Breakfast (Cereal) In BedbyHarveyMarcus©
The following story is for the entertainment of ADULTS ONLY, and contains descriptions of explicit sex. If you are not an adult, or reading sex stories upset you, or you are offended by subjects of a sexual nature - do not read any further!
This story is for entertainment only. It contains adult oriented material. This is a work of fiction. The acts and characters contained within are figments of my imagination and have no basis in fact. I do not practice, advocate, condone or encourage acts portrayed here. The characters in the story are entirely fictional. You need to believe that all of the characters are over the age of eighteen.
This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without the written permission of the author. This story may be freely distributed with this notice attached.
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Breakfast, or thoughts of breakfast, must be a current preoccupation, because this is my second story having a cereal (as opposed to serial) theme. Although because there are two, I guess they're serial as well. Hopefully, crisp, not soggy.
The other influence for this story is a series of get-togethers Mr. Marcus has with former school classmates, happening with increased frequency. Perhaps as he gets older, he looks back a bit more.
In this tale, Mr. Marcus examines the life of one of his former classmates. Oh yes, and the women with which he was involved. A very close examination, indeed.
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Somehow, I got on an email distribution list containing members of my high school class. Maybe I'd given my email address to a former classmate and they'd done what they thought was a good deed and passed it along to one of those goody two shoes self-appointed class secretaries. About once a week, I'd get some drivel about a get-together at a local bar (for those still in the vicinity or willing to fly in for a beer), or scanned clippings from old issues of the school paper, or some brag about how a former classmate saved the world. I had very little interest in most of these folks. After all, if I had been interested, I'd have expended some effort to keep in touch. And I hadn't.
That fateful week, I got an email: one of my former high school classmates had died. Leonard "Goat" Humphries. His nickname "Goat" wasn't because he was the "butt" of our jokes. It was simply that Leonard was always horny, and I mean always. From the first time he got intimate with a female classmate - I can't remember who I heard it from, maybe Leonard himself - he was always with some girl from our class, or when we were juniors and seniors, perhaps a freshman or sophomore. Outside of school, he'd be seen with girls from other schools. If anyone at our high school was getting significant action, it was Goat.
I avoided him because, to be honest, he wasn't very interesting when he had a girl on his arm. Depressingly dull, to put a fine point on it. With a sullen expression, as if his house had been robbed and all his prize possessions stolen, or some other emotionally catastrophic event. Despite that aura, his current squeeze would be glued to his side. He was a different person when it was just him and the guys, or him and me. He was energetic and friendly, someone you could have a good time with. I never did figure out why he was like two different people. Maybe it was hormones.
In our senior year, Goat stopped playing the field and went steady with our classmate Gloria. She was smart, and kind of pretty in a plain way. She must have seen something deeper in Leonard and roped him in before he knew what was happening. A couple of years later, I'd heard in passing from a mutual acquaintance that he and Gloria got married while in college, pissing off both their parents. A year after we all graduated college, I'd read an article in the local paper about Leonard moving to Arizona for an important job. It must have been important, because the paper didn't publish stories about folks getting menial labor gigs. Until his death notice, that's the last I'd heard about Leonard.
We weren't best friends by any means, but we'd sometimes hang out at each other's houses. Anyway, my heart pinged a little with the notice of his passing. Memories of double dates, where his then current girl had an unattached friend, got me out of the house on Saturday nights. Sometimes we'd have a daytime date at the beach. Leonard loved the beach. Oak Street. North Avenue. Sometimes we'd slum up at Foster, just for a change of scenery. And on double dates, we'd park there for "submarine races." Most times, my fix-up and I sat in the back seat, watching Leonard and his gal go at it, hot and heavy. Goat never minded that I'd peek over the front seat and watch. Most times, his girlfriend was way too occupied to notice. I'd get horny, too, obviously, and turn to my date for some action. The cooperative ones would let me touch them, but only in certain places on their bodies and with our clothes on. No matter where we went, girls would be attracted to Leonard. Animal magnetism, maybe. I was grateful for the leftovers, many of whom where plenty attractive, even if I only got kissing and an occasional grope.
The mass mailing about Leonard's death included an email address, so I sent my condolences. It was the proper thing to do. The next day, the reply was a sincere thank you from the Webb family, plus directions to meet a private jet at Midway Airport for attending the funeral. Huh? I was flabbergasted. Someone wanted me at the funeral so bad, they'd offered to fly me there? I guess old Goat had made it big, or at least connected with some dough. Were they making this offer to other classmates?
Harriett was unusually solicitous about the news, and my boss was gracious to give me time off, despite the short notice. To be honest, I think he was more jealous than anything else. Our company had a private jet, which none of us peons ever got close enough to see, let alone ride in. I was sure he'd want the details after I got back.
I drove down to Midway early the next morning. The private facilities for corporate jets are on a road that runs behind the public airport. I parked at Odyssey Aviation as instructed and entered the small one-story building, essentially a waiting room. There were a couple of other people there, in suits and ties, huddled in some serious business discussion. I didn't recognize any of them from school. A chalkboard, hung behind a typical airline counter, announced the scheduled flights, but they were all in code.
A man in blue blazer and khaki pants came out of a small office behind the counter, "How can I help you?"
"My name is Harvey Marcus. I'm here for a flight to Nebraska." I almost said it as a question instead of a statement of fact. "I don't know who-"
"Yes, Mr. Marcus. Their crew is preparing the Groatz corporate jet for your trip."
Groatz? That's the healthy cereal they give out free samples of at the grocery store. Not like other cereals I've eaten, this stuff is chewy and doesn't get soggy in milk. But you've got to really work in order to swallow it. The last sample made my jaw ache. How was Leonard connected with them?
The whine of a jet engine revving up broke the silence. Through the glass wall, a plane taxied into view. The Groatz logo and marketing phrase, "Great oats! Great taste!" adorned the entire side. The passenger door slid up. A woman in a beige jumpsuit flipped out a staircase and crossed the empty asphalt. When she entered the building, she headed straight for me. "Mr. Marcus."
She knew who I was. "Yes."
Her long brown hair had been blown into a tangled mess by the jet's turbulence. At close range, I examined her face. Very pretty. A bit lower, the jumpsuit bulged, so the Groatz logo stood out prominently on one side. Yuli, her name, was embroidered across the other breast. "We're ready for you now." She took the handle of my roll-on bag and led me from the building. When she pointed towards the stairs, I walked up. The pilot's cabin door was open. Two smiling men, also in jumpsuits, grinned broadly. "Welcome aboard."
I nodded and then turned to the right. Swivel captain's chairs lined both sides towards the front, with plain seats behind, along the walls. One flip-down flight attendant seat was mounted to a back divider. At the rear, I guessed a small galley and a bathroom.
Yuli came up the aisle, minus my bag. Must have been stowed below. "May I take your coat?" She put her hands on my shoulders.
She slid the jacket off my arms and carried it away. I chose a seat on the left side, so I could see my car in the lot and the waiting room building.
One of the male pilots walked the length of the plane either to check things out before takeoff or to use the bathroom. Yuli's jumpsuit was a much tighter fit than his. Perhaps Groatz management was sexist, or maybe just their private flight management. Or a simpler explanation, that Yuli had shrunk hers in the dryer. Questions buzzed in my head, but neither the pilots nor Yuli were likely sources of information. Was I really going to be the only passenger? And what was Goat's relationship to Groatz? Had Goat been a highly valued employee? Maybe even a member of senior management? I'd never figured Goat for an executive suite.
After both pilots were back in the cockpit, one of them announced immanent departure. Yuli came back to make sure I was buckled in. She took a long look at my waist. Was she checking me out? Even if she wasn't, I noticed that she'd unzipped, just a couple of inches.
It was odd, being alone in a plane. Normally, I'd be wincing at noise from uncooperative children or playing dueling elbows with a burly guy in the next seat. Not this time, just the sound of wind rushing past the fuselage.
Takeoff was the closest I'd ever come to being an astronaut. Almost vertical with g forces that plastered my tongue deep in my mouth. When we tapered off a bit, the flight attendant climbed uphill from her back seat. The zipper of her jumpsuit had traveled a few more inches down from the collar. "It might be too early in the day, but may I offer you a cream soda?"
Damn. How did they know I'm a cream soda freak? Must have been Goat. Who else? How many details about me had he shared? "Thanks."
She returned with a tray and poured the premium Doctor Brown's beverage into a chilled mug. No ice to water down the flavor. Perfect.
"Anything else I can do for you?" She smiled. My eyes tracked the deepening V of her outfit. It was even lower now, approaching the valley between the hills of her chest. Her tits weren't huge, but big enough to capture my attention. She noticed my focus and toyed with the zipper.
Even if this was her way of suggesting the possibility, I couldn't have sex in the plane, could I? Not with two pilots up front who might come back to check on things. "Can you tell me something about Groatz, or the Webbs?"
She opened the overhead storage bin and handed me a hardback book. The title - History of Groatz. "How's this?"
"Perfect." I skimmed through the book. Stanford "Stringer" Webb, who got his nickname from his previous work as a freelance journalist for the local newspapers in Nebraska, had founded Groatz Cereals. When a large tract of farmland was about to be foreclosed, Webb showed up with just the right amount of cash to pay the back taxes. Using unique imported seeds, he turned the land into a highly productive farm, delivering an extremely hearty crop and instant wealth. The book had lots of photos of cereal production machinery and packaging designs, from the earliest mechanisms and boxes to the latest high tech processing gear and modern box designs. Up to the publication date, which was three years previous, Groatz had remained an independent operation, with extensive distribution within the United States. There were some heavily cautioned forward-looking statements about making that pervasive across the country, as well as entering foreign markets. On the last page, a full color photo of Stanford standing next to his grown daughter, Charlotte.
I shut the book. I didn't know the Webbs, but Goat seemed to have been connected, and now, I was involved.
Yuli showed up, ready to attend to her only passenger. "Was that helpful?" Her smile gleamed, and the inside curves of her breasts were now on display. No bra. Shit, how far was she prepared to unzip that thing, anyhow?
"Yes, very." I had a passing thought about joining the Mile High Club. Shit, I was going to a funeral, and there I was, thinking about sex. I stifled any physiological reaction and reclined my chair. "I'll just take a nap, thanks."
She left the zipper where it was. "Please let me know if you change your mind."
About what? It felt like she was disappointed I didn't ask her to sit in my lap and see what came up. I closed my eyes and dreamed about high school and my adventures with Goat.
The bump of the planes tires on a runway woke me from my nap. It had been about forty-five minutes by my watch. "Are we there?" I called back over my shoulder.
"Yes sir. Remain seated until the captain advises you to unbuckle. I can assist, if you'd like."
Still teasing me, even after landing. She really did want to get her hands on me. Maybe it was a missed opportunity, but my mind was on Goat, his funeral, and the Webbs.
The sunlight was bright and the sky was clear blue. I pulled on my sunglasses at the top of the staircase. In the foreground a brick shack and a limousine. Yuli extracted my suitcase from beneath the plane and rolled it over to the limo. "Have a nice visit." She'd zipped back up. Modesty in public.
Since when is a funeral the opportunity for a nice visit? Strange. "Thanks."
"Maybe I'll see you on the return flight." Her hand pulled the zipper down an inch or two, just to tease. Then she winked. Her waddle as she walked towards the plane was meant for my eyes, I was certain.
I had just landed and was anxious to climb back aboard. Both that plane and Yuli. But there were condolences to share, in person, with someone. The Webbs? Would any of Goat's family be there?
The limo driver put the bag in his trunk, came around and then opened the rear door.
When he got into the driver's seat, I felt obligated to say something. After all, in the past, I'd always been the one to provide my limo driver a destination. "I'm sorry. I don't know where we're going."
"That's not a problem, Mr. Marcus. I have my orders. First, I'm to take you to the house, so you can clean up and get dressed properly. Then, I'll take you to the mortuary for the funeral service. You'll join the family there."
"Leonard's family?" Boy, was I out of touch. The only family I knew of was Gloria, from decades ago.
"Oh, I assumed you knew. Leonard married Charlotte Webb several years ago."
No shit! Goat married into big money. That made him heir to the Webb's cereal business. Except the idiot died. What happened to Gloria, his high school sweetheart? "Really?"
He continued, "No children, thank goodness. Please, sit back and relax. It won't take us very long, but we have to stay on schedule."
Dust plumed as my driver gunned it out of the private airport's parking lot. I thought of a dust-caked Yuli unzipping her jumpsuit to take a shower. God, the places my mind goes!
After about a half hour, during which I played with all of the buttons and controls on the TV, radio, and lights, the limo driver turned right, passing under a horseshoe-shaped arch, announcing 'Webb Estate - Home of Groatz.' "We'll be at the house in a few minutes."
The "house" was a huge building off in the distance, deep into the flat land that seemed to stretch to the horizon. On both sides of the road, fields of grain. This was a working farm, not just for show. The driver pulled halfway around the circular driveway. An older man in black blazer with the Groatz logo and grey slacks greeted me.
"Mr. Marcus. How was your flight?"
This guy had no clue I was practically seduced by Yuli the flight attendant. "Very smooth. I slept through most of it."
"I see." He winked. Shit, he did know. But how? "Let me escort you to your room." He took my rolling bag from the limo driver in a hand-off smoother than the best I'd seen in any Olympic relay, and proceeded down a wide arched hallway. On the right, at a door labeled GUEST ONE, he turned and entered. Inside, there was a king bed, armoire, dresser, nightstands, and a closet. He pulled open the closet doors. "We didn't know your exact size, so you've got a variety of suit jackets and pants to choose from." The armoire held freshly pressed dress shirts and several ties, all in properly subdued colors appropriate for a funeral. "Underwear and socks are in the dresser. You have a private bath, that way." He pointed past the closet to another door. "Please, I don't mean to rush you, but you can't be late for the service."
He hustled out of the room and closed the door. My own clothes in my carry-on were redundant, so far. I took a quick hot shower, shaved to remove any unsightly stubble, and got dressed in stranger's clothes. I was tempted to wear my jockeys instead of their boxers, but felt somehow like that was an insult. All ready with a grey and red tie, I walked towards the front entry. The driver was waiting. "You look perfect, Mr. Marcus. What fine taste."
I stroked the lapels. "Thanks." I didn't deserve the kudos. Someone else had made the tough choices.
The driver sped around the circular driveway, down the entry road, and made a tire-squealing right. "If I get you there a little early, you'll have time to speak with the family before the service." Except that we had to cross freight train tracks, and there was a one hundred boxcar procession blocking our path. Seconds felt like hours. The driver had succeeded in making my timeliness my problem, not his. Smooth, and sneaky.
Despite his rush after the train passed, everyone had already entered when we arrived at the chapel. A string of limousines and fancy imported vehicles stretched behind a waiting Hearse. The driver ran around the car and threw open the door, handing me off to an usher. He took my elbow and shuffled along, demonstrating urgency. The sign at the doorway read: Service: Leonard Humphries-Webb." Wasn't that backwards? I thought the woman's maiden name came first when someone chose hyphenation. The rush continued as he scurried me down an aisle to the first row, where three people sat on a long couch. Closest was a woman in black from head to toe, a veil obscuring her face. I presumed she was Charlotte, the widow Humphries-Webb. Next to her, the icon I'd just read about - Stanford Webb, founder of Groatz and according to the limo driver, Goat's father-in-law. On the far end of the sofa, a second woman in a simple black dress, this one younger with a family resemblance. A second daughter? She sat looking at the floor, hands folded in her lap. There was just enough room for one more body - mine. The usher planted me next to the veiled woman.
I was startled when she leaned hard in my direction. I had nowhere to go. My arm was crushed between our bodies. I wanted to avoid accidental contact with her, so I snaked my arm up and put it along the top of the sofa. She cooed and snuggled against me. This felt too good for a funeral; Goat's widow nestled in my arm. I couldn't see through the veil, so I hoped that Goat had good taste. The Groatz marketing phrase, "Great oats! Great taste!" jumped into my head. When the minister, or whoever he was, rose to the podium, that's when I first noticed Goat's casket, sealed shut.
The minister's words were completely generic. No mention was made of anything personal, such as Goat's humble beginnings in Chicago, or Gloria, which I guess would have been tacky. Nope, this was pure boilerplate, read from a book as if the minister had never met Goat. Probably hadn't. Goat wasn't very religious.