Allure Ch. 03: Waiting for a Wednesday

Paul Staggerly's first encounter with Missy de Mille was at a closing on a commercial property. The situation was odd from the beginning in that he had been retained by the estate of Henry P. Johnson of Des Moines, Iowa and asked to recommend a business property suitable for a ground level eatery with living quarters above. In addition to traditional shopping districts with storefronts, his assignment was vague enough to point him toward other sorts of structures like retired warehouses, abandoned churches, and movie theaters.

He had narrowed the search to three suitable locations in the old Tremont neighborhood and Ohio City when he met the buyer. He was surprised to find that she was a youthful brunette who might have been in her late twenties, but had an even more youthful demeanor. In the end, the traditional storefront in an area that had become home to artists garrets and shops promised the best response for a coffee shop that would also serve as a small roasting/packaging business. (He found out later, that another firm had procured mezzanine space in the Terminal Tower downtown and floor space in the Westside Market.)

This was entirely business, and the finder's fee floated the Agency through what was to become the first disastrous quarter in a downturn market. The other half of the equation was that the petite woman was stunning with, by all accounts, a body that would not quit! She had a habit of sitting with her hands on the table in front of her as if she wanted you to see that she wore no rings (that was, at least, Staggerly's hunch).

He had studied her well during their few meetings and had decided that once the coffee bistro opened, it would only be good business to patronize the new shop. In his mind, this was just business; yet something kept him from speaking of her to his wife. The subject, however, became unavoidable on the first Wednesday night that Missy appeared at the club. She and Paul clearly had a moment of mutual recognition that could not be disguised.

"How do you know her?" asked Caitlyn. The safest thing was to come clean about the business details, and skip the bursts of erotic thoughts.

"She was a client," he offered. "Remember the coffee shop that I found in Tremont?"

"You never mentioned that she was that young or attractive."

Paul shrugged. "It was just business." The laizzez-faire ease with which he spoke took a rather sudden u-turn, when they were walking back to the private rooms with their swap du jour and saw Missy in the public area. She was feeding off the admiration of onlookers as she successfully deep-throated a seven inch dick sporting a bright red condom.

"She wasn't doing anything like that when I met her," he said dryly, but he thought about those other lips as Caitlyn was going down on him later in the evening. He stopped for coffee at The Magic Beanery often, and exchanged friendly conversation with Missy. They never spoke about the club. It was an unwritten rule to guard the privacy of the members within the lifestyle. In time, however, he joined the line of men waiting to be serviced by Pivot_Grl. Caitlyn pretended to tolerate his request for observer status once the show began, but she knew that, in some way, he had become part of it.

So it was that the morning after Caitlyn first emailed DeVon, Paul was sipping coffee at the Beanery and remembering two nights earlier. He would have liked to broach other considerations to this delicious barista, but he feared that it would ruin what he had. He would have liked to see her naked. He would have liked to taste her on the way to a proper mounting, but she was always teasingly clothed and totally oral (as if none of her lined-up entourage involved sex and she was the untouchable virgin).

He had a girlfriend in college who practiced a similar drill. "Fellatio doesn't get you pregnant," she would say. He eventually married her, but she didn't have the ability of Missy.

When Wednesday finally came, Caitlyn did her best to mask her enthusiasm. She was going to meet her lover. It was all arranged via email and well under Paul's radar when he unthinkingly announced that Pivot_Grl was on the list of those planning to attend.

"She does manage to draw a crowd," said Caitlyn in a tone so detached that Paul looked to try and read a facial expression which was as indifferent as her voice. She wore an animal print tunic that was sheer enough to reveal the color variation between her firm breasts and the rose tint of her nipples.

She chose it to surprise DeVon who made a curious remark at first seeing here nude. "I can tell you're a true blonde," he had observed after pulling his sucking lips from her tightened bud. "Only blondes and redheads have these light colored nips."

As he went back to his welcome ministrations, she had two thoughts. My pubic hair will never give me away! That, after all, had been lasered away two years earlier. Her second thought carried more concern, how many blondes and redheads has he done? Denial is a great gift when truth has to be avoided.

She wore a long jacket over her leopard skin. Club dresses and lingerie were not meant for the sidewalks out front, so most women took to changing in the private rooms or wearing some form of outer camouflage. She walked into the main room with Paul behind her. DeVon was seated at the end of the bar. He and everyone else turned to see them, but he was the only one she saw.

"Paul, would you hang this up?" she said softly as she opened her wrap and struck a pose before she let it slide to the floor. "Sorry," she said to her husband.

"No problem," he said spiritedly as he scooped up the fabric and walked toward the bar to hand Windy their BYOB contraband. "I'll just hang this up," he added turning toward her and holding up her discarded garment.

"Take your time." She meant it. DeVon was still watching as she walked to where he was seated on a high stool. She draped her hands over his left shoulder and leaned in to whisper into his ear. "Can you see I'm a real blonde?" she cooed.

He looked at her succulent tits pointing toward him. His answer, however, was to discreetly slip his hand closest to the bar up under the lower hem of her tunic. He found only smooth, bare, liquid folds. She did not pull away.

When she opened her eyes, she saw Paul across the room talking to one of the roving single men that they had once hooked up with. She remembered that Paul had more fun watching than she had doing that night.

"I hope Ms Feeding Frenzy starts soon," she said, "I am so very horny!"

"It has been a long hard week," he said.

"Well, I'm looking for long tonight," she said, "and hard, too." The innuendoes were only making her wetter, and Paul was on his way. She kissed DeVon on the cheek and stepped back into the traffic lane.

"There you are," he said, "I thought you'd have found us a table." Those seated at the bar had missed the finger play, but had seen the kiss. It seemed a break from the usual Staggerly rulebook. They had always worked as a team when negotiating a couple swap or additional players for group activity.

The fact was that Caitlyn was already off the book and flying solo with DeVon. If tonight went as well as she hoped, she would arrange to meet him during the week. Wednesdays by themselves were an unreasonable dietary restriction. She had already mapped out some possibilities. She was a real estate agent with access to many homes, homes that she would be anxious to show to DeVon. There was, of course, risk; the risk of being caught, the risk of losing a real estate license, the risk of losing everything. But this was beyond risk. In the arms of this passionate man, she was alive again, and that was everything.

"How about here," she said pulling out a chair at a nearby table. She gave Paul the seat facing the dance floor so that he could watch any of the exhibitionist women who wanted to strut their stuff. She took the seat facing the bar and the arresting black man who had turned to face her. Periodically, as she and Paul spoke softly in private conversation, she would spread her knees ever so slightly in the direction of DeVon. She smiled when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him touch himself, his incredible self, she thought.

Nothing was announced, but some signal was read by the males who were beginning their Wild Wednesday migration to the arena where Pivot Grl would set yet another record for female insatiability. The women straggled after, resigned to their role as the forgettable nobodies in the warm-up band getting the audience ready for the feature performer.

She ruins everything, thought Caitlyn. Every couple and person in this room exudes the sexual reality that is them. This Pivot-chick takes it away. The plainest person here could stand on the dance floor and know that they were desired. But one sick chick turns a swap club into a floorshow.

She ruins everything, "Except this," she said aloud.

"What?" asked DeVon whose approach was seen by no one except Windy who was still cleaning up behind the bar.

"This," she repeated as she reached out to run her hand along the swollen fabric that covered his groin. "This is what I want."

"Open it."

"Here?"

"Do you want it?" She tentatively reached for the tab at the top of his fly and pulled.

"Careful," he said, "zippers have teeth."

"So do I," she teased. She knew what he meant, however his trousers opened. He was not wearing underwear and she could see the root of his shaft in the window of the opening.

"Let me help you," he offered unbuckling his belt to create a path large enough to extract the rigid boom.

"I had forgotten how really big that was," said Windy who was no longer pretending to do anything but watch. "I had some trouble with that I remember."

"You tried," said DeVon. Caitlyn understood the swinger-club context of the remark, but didn't like it.

"I can handle it," she said rising to her feet. DeVon forced his member downward and sheathed it carefully avoiding the metalic sides of the zipper. Caitlyn took his hand and moved toward the massed partiers. Like last week, they would weave their way through the crowd to find a private room. His hand would signal his presence by sliding up between her lubricated thighs.

"Be gentle," called Windy.

"Don't," whispered Caitlyn.