to say next. “Look, we’re probably making a mountain out of a molehill; why don’t I just deal with this on my own?”

I looked at her for a moment, and she met my eyes, her gaze steady. She was showing more grit and determination than I had thought she possessed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Like I said, I need to know, and if it’s something that Louis and I need to deal with, we will. If it helps, understand that it won’t be the first time we’ve had to sit Charlie down for a talk.”

She sighed. “I suppose you’re right. OK, what happened is that he was just chatting with me, like I said, being very friendly – and very drunk - and pretty soon he started saying more personal things.” I waited, not wanting to either distract or lead her, wanting to hear it in her own words.

Eventually, she told me. Charlie had led the conversation around to talking about her. Pretty soon he was telling her how pretty she was, and how attractive he found her, and then he made it more personal, telling her she was a very sexy woman. The funny thing was, as she told me how graphic he had gotten there was none of that shy, quiet, timid woman that I thought I’d hired; instead, she just flat laid it out, in words and language that I would never have guessed she even knew! She was angry at times, although not as much as I would have expected, and she was forthright, incensed but never defensive, and she even found some humor in it. One thing for sure, she surprised me – and embarrassed me! I’m sure my face was red at least half the time she was talking.

“Dave, I sort of just brushed it off, figuring he was drunk and would be embarrassed when he got sober, but then he started telling me what great titties I have, and how much he loves a woman with great big old titties, and big fat nipples - and what he liked to do with them!” He was right about her breasts, they were large, and I had noticed that on occasion when her nipples would show for one reason or another that they were as big around as the ends of my thumbs, and stuck out proudly, a good half-inch or more, showing prominently through her clothes. I always had to remind myself not to stare, but the way she said it told me that she had noticed that I had noticed – and that she didn’t care! That was probably my first major blush.

She went on: “He was really getting into it, making all kinds of lewd suggestions, would I show him my boobs, all that kind of stuff. I was still collating the last of the documents, and I turned had my back to him, but I heard his zipper go down and when I turned around, he had the whole package right out there, on display!”

I think my jaw must have hit the floor! “He…he was, uh, exposing uh...himself?”

She nodded. “Yup, the whole shebang, meat and potatoes, right out there for the whole world to see. Hard as a rock too, from what it looked like.”

OK, just in case my blush had started to fade, that took care of that! “Oh my God! That’s unbelievable, what an asshole! What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything! I was so surprised!” She laughed. “I mean, it’s not like it was the first one I’ve ever seen or anything – I’m actually very fond of them - but I was just so shocked. Then he says ‘Look what you do to me, woman! Have you ever seen anything like that before? You know what this is?’”

She shook her head, and laughed again. “For some reason that struck me as being very funny, and my shock and surprise just sort of evaporated.”

“What did you do? I hope you walked out and left him standing there like an idiot!”

She laughed – and, for the first time since she’d begun this sordid tale, actually blushed. “No, I got closer and pretended to take a good close look at his cock - actually, who am I kidding - I didn’t pretend, I just looked at it, and then I looked him in the eye and said ‘Well, it looks sort of like a penis to me, except much, much smaller.”

I laughed out loud, amazed at her chutzpah. For some strange reason I was actually proud of her, never imagining that this shy, quiet woman could shoot down an oaf like Charlie so thoroughly and completely. “Wow, that’s great! Did he get mad?”

She smiled. “No, he just laughed, but then he got busy stuffing himself back in his pants, and then he left. He did tell me to have a nice weekend.”

“Well, hopefully he was properly humiliated. That was the end of it, right?”

“Oh yeah, of course – until this morning, and the flowers, and a groveling apology from a very sober and humble man. I really do think he was sorry, and that he just sort of let things get out of control.”

“Marci, if he ever does anything like that again when I’m not around just kick him in the balls!”

She chuckled. “If he ever does anything like that again I’ll kick him in the balls even if you are around.”

I laughed.”Fine, just give me enough warning so that I can get my phone switched over to video mode first.” I became very serious. “Do you want to file suit against him? I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

She grinned. “Do you think they’d let me do it in small claims court?”

I laughed. “You’re really bad! Where did this person come from, and what have you done with our Marci?”

“Dave, I’ve been on my best behavior since we met, because I wanted to make a good first impression and you seemed like such a straight-laced guy – but it’s been killing me! I guess when one of the partners wags his wiener at you it sort of means the ice is broken, right?”

“Yeah, shattered, I’d say. About a possible lawsuit…” I didn’t want to seem obsessive, but I was in a position where I was extremely worried about it, and knew she had every right to sue – and could probably make a bundle. And I would not be able to fault her a bit if she did.

She waved off the idea. “No, no, I’m not a lawsuit person – and I really like working for you. I think we’ve pretty much resolved things, but if you and Louis will talk to him that will be enough. Just be sure to mention to him that unless I ask to see his cock, he should probably not be flopping it around in my office.”

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to have Louis mention that. You’re sure you’re OK though? I mean, you could easily kick his butt if you choose to, you know, in court. That would hurt all of us, of course, but I’d have to back your play. Charlie can be a really good guy, but he has his moments where even I can’t stand him.”

“No, Dave, no harm no foul; I’m a big girl, I’ve seen some hard cocks in my day – and besides, I like working here too much, I‘d hate to spoil it. It seems like a fun place – I mean, it’s fast-paced and it’s hard work, but with really good, fun people, and you three guys give us a work environment that’s great. I almost look forward to coming to work.”

“Only almost, huh?” I let her comment about her prior genitalia sightings pass without comment.

She’d laughed. “Well, you know how it is; if I didn’t have to get up and come to work I could stay in bed with Michael and play all day.” I think I started blushing again. If I hadn’t, I know I did moments later when she went on. “As a matter of fact, Charlie really isn’t small at all – he’s actually got a hell of a nice dick on him. If I wasn’t with Michael, who’s really seriously hung, I might have made a play at Charlie!”

“Jeez ,Marci! When you let the real you shine through you’re a totally different person. Now I’m the one that might need to file a sexual harassment suit!”

She had just laughed. “Am I embarrassing you Dave?”

“Yes, you are – but don’t let this Marci disappear and the shy quiet one come back. I actually like this one even better, even if it does mean that I’ll probably be blushing most of the time. This Marci will fit in better around this nuthouse.”

“No doubt! You should hear how some of the girls talk about you guys! Crazy. They all really like you in your gray flannel slacks, by the way…”

“Yeah, OK. Let’s just leave it at that, if you don’t mind, and maybe we could even get to work…”

We did, and Charlie sent her a big bouquet of flowers every day that week and the next, until she begged him to stop. The ice broken, I had come to discover that Marci was not only an incredibly bright, effective, and efficient assistant, she was also a joy to be around. She was funny, and bawdy, and irreverent, utterly unpredictable and irrepressible, and yet she seemed to have good sense of when to let that side of her personality show and when to be on her best behavior, especially around clients. I had met her boyfriend, Michael, some time later, and discovered that he was a huge, muscular black guy (more a light chocolate-brown, really) that used to play semi-pro ball – defensive end - for a team in Rockford , Illinois; Charlie is not a small man either, but Michael dwarfs him. I’ve wondered several times if Charlie ever stopped to consider what might have happened to him if Marci had chosen a different way to deal with his drunken stupidity. He got off easy, in my opinion, and I believe he may have recognized that fact.

But in any event, I told you about Marci’s history so that you would be able to understand her and our working relationship a little better on the day in question, a few years later, when I’d shown up that morning with coffee, Danish pastry, and Alli’s portrait, my birthday gift, under my arm. After taking the two scalding cups of coffee from me and digging her Danish out of the bag – and after I’d watched her suck the sticky icing off her fingers following that exercise – she trailed me into my office, carrying my coffee cup and the bag with my Danish in it. She deposited those things in the middle of my desk as I set down my briefcase and folded the tiny stand out from the back of the picture frame.

I’d no sooner set the photo where I wanted it - on the left side of my desk, facing me – when Marci picked it up and looked at it. She let out a long, low wolf-whistle. “Wow! Anyone I know?”

She knew it was Alli, but I played along, shaking my head. “No, that’s just the picture that came with the frame. I saw it and liked it, so I bought it.”

She laughed. “Your wife is one hot babe! If I didn’t have such a fondness for the male appendage, I’d do her!”

I shook my head, laughing. “Are you trying to set a new record for how early in the day you can get me to blush?”

“Not anymore; I just did. Seriously chief, I’ve never had a trace of any lesbian tendencies, but now I’m starting to reconsider.”

“Oh, Marci, you never cease to amaze me! I’ll be sure to pass your comments along to Allison; I’m sure she’ll be quite flattered.”

“Please do! She looks yummy!”

I shook my head. “Don’t you have something you need to be working on? I’m pretty sure I can find something, if you don’t…”

She set the picture back on my desk and headed for the door. “Never mind, I can take a hint!”

“Since when?”

She just laughed. She stopped in the doorway and looked back at me. “I hope you realize what a lucky guy you are.”

“I do, thank you. Now scat, I have to get ready for that 9:45 meeting.” I had about forty-five minutes before the scheduled meeting with Louis and a couple of buyers on a deal that him and me were working together, and wanted to read over a few things. I was about fifteen minutes into my review when I heard a knock on my door, and looked up to find Louis standing in the open doorway.

“Hello David, good morning. Do you have a few minutes to discuss some things?”

“Sure Louis, come on in.” He walked in and took a seat in front of my desk, facing me. Louis Nolan is always “Louis”, or perhaps Mr. Nolan, but never Lou – or, God forbid, Louie – and anyone that had the temerity to use those less formal names to address him was quickly and quietly corrected. He is a small man, perhaps five foot five, with a slender build; if he weighs over one hundred and thirty five pounds soaking wet I’d be surprised. He’s handsome, I suppose, in a somewhat prissy or effeminate way, and his mannerisms tend to reinforce that impression. Louis is thirty six, four years older than me, but nine years younger than our third Partner, Charlie Nix. He is also happily married to Elaine, an equally small woman, and they have two small children – young, I mean; children are supposed to be small, right?

After taking a seat he picked at some imaginary bit of lint on his pants leg, and then smoothed some apparently invisible wrinkles from the front of his suit before looking at me. Louis is like that, fastidious to a fault, practically obsessed with his appearance; just being a very well-dressed guy was never enough, he had to look perfect. He might occasionally take off his suit coat at work, if he was working in his office alone, but you would never catch him with his shirt sleeves rolled up or without a tie – or even with his collar unbuttoned. “Are we all set for our meeting?”

He had used the collective “we”, but I knew he was asking if I was ready; there was little doubt that he had every detail memorized. “Sure Louis, I’m good to go.” We were meeting with a couple of investors that were looking to buy a small medical office plaza, one where Louis had been involved in signing up most of the current tenants. It was very preliminary, just a chance to meet and greet and get a feel for each other’s expectations. The buyers were some people I’d worked with before and Louis was to be there to provide information about the property and the tenant mix. All very informal at this stage, but I knew that Louis would have everything in his mind in clear outline form. “Are you meeting with one of your attorney groups later on?”

He looked at me oddly, as if wondering how I could possibly know that, if maybe I’d been tracking his schedule. “Yes, I am. Ross Kacey Stone, PLLC, the law firm I put in that building over on Howard Street; they’re thinking of making an offer on the building instead of renewing their lease.”

I couldn’t hide a small smile. This was a game I played with Louis on a regular basis, predicting who or what type of client he was seeing that day. It was fun because I could see that he was puzzled by how I was always right, but he would never ask how I knew. The answer is quite simple really, although he seemed totally unaware of it; today he was wearing an Armani suit, therefore he was meeting with some attorney or group of attorneys.

The man spends more money on clothes than I spend on automobiles, is always impeccably dressed, and is utterly predictable based on what he wears. If he’s wearing Armani, it’s going to be attorneys; if he’s in Brooks Brothers, his client that day will be some type of money man – stockbroker, investment banker, financial advisor, perhaps a real estate person from one of our local banks looking for a piece of property on which to build a new branch office; and if he’s wearing one of his two Savile Row suits – either his Henry Poole or his Anderson & Sheppard - he’ll be working with one or more doctors. If it’s doctors, he’ll definitely be in Savile Row. Louis is nothing if not predictable, and he doesn’t even realize it – which is what allows me to have a little fun with him.

In addition, those three professions account for the vast majority of Louis Nolan’s business, which narrows the options; I pretty much always have at least a one-in-three chance of being right! Without making a lot of effort or putting a lot of thought into it each of the three of us had more or less gravitated to a particular segment of our own profession, and for Louis it was primarily professional office space. He leases Class A office space to people - only very successful people, not the low-end type or newbies - in the medical, legal, and financial sectors, primarily, sometimes representing the property owners, more often the prospective tenants - and, since successful people in those professions often have money to invest, he helps buy and sell a lot of commercial properties for the same people on the investment end of the business.

Louis is an incredibly smart and shrewd businessman, and he works very hard for his clients (as we all do!) and as a result they are typically very loyal to him. He always drives a very hard bargain, which is something these type-A professionals recognize and appreciate, so when it comes time for them to invest some of their substantial earnings it was not unusual for Louis to get the call – as he had for later today, with one of his attorney groups looking to buy their own office building rather than leasing. He’d had doctors do the same; our small city is home to the regional medical center, the only medical facility in an eighty-mile radius larger than a country clinic, and so we have more than our share of medical professionals – which, as it happens, is a financial boon for someone like Louis.

The funny thing is, other than the medical center itself, a little bit of light industry, and all of the usual suspects in the chain store and restaurant arena, the economy of our town, tight up against the base of the Rocky Mountains as we are, is based almost entirely on either recreational tourism or agriculture. On the one side we have the mountains, and all of the recreational opportunities attendant to that geological and geographical feature; hunting, fishing, rock climbing, hiking, camping, kayaking, mountain biking, etc, and in the winter, skiing (both alpine and Nordic), snowmobiling, sledding, skating, snowshoeing, and pretty much anything else you can possibly do in the great outdoors when the ground is snow-covered. (Why do all winter activities – including sex - seem to start with the letter ‘s’?)

In the other direction it’s the high plains, which are home to numerous cattle ranches and some sheep ranches, but also a place where a number of different crops are grown, some irrigated, some not – wheat, sunflowers, hay and timothy, milo and millet, some corn and soybeans, even a few thousand acres of sugar beets. Good, solid farm and ranch country, and a major contributor to the economy.

As a result, our town was not the type of place where you were likely to see a lot of Armani, or Savile Row, or anything else along those lines, and so, despite his diminutive stature, Louis Nolan stood out from the crowd. It’s not that people here aren’t label-conscious, many are; the fact is though, that in our area you were going to see far more Patagonia than Prada, Columbia and Carhartt rather than Cavalli or Chanel, and on people’s feet you were likely to find Merrells or MuckBoots, not Manolos. Louis is one of a kind, in his fancy clothes and meticulous habits, but he’s the ultimate gentleman, a loving husband and father, a good friend, and a tremendous business partner. I love the guy, but that doesn’t mean I won’t tease him occasionally!

We spent about ten or fifteen minutes coordinating our presentation. The potential buyers were three older gentlemen that I’d worked with numerous times, guys that owned several small to mid-sized shopping centers in town; this was to be their first foray into the ownership of Class A office space, and they were anxious to learn more about that particular type of investment. Louis would be an excellent source of information regarding both the property in question and the current tenants and their expectations, and I was very thankful for his help.

As we were wrapping up, he reached out and picked up Alli’s picture. He looked at it for a long time, probably a minute or more, and then looked across at me. “This is fine work. Do you know who the photographer is?”

I had to smile; it was quintessential Louis to notice the quality of the work first rather than the beautiful subject. “Yeah, Alli has his name.”

“Does he do other commercial work, or just portraits?”

I nodded. “According to what he told her, he’s a commercial photographer first and foremost, and the studio portraits like this are sort of a sideline for him.”

He looked at the photo again, inspecting it. “We could stand to find a new photographer for our brochures and website; the company we have doing it has become somewhat blasé, don’t you think?” Apparently the question was rhetorical, because he didn’t give me a chance to reply. “Their recent work is quite mundane, very pedestrian; perhaps some new blood would be just the ticket.”

What can I say, that’s the way Louis talks. He had a point; the photographs of properties currently displayed on our website were, at best, mundane – as Louis had said. Then again, how exciting can pictures of buildings possibly be? “I don’t know if he does any architectural photography or not, or even any landscape type of stuff. I’m sure I can find out, if you think we should talk to him.”

He nodded. “Please do. Perhaps we can set up a meeting where the three of us can sit down with him and open a dialogue; he should bring his portfolio.” He studied the picture again for a moment. “David, your wife is a remarkably beautiful woman; there’s something about those lovely eyes… remarkable, indeed.”

“Thanks Louis, I’ll pass along your regards.”

He set the frame back on my desk, careful to position it exactly as I had placed it originally. He rose, shooting his cuffs to get his sleeves straight, brushed the creases out of his pants, and headed for the door. He stopped there and turned. “Allison is stunning, David. You’re a very lucky man.”

“Thank you Louis – I think so too.” He tossed me a quick wave and departed, as I sat there thinking. That was something I heard a lot, in one form or another, how lucky I was as regards to my gorgeous spouse. I took it as a compliment and replied accordingly, but I’d heard it so much that I’d begun to develop a theory about it.

My theory went something like this: When people told me, after absorbing Allison’s unique beauty, that I was a “lucky man”, I had come to think that maybe it was actually a way for polite people to say “What the hell is a beautiful woman like that doing with a schlub like you?” without appearing rude or hurting my feelings.

My theory may have been way off the mark – maybe that’s not what people meant at all. The thing is, I really couldn’t take offense if that was what they were saying, because it was a question I asked myself every single day. Then I would rub my lucky rabbit’s foot, knock on wood, count my lucky stars, say a brief prayer of thankfulness, and get on with my day!

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