Bean Counter Ch. 12byCreamer©
My office Christmas -- pardon me, "Winter Holiday" -- party was the next day, Saturday, at the Beaumonde Hotel downtown. It was smaller than the one I'd had Tim thrown out of, but also older, more elegant and refined and no less expensive. The Partners figured they could afford it -- we'd had a good year even before I landed my big fish, and there would be champagne and cracked lobster claws aplenty.
After a fitful morning of rest and recuperation I spent some time -- wait for it -- at a local church. In fact, Mary's home parish.
Father Reynolds was there when I arrived, and while it took him a moment to recognize me -- he had married us -- he greeted me warmly when he finally did. He was overseeing the preparations for the church's series of concerts and prayer services in conjunction with Advent and the Christmas holiday. Today that included directing a small squad of Catholic Church Ladies in hanging evergreen garlands from the pews and adding fake brass horns and the like to the sills of the stained glass windows. He winced every time one of them would toddle over and ask his opinion on some minor point of decoration. It was obvious that they had been at it all morning, and that the priest's patience with them was coming to an end. A better man than I.
I liked Father Reynolds -- he was a no-bullshit priest who had taken holy orders late in life, after his wife died. He was a caring and compassionate man, but he was also worldly enough to appreciate a good dirty joke. He never gave me shit about not being Catholic.
Of course he took our marriage vows pretty darn seriously. It was kind of his job.
I gave him exactly five minutes to express his sadness and regret for what Mary did to me, and I appeared appropriately subdued. Then I turned his attention in a slightly different direction, leading him out of the sanctuary and into the nave to discuss some private matters. All part of my plan.
Catholic priests are, of course, bound by the rules and teachings of Church doctrine -- but that still leaves a parish priest a great deal of latitude for interpretation when it comes to his parishioners. Nor can you bribe most of them -- at least not blatantly.
But if you wanted to influence a priest's opinion and the opinion of his flock there are ways to do it. It cost me a thousand dollar donation towards the new nursery school playground, but for what I asked him -- OK, for what I broadly hinted at suggesting to him -- that was more than a fair price. I could tell he felt a little guilty about taking my check, but I assured him that there was no quid pro quo -- I was making a donation, and that was independent of what he might or might not say to Mary, her parents, or the rest of the congregation.
I left the church secure and confident that Father Reynolds would do his duty, even if I was no closer to God myself. I could live with that.
Then I went home and had a good workout and a brisk shower. I also had the Jag detailed by one of the neighbor boys who I let, as a tip and against all sane reason, drive the Jag around the block. It was Christmas, after all, and the kid was smart enough to know what his future might look like if he cracked up my ride before he even owned his own car.
I got Diane's number from Anna and called her as I was getting dressed. She was pleasant and very non-judgmental, even after my sheepish admission that I'd perhaps had too good a time last night. Her charming giggles boded well. I was looking forward to seeing her in the daylight -- Anna assured me that she was a knock-out -- and I appreciated the intelligent humor she'd shown in a tense situation last night. A lesser woman would have politely excused herself.
Speaking of lesser women, I was in the middle of shaving when Mary called.
"Hey, Bill," she said casually, a strange purr in her voice. "I just wanted to call and see if you were available for a bean this afternoon."
"Mary," I said, with a sigh, "I thought I told you to take the day off?"
"I know, I know," she admitted, guiltily, "But Tim is helping a friend move, I'm sitting here staring at this pile of laundry, and I'm trying to come up with a good reason to avoid it. I've got three hours before I have to be at work. It wouldn't take long," she added.
I wasn't really in the mood -- which I'm sure is a shocker. Pass up a blowjob? Me? But I was still stinging from our argument last night, and doubly upset at her ignoring my wishes and calling me anyway. This was the kind of bullshit that had caused me to make the "blowjob list" in the first place.
"Mary, I've got a date I'm trying to get ready for. I appreciate the offer, but I really should get myself cleaned up. I'm trying to be nice about this, but I'm still a little pissed off at your reaction last night."
"I know, and you have every right to be. You were trying to be gallant, in a deviant and fucked-up kind of way. I thought about it all last night. I was wrong to jump down your throat like that. Forgive me?"
I sighed heavily. "Sure, for that I can forgive you. The whole adultery and cuckolding and pregnancy thing, not so much."
"Good. I mean, I'm glad you . . . so you want that BJ or what?" she asked, playfully. Flirtatiously. Not at all like a woman who wanted to leave me for another man.
"I really need to get ready," I insisted. "I don't have time."
"You don't have time to get your dick sucked?" she asked, astonished. The matter-of-fact sexual suggestions were new, too. "Who are you and what have you done with my husband?"
"Ex-husband," I reminded. "And when you put it like that . . . but it wouldn't be fair to my date," I said, my cock growing in my sweat pants even as I was turning her down.
"Diane," she said, and I could imagine her eyes narrowing in catty suspicion. "I have it on highest authority that she's a lousy lay."
"Who said I'm trying to get laid?"
"You have a dick, don't you? I seem to recall it polishing my tonsils last night. C'mon, Bill, don't make me beg. I need to . . . I need to go ahead and knock out my debt." It sounded for all the world like a lame excuse.
"You just want to sap my vital juices so that I won't be interested in Diane," I accused, more playfully than I had intended. I couldn't help it. Despite my rage, I was unconsciously slipping back into our "married" roles. At one time we could tease each other for hours over the phone with naughty innuendo. I missed it, I admit. There is something about the intimacy of a married relationship that makes you feel secure.
"I didn't expect you to have much in the way of 'vital juices' after cumming twice last night," she jabbed back.
"Actually, I came four times last night," I corrected. When she didn't say anything I added, "And none of it, I'm happy to say, was solo."
"You haven't cum four times in . . ."
"With you," I agreed. "I was feeling inspired last night. Must be the season." And the Viagra, but why shatter her illusion?
"Well aren't you a fucking stud?" she asked, annoyed. "Look, I want to suck your dick. I need to work this debt off."
"I couldn't let you do that," I said, thinking quickly. "Unless . . ." I started towards the computer in the other room. Thankfully it was still on from last night.
"Unless what?" she asked, intrigued.
"Unless . . ." I hit my link to "Mary TV" and in a moment the video feed became established. I started recording. "Unless you admit to why you want to do it."
"Bill! You know why!" she complained.
"Not the beans, Mare. The real reason. I want you to say it."
She groaned again, and I saw on the screen that she was laying on her disheveled bed in a housecoat.
"Want me to say what? That I want to suck your cock?" she asked, annoyed.
"I want to know why you want to -- you know what?" I asked, stopping myself. I was sick of this game. The same kind of game we'd played for the last several years. "This is stupid. I don't need to flirt with you," I decided. "If you want to suck my dick, tell me the real reason and admit that it makes you horny. Or go wash Tim's jockeys. I don't care. I've got a date."
"Wait!" Mary said, alarmed. She sat up on the bed. "I . . . I'm still horny from last night, Bill. I got all wet sucking your cock, and then I got home and Tim was dead asleep."
"Bullshit. You came sucking my cock. I told you not to call. But now you're calling, and you want to suck my cock. On your terms, not mine. It's a control thing, isn't it?"
"I've got a life I'm trying to get on with, Mary," I said, firmly. "One that you rudely interrupted. If you can't even admit to me --"
"Fine! Fine, I . . . want to suck your cock," she admitted, guiltily. "There. I said it. I miss it, a little, I guess, and last night was . . . well, it was humiliating, but it also turned me on."
"And now you expect me to come running with my fly down and my tongue hanging out just because you're horny?" I asked. "Isn't this an interesting turn-about from our marriage. I seem to recall times when I had to beg. And still got rejected."
"Bill!" she whined. "Don't be like this. I just . . . I mean, I -- I'm horny, and I want some dick. If I can't get it in my pussy where it belongs, I'll take the next best thing. C'mon, Bill, don't make me beg!"
"Why not?" I asked. "That might just convince me. Hell, it's worth a shot. Beg."
"What?" she asked, surprised.
"I said 'beg'," I repeated. "Beg to suck me off. And mean it. Otherwise hang up and try again tomorrow. I've got to leave soon, and I don't have a lot of time, so it had better be good and it had better be quick. Oh, and touch yourself while you beg."
"This is really petty, Bill!" she accused.
"See you tomorrow, Mare. Merry Christmas—"
"NO! Wait! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, OK, I'll do it. I'm . . . touching my pussy, Bill," she said, and on the screen I watched as she snaked her hand into her housecoat. "Happy? I'm playing with my clit. It's very, very sensitive right now. I'm . . . playing with it, though. I really, really want to suck it, Bill. Let me suck it. Please? I want your cock in my mouth, I want to make you cum in my mouth. Please let me slide my lips up and down it, play with the head with my tongue, jack it off with my hot little hands -- I . . . uh . . . I want it, Bill. I need it. Let me suck it. I promise it will be good. I promise it will be quick. You won't miss your date," she said, her words starting to skip and her voice growing deep and hoarse while on my monitor she was frigging herself with abandon. "Let me make you cum, Bill, please? Please? Please, Sir?" she added with a hint of desperation.
"Fine," I said with a heavy sigh. "I'll be ready to go in forty-five minutes. I need to leave in an hour. Come over and park in the garage and shut the door. Wait in your car with the window down. You'll get your cock." I hung up without waiting for a reply.
She groaned loudly at the dial tone, but her fingers kept on strumming inside her housecoat. It only took a few moments for her to explode into orgasm -- a pretty sight, even in her threadbare housecoat -- and then she started getting dressed. I clicked off the recorder, and then emailed the file, minus the sound, to my internet contact. That would be worth at least $50, I decided.
Half an hour later, I was looking pretty spiffy in my new gray suit. I heard her clunker pull into the garage, and then heard the squeak of the door dropping. I got my stuff together and leisurely went out to the garage . . . fifteen minutes later. She was waiting patiently.
"Wow! You look handsome! The Jag looks nice, too," she commented from inside her Gremlin.
I unzipped without any prelude and stuck my cock into the car through the driver's side window. I leaned against the side, trying not to get my suit dirty, and in mere moments my prick was awash in the exquisite sensation of my ex-wife's mouth. I groaned. So did she.
There was a certain desperate enthusiasm in her performance that I found intriguing. She focused primarily on the head, flicking around it lightly with her tongue, and encircled the shaft with two fingers to keep up a steady stroke while she sucked. I sighed as she pulled me further into her mouth, as if she was in desperate need of a dick. She played it soft and sensual but she increased the speed incrementally while she did it. She also increased the suction. Her mouth made lovely wet slurpy noises that echoed in the garage.
It was erotic and strange to get sucked off in my garage on my way to a blind date with a gorgeous woman. And while I missed the visceral thrill of feeling her reluctance as she sucked, she almost made up for it in her submission to my will. When I glanced down she was digging into the crotch of her jeans with her fingers.
"I need to go. I'm going to be late," I muttered, taking her hair into my hands and pulling her down on my dick decisively. Her eyes popped open as I bottomed out, then closed again as I started thrusting forcefully. She dropped her hand and tried to accommodate my cock as it drove insistently into her mouth. I could tell she was starting to get uncomfortable -- but I didn't care. In fact, when she looked up at me pleadingly, it was too much to bear. I dumped a load across her tongue, leaving her gasping and choking.
"Jesus, Bill!" she swore, wiping her mouth.
"Next time," I said in a low growl of a voice as I put my spent cock away and zipped up, "maybe you'll listen to me. Be here tomorrow before church. And then stop by after church for dessert. I'm thinking a healthy confession might be good for your soul. I'll have some . . . things laid out for you in the guest room. I think you remember how to close up the garage?" I asked as I turned on my heel and walked away, a small grin on my face and a supremely puzzled look on hers.
I picked up Diane at her condo -- The Mews, where it cost $250,000 to get a one-bedroom efficiency, if you're impressed by that sort of thing -- and she looked dynamite. Extravagantly long dark blonde hair, beautifully styled, over a perfectly made-up face and an exquisite scarlet dress displaying a generous amount of cleavage under her equally stylish coat. Not the "Jolly St. Nick" red I was already getting sick of, but the "take me, take me NOW!" red of Italian sportscars and the lips of whores. I whistled my appreciation and she blushed just a bit and twirled for me.
"Wow," I said, reverently. "You're gonna get me talked about at work."
"I'm just glad to be able to dress up a little. I do risk management, and I usually look like a dowager at work."
"Well, going to work in that would be a risk," I decided. "I couldn't work under those conditions. How does Pulcinella's sound?"
"Wonderful!" she said. "I haven't been there in ages!" Pulcinella's was a tiny Italian restaurant that had eight tables and a three-month long waiting list. They were also clients of mine from way back, so I was able to pull some strings and bump us up the list. Diane was a wonderful dinner companion, and knew far more about wine than I did. We talked shop, discovered more than a few mutual friends, and by the time we left we were carrying on as if we had known each other for years.
The Beaumont's ballroom was gorgeously decorated, and we made quite the scene. Unlike Anna's party I more-or-less monopolized Diane's attention on the dance floor (with a few notable exceptions -- including the one matronly female partner I had flirted good-naturedly with since I started at the firm) and left her alone only briefly to schmooze with the senior partners. The founder of the firm, an eighty-one year old accountant who rarely made it to the office anymore, sought me out and complimented me on my good work. That would have been enough -- the old guy was a kind of legend, and he remembered my full name without prompting. I was truly honored.
Then he handed me an envelope before wishing me a Merry Christmas and hunting down his forty-year-old trophy wife. When I snuck a peek at it in the men's room I almost fainted.
It was a Christmas bonus. For fifty grand.
I'm used to big numbers -- the smallest of my clients was doing well over a quarter million, and most counted their annual receipts in eight figures or more. But when you see all those zeros over your name you discover that the five most beautiful words in the English language are "Pay To The Order Of." I almost went to see the old guy and tell him he made a mistake -- sure, my new client would be worth millions to us, but I wasn't even a junior partner -- and then my brain kicked in and I slid that check carefully into my jacket pocket. Wow.
I danced with my secretary, a few of my coworkers, led Diane through the buffet table, drank a little more, and then about eleven o'clock I made my good-byes and dragged her away.
"That was fun," she said with a sigh when we were back in the Jag.
"You don't get out much, do you?" I asked. I had been bored stiff.
"Nope. And I still have 'date hair', so we're not calling it quits just yet, Buster."
"Of course not!" I said, feigning shock. "Care to check out Waffle House?"
"I had something a little more sophisticated in mind," she said, smiling knowingly.
"All right. But it's hard to get a table at Denny's this time of night. Unless you know people," I amended.
"I was thinking maybe a drive up to Ravenford."
I frowned. "What's in Ravenford?"
"A little wine-bar overlooking the lake."
"I don't know . . . I'm already close to my limit," I cautioned. "Hate to wreck the Jag."
"Did I mention the little bed and breakfast next door to the wine bar?"
"You're just trying to take advantage of me!" I accused playfully.
"Yup," she agreed. "It was dark last night, and most of you was in that waitress' mouth, but if you thought the evening would end without me getting a crack at that cock you were sadly mistaken!"
"I'm shocked to hear such common language from a lady of such refinement," I chided.
"Did Diane mention that I deepthroat? A lot? And I like anal?"
"So it's this exit, right?"
We had a great time. She looked even better without the dress. It was a simple, romantic hook-up between two lonely people without any coercion, manipulation, or deception. That made it the most normal sexual experience I'd had in three months. It was nice, reminding me of better days with Mary, only with the "first date" magic as well. The B&B did a mean breakfast -- so much better than Waffle House OR Denny's—
and Diane looked just as ravishing rolling out of bed first thing in the morning as she had the night before, so I ravished her again for good measure. I dropped her off back at the Mews about nine o'clock the next morning, looking like she'd just been had (she had), and then headed home for a nap.
Of course, the Gremlin was in my driveway. Oops, forgot about that.
Mary was sitting there patiently, dressed in the one dress that she had that was decent for Church with her coat on against the chill -- a cold front had moved in over night. She looked at me as I drove up with a combination of accusation and sadness. But when I got out of the car, the recriminations I expected just didn't materialize.
"Late night?" was her only comment.
"Yeah," I admitted, sheepishly. "Office Christmas party. You know how wild those things are."
"I do," she said, quietly. "Have fun?"
"Yep. So much so that I should probably grab a shower first."
She glanced at her watch. "Don't have time. The early mass starts in forty-five minutes. Let's just . . ."
"You might not like the bouquet," I warned her, picking at my not-so-fresh shirt. "I've had a busy night."
"I've tasted other women's juices on your dick. Recently. It's gross, but I'm on a schedule. Into the living room and drop 'em. No time for kinkiness. Costumes will have to wait until after Church." She didn't seem fazed by me having sex with another woman.