It Happened One Night Ch. 06

Anyone who's lived a few years comes to realize that the cold, harsh world we live in isn't designed for the meek and the mild mannered. Jesus had a soft-spoken disposition. Look what happened to him. When it comes to suffering I'd rather leave it to others, thank you very much. But every once in a great while balance is restored to the cosmos. The loser at the poker table fills an inside straight. The sap in the middle of a messy divorce retains custody of his two children, and a poor suffering bastard like me scores with a woman so out of his class he catches a nosebleed every time he looks up at her.

This woman's looks screamed "Upper Crust" to me. Her statuesque profile made me look dwarfish. The well cared for mane of salt-and-pepper hair that reached past her ass in a perfectly twisted French braid told a silent tale of afternoons spent at the salon. If it didn't, then her sharp, sculpted fingernails and meticulously plucked eyebrows did. Those wire-thin eyebrows conveyed her emotions perfectly. Every quirk spoke volumes, like a courtesan's fan.

She used her expressive, sapphire blue eyes to give me the once over. Her pomegranate-lipsticked mouth, pleasantly plump and enticingly wide, pulled itself into a crooked smile when she saw me return her glance. Just four hours ago I wouldn't have dared. But successes like the encounter with the eager bartender still buoyed me. I wasn't the same Adam "Gilligan" Milligan that had come to this party. I rode the crest of the wave of success. Soon it would peter out. I intended to ride it until it did.

I sipped on the piss-warm Budweiser I'd been clutching for the last few hours, playing it so cool I half expected the tepid beer to develop a rime of ice on its surface. I didn't recognize her from the office. A game I'd started consisted of memorizing the names and faces of everyone I came in contact with at Chox, Inc. Hell, I even included the FedEx delivery guys. Two years later I could recall just about everyone. Who wouldn't remember the faces of the arrogant fuckers who looked down upon you like freshly scraped dog muck from the bottom of a shoe?

Worse still were the ones who didn't remember me at all, regardless of how many times Chandler introduced us at these quarterly snorefests. These so-called social gatherings seemed as dysfunctional as my rusting Yugo.

I longed to tell Theresa to go fuck herself. As it stood, these crappy parties allowed me to escape my even crappier existence. As much as I hated them, I relished them. I seized upon any chance to despise something other than my own pathetic life.

Today, however, everything was coming up Adam. I didn't understand why, but I didn't question it. Good fortune always turned bad when examined.

I peered around my plastic beer cup, scanning the face of the aged beauty who stared back at me with such a predatory gaze. Her aquiline nose looked sharp. Hungry. A nose fit for an Empress. I needed to know who the hell she was. Our Miss Chandler always tried hobnobbing with her betters but rarely succeeded. How had she managed to ensnare an older, refined beauty like this one? This woman exuded class from every pore. Her high cheekbones gave her a haughty demeanor, one I immediately found desirable.

My eternal curse. Self-delusion. Who was I kidding? Those broad, round hips and fat tits attracted me more than any detail of face. Her pale, slightly pink skin and long legs simply added value to an already astronomically expensive package. That ass. Man, those cushiony cheeks had Milligan written all over them. They were so made for me they should've come pre-emblazoned with my monograms.

"Do you intend to stare at me all night, young man, or will you eventually come over here and introduce yourself?"

The Goddess' speech reduced my newfound courage into crystalline bravery, a thin facade that shattered at the first blow. The elegant woman pursed her lips at my slack-jawed expression. The dark mole that graced the upper left side of her mouth reminded me of old photos of Marilyn Monroe. Not that this woman looked anything like the actress, but the two women shared the same aura. Both beauties belonged to another period in time. Others might attempt to copy their simple yet stunning style but could never achieve it. This woman had an attractiveness that I couldn't readily define, but I'd do anything to possess.

"Torrie."

"What?"

"You wanted to ask me my name," she said. "My name's Victoria, but my friends call me Torrie."

"Really?"

"Really. Then you'd say 'So, I'm a friend, am I?' To which I'd reply 'I certainly hope so.' After that, I'd saunter over to you, snuggle in real close, and place a hand on your chest so I could feel your heartbeat. If it was racing, I'd say with my sultriest smile, 'Why don't you call me Torrie, too?'"

During her spiel she had performed just as she said she would, snaking her sinuous arms about my shoulders and drawing me close. Her fat breasts ground into my chest just as her wide, generous hips smeared themselves against my stiffening crotch. Refinement, like beauty, only sat on a person's surface. Its veil could be worn or discarded as required.

"Ah ... Torrie ... What are you doing?" This party had pretty much ended. I couldn't imagine this wild and foxy lady wanting to spend time with a domesticated mongrel like me. I'd expect her to be rather neutral towards me, not show this kind of interest. Despite my innate pessimism, my usually grey outlook showed a sliver of silver. I doubted it, but I fervently hoped that she'd like me.

"I want you," she said, burying her face in my neck.

Oh yeah?

Right on!

I had wanted this response, but now worry plagued me. I hated dreams. Dreams always failed to materialize. What did she know about me? Why did she want to be with me? Tonight excluded, no woman in their right mind spent any quality time with yours truly.

Her ankle length, black silk dress clung to her form like a second skin. The bright scarlet roses that adorned it competed for redness with her flushed cheeks. I couldn't tell if it was the flush of embarrassment or intoxication. Being hooched up certainly would explain her interest in me. Sober chicks didn't dig the Milligan-Man.

I watched the dark, shimmering cloth sparkle like stars in the night sky. I brushed a hand over her hip then glanced at my palm. It remained dry and unstained. The slick black silk shone wetly like a skim of oil on a pond's surface. For a moment I'd imagined her dress painted on. A thin black crocheted belt cinched her petite waist. The belt ends dangled almost to the hem of her dress. The golden buckle that secured it, metal filigree tied into an intricate knot, drew my eyes to her centre. To either side of it gleamed the long, bare lengths of her well toned legs. The dual, near waist-high slits in the dress made sure those pale beauties weren't missed.

Damn, but this woman looked fine!

"Well?"

"Well what?" I asked.

"Am I attractive enough to have sex with, or are you still trying to make up your mind about me?" she said. The cool, totally together charade I maintained shattered like a glass smashed to the pavement. I sputtered. Warm beer suds spewed out from my nose. I coughed as I fought to regain my breath and composure.

"You want to fuck me?" I wheezed in-between coughs. "Why?"

"Why not, Adam? Don't you think you're deserving? I certainly do." If she did I certainly wouldn't do anything to dissuade her. Not that I had done anything to attract her in the first place. I still didn't understand her reasons for coming onto me so strongly but I'd be the last person to question it. The beggar didn't ask his benefactor the reasons behind her giving up some spare change. He took it, smiled and enjoyed his good fortune. It should've been that simple. Of course I'd make it harder than that. I felt undeserving of such a fine piece of aged ass like her. What could we talk about. Horse Racing? Haute Couture?

I was screwed.

I had to come up with a topic of conversation fast. Torrie gave me the 'What, are you stupid?' look I'd seen so many times before on my dates. I panicked.

"Home," I croaked.

"Sly boy! You intend to take me home? My, but you're moving quickly!" Torrie nibbled down the side of my neck, placing a trail of sharp lovebites down my jugular. Even without high heels she'd stand at my height. With them on she could peer over my head if she wished. Torrie ground her crotch against my cock, committing frottage with me as if we were a teen couple hidden behind the speakers at a school dance. "I'm going to enjoy you, Adam. Let's go to your place." She took my trembling hand and drew me towards the front door. Her red tipped fingers dug into the back of my quaking hand. Blindly, I tripped after her as she sought to escape with me.

"Mother!" Theresa waved from the stairs, rushing down them in her haste to intercept us. Her big, floppy tits bounced in her too tight, much too small dress. She looked frantic to reach us before we left.

"Adam! Mom! Where are you going?" Theresa stepped in front of us, blocking our passage. Her fat tits wobbled. Oddly enough, her massive breasts didn't stir me. Torrie's mature body and refined ways certainly did. Her Old-World elegance scotched Chandler's Eurotrash ways.

Then again, Torrie might be a Chandler as well. Theresa had just called her mom!

I turned a suspicious eye to Torrie. She blushed under my scrutiny. A little of the colour from her cheeks bled down her neck and stained her bare shoulders crimson.

"What's up, Chandler? I'm heading home." I pulled Torrie to me and held her by her slim waist. Torrie stiffened as if I'd just slipped my hand underneath her dress to tweak her clit. Since she gave me the attitude, I humoured her and did just that. The sleek, cool silk felt indistinguishable from her aged skin as I slid my hand through the waist high slit in her dress and into her French cut, lacy panties. Her depilatoried mound felt as smooth as her dress. Not a hair brushed my fingertips as I let my hand burrow between the lips of her second mouth. The little bud stiffened at my touch. I took it between my thumb and forefinger and gave it a small pinch. Torrie squeaked at that. If Chandler saw anything she kept it to herself.

"Mom's staying here tonight. Someone else can drive you."

"She offered to drive me home, and I've accepted," I explained. Not that I should've. Torrie certainly was well over the age of consent. "Goodnight, Chandler. Come along, Torrie." I released my elder companion and walked out the door, not giving my boss a second glance. My former boss, probably. Fuck. I'd practically just verbally tendered my letter of resignation. Theresa would definitely can my ass Monday morning.

Imagine my shock when I heard the stately, precise clacking of Torrie's high-heeled, spaghetti strapped sandals behind me.

"You're following?" I whispered.

"Didn't you tell me to come along? I can't drive you if I don't come with you, Adam."

"Yeah," I said, suddenly sheepish. "Sorry about that."

"Don't apologize! A man should never make excuses for saying what he feels. Didn't you want to leave just then?"

"Fuck yes," I said, a tad too eager to agree with her.

"Did you really want me to come with you?"

"Believe it," I confirmed. I really did. Not just because it would cost me over $60 in cab fare to make it back home, but because this striking woman actually enjoyed my company. I wanted this moment to last for awhile.

Okay. I admit it. The 60 bucks was the bigger factor. I simply didn't have it.

"Well, then. It seems to me that apologizing is quite unnecessary. Wouldn't you agree?" Her doe-eyes teased me, looking sleepy yet alert. Bedroom eyes, they called them. Eyes that deceptively looked as if they noticed nothing but actually took in everything around them.

"For example, if I decided to kiss you why should I have to make apologies to anyone?" She took my head in-between her bejewelled hands and sucked in my tongue, drawing it into her own mouth and drinking deeply from my lips. My cock butted into her belly. "No regrets," she confirmed. "You're quite happy to be here, I see." At one time I would've been horribly embarrassed about hoisting a sail in public. Not tonight, though. After the things I've been through, my semaphore-like flag waving signalled my assent to whatever sport she wanted to participate in.

She led me to her ride, a grey-coloured Jaguar parked in the laneway. Even the Jaguar rampant hood ornament had been changed from its usual sterling silver figurine to a sombre pewter counterpart. Its matte finish better matched the drab colour of the car's paint and interior. The seats, upholstered in soft, mouse coloured leather looked unremarkable. At least she had spared the wood. The gearshift, dash and glove compartment door retained their walnut-sheathed splendour. The shiny wood panelling broke up the blase appearance of the plain yet elegant automobile. She unlocked her door, then slid inside.

Why take a swan and change it into an ugly duckling? Didn't all caterpillars desire to become butterflies?

Or maybe Torrie liked to set herself against drab backdrops. Aging movie stars often preferred to work with paunchy leading men, not young Adonises. And definitely not with any hot, tight starlets that would upstage them.

That thought made anger flash momentarily within me. Perhaps she saw me like her car, a drab accessory worn to complement her fading charms.

So what if she did. I used her for her ride and her stunning looks. I swallowed my anger, interring it with the tatters of my pride that I'd ingested the very day I started working for Chox and that megabitch Chandler.

The light grey seats set off her black dress and pale skin to perfection. She grabbed her seat belt and positioned it across her large chest. The band separated her tits as it snaked under her left mammary. As she looked at me, her blood-red nails raked across the woven cloth of the seat belt straps. I stared through the windshield at her, watching her watching me with an amused expression. One of her fingers made its way into her mouth. She suckled upon it, not flirting, just performing an accustomed action without thinking.

Bullshit. She was taunting me. She had no need to keep fucking her mouth with her index finger, did she?

Torrie glanced at the driver's seat, patting it while smiling back at me. I pointed at my chest with a trembling hand. She nodded. Her face looked all business but her blue eyes sparkled with laughter.

I opened up the car door and slid inside. The pedals were too far forward. The driver's side mirror showed a stellar view of the side panelling of the Jag but nothing else. Damn, Torrie was a tall lady! I looked around, trying to find a lever or button to push to adjust the seat.

I found levers all right. A shitload of switches and knobs, too.

"Need some help? she asked. Why she asked made no sense since she didn't wait for my reply. She leaned over, using those aristocratically long, ring bedecked fingers to press and tweak the appropriate controls until I assumed the perfect position in the chair. Call it a happy accident, but her left hand pressed down on the seat between my legs. Her slender wrist just barely grazed my cock bulge. Probably my imagination, but I swore that I could feel her freaking pulse right through my slacks. Her hand gently bumped against me as she fiddled with the seat controls.

"Better?"

"Much better," I said. I enjoyed everything about the situation. A fabulous night, a fine ride and an even finer woman to accompany me. What could make life sweeter?

Sex.

The answer came unbidden to my mind, but I instinctively knew it to be true. This was all foreplay, so far. I wanted pussy from this woman.

Tonight's events had irrevocably changed me. Yesterday I would've counted myself blessed just to score a winsome smile or a peck on the cheek from a woman. Tonight, if I wasn't fucking I considered it time wasted. A couple of modest successes had forever altered my outlook.

Something bothered me about Torrie. I had never introduced myself, yet she'd called me Adam. How did she know my name? I decided to ask her.

"Theresa's always talking about you," she said. "I've been keeping an eye on for you for a couple of years now."

"You've never introduced yourself to me."

"I never wanted to. I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but you used to be kind of laughable."

"But no longer?"

"No," she said. "Something's different about you tonight."

I'd say! Tonight I'd come in more snatch than I had in the last year and a half. But never before had I bagged platinum-card wielding, platinum-haired poon. High Society, matronly pussy. I wanted to sample a little bit of her aged beef. The fact that I'd be fucking Theresa's mother was buttered rum and raisin sauce for the sundae.

I slipped my hand into her dress and felt up her pussy. It throbbed in my hand. "Nothing's different about me, Victoria. I'm the same man as yesterday."

"Torrie," she breathed.

"Victoria." I stressed each syllable. "Torrie's a child's name. You're all woman. Do you really want me to think that you're as airheaded as your daughter?"

"Theresa's an executive in a Fortune 500 company," she reminded me.

"Theresa's a bimbo who fucked herself into a good job, and will keep it as long she keeps on spreading ass for the President. When he gets bored of her, he'll ditch her."

Torrie thought about this for a few moments. "So you know about that, do you?"

"Are you kidding? Everyone knows about that. She's the joke of the office."

"Actually, she's the slut of the office. You're the joke of the office, Milligan. They say that you can't even fuck yourself into a better position." If my scowl deterred her in any way, she sure didn't show it. "I can't say that I approve," she said, trembling under my touch," but I do understand her position."

"Which position? Being the company whore?"

"Being strong enough to get what she wants without making any apologies for it," she said. I'd been expecting to feel some heat from her words. But so far, the only source of warmth came from the scalding pot nestled between her thighs that I continued to stir.

Having a serious conversation with Torrie while driving my hand in and out of her simmering pussy blew my mind. She masked every visible sign of her arousal, but not the olfactory signs. That delicious fragrance couldn't be hidden. It leaked out from her split bush in heated waves.

I wanted to get much closer to this woman. I wanted to experience her from the inside, to force myself into that baby-bare snatch of hers just so I could say that I've cracked into it. I'd heard for years that older broads knew how to handle young cock. Torrie was no broad, though her hips certainly qualified. Her substantial tits did too. She had the Classic Killer Combo; a fat ass, big tits and a slender waist.

Something contrary in my nature surfaced. She'd had years to introduce herself but had chosen not to. Why did she choose to slum with me tonight? Certainly not due to my circumstances. Giving me a ride home wasn't her sole reason. She'd sure take me for a ride if I let her, though.

I decided not to let her. I had long, bitter experience at being fucked around by Chandlers.

"You want me," I said, pulling my hand out from between her trembling thighs, "but I still don't understand why. I mean, when I really needed someone where were you? Now that my tank's full you're offering to top it up."

"I told you before Adam, you're different tonight."

"Different how?"

"I don't know how," she said. "More confident, perhaps."

"Less desperate," I offered. "I look like a man who doesn't need your pussy."

Torrie's renewed scarlet facial bloom confirmed my guess. Women always wanted that which they couldn't or shouldn't get. They resembled men in that respect. "I say again, why should I bother fucking you?"