Dale Carnegie Course

I had just changed jobs to a company that was big on human resource-type training courses. Had I known this at the time of accepting employment, I probably would have run like Forrest Gump, but what the hell, the class was in Lake Mary, Florida, almost smack dab between Orlando and Daytona Beach, and that's not the worst place to spend three nights. Although this was the middle of August, and it was hot as Hades. But, fortunately I discovered something even more humid during my excursion to Central Florida: Myra's pussy.

My skepticism toward such training seminars, though, was reinforced when I walked into what would serve as our small classroom in a Hilton Garden Hotel conference room. There was a whiteboard. A whiteboard is exponentially scarier than any thrill ride or Halloween mask or Ludacris song.

I've been in the corporate world for over two decades and have the emotional scars to prove it, and I can attest that whenever you see a whiteboard in a conference room, it is not going to be a good experience for members of the audience. Some pompous so-called 'professional trainer' who couldn't make it in sales or operations is going to make inquires with the condescendingly nurturing tone of a dog whisperer training a puppy who is not yet house-broken, and then will scrawl the responses down with a Sharpie in crooked penmanship with a lot of arrows and swirly circles, all having the result of mind-numbing the audience into a coma-like state of intellectual surrender.

Perhaps you can see why I was chosen for Dale Carnegie training in the first place.

Even though I was early, I took a seat in the back row, ignored the lukewarm pitcher of water, my number two pencil and the obligatory note pad with the hotel logo on it that are staple items of the corporate trainer, and buried my face in the USA Today sports page, hoping against hope that I would blink and the clock could magically accelerate by about sixty hours or so. This was gonna be a looooong three days.

I smelled her before I saw her. The sweet, head-turning aroma of carnations or gardenias in the morning dew. Picking up the olfactory sensor, my nose instinctively sniffed and twitched like a Labrador Retriever near a gopher hole. Such a scent could only belong to someone equally intoxicating.

A binder slapped down on the table next to my seat; each table was wide enough to sit only two people, and my outlook on the seminar changed considerably when I saw my new partner.

The first words that entered my mind were 'hard body'. Now, normally, I'll readily admit, I'm not easily intimidated by all things female, but if there's one attribute that might sway me to the side of insecurity, it's a woman's body that has enough muscle definition to let me know she could not only arm-wrestle me into submission, but also pin me to the mat in no time flat.

Not that there's anything wrong with that, when you stop to think about it. We'd find something to do in that position, I'm sure. Hey, it's not my natural instinct, but I can role-play a submissive if the situation dictates. I'm very much a gentleman that way.

She hadn't sat down yet, and when I turned my head, she was reaching for something out of a shoulder bag and turned mostly away from me, such that my eyes were at the level of her hips and a beautiful steel-hard gluteus maximus, and a pair of perfectly tanned rippling hard thighs, contained snugly by a pair of tight, beige, pleated shorts. My eyes lingered downward to see that she had on a pair of three-inch gladiator sandal heels, which gave her lower legs a toned, yet less physically intimidating presence, her shapely calves and ankles hugging around the wedges of the sexy, though tasteful, shoes.

She had on a short-sleeve cranberry blouse, and as she bent down to extract her blackberry from her bag, her firm tits hung down, encased in the tight shirt, slightly obscured by a mane of straight, light brown hair that fell from her shoulders as she leaned over.

When she stood up, however, I saw her face for the first time, and it was nothing like I would have guessed. I was anticipating a botox-laden, plastic, craggy countenance for some reason, like a crossing guard who had spent too much time in the midday sun, which is what I had come to expect from watching too many late-night ESPN womens' body-building competitions, admittedly. (C'mon, 'fess up, you watch those shows, too, you know you do!)

Instead, I saw a fresh, freckled face with big light brown eyes that matched her hair, and she lit up the room with a Texas-sized friendly smile, since that is exactly where Myra turned out to be from, good ol' Lubbock, Texas.

"Your body language tells me that you're as excited to be here as I am," she said in that impossibly sexy drawl that is indigenous to West Texas, a twang that draws out each word so slowly and properly that even the word 'yes' turns into two syllables: "yay-ess".

From beneath the desk, at least one part of me was fast becoming VERY excited to be here. I groaned, holding my hands out in front of me like a criminal waiting to be cuffed, caught dead in the heinous crime of indifference. "Guilty. Is it that obvious?"

She grinned as she eased into her seat next to mine. "Yay-ess." There it was, my heart fluttered. Why can just the sound of a pretty girl's accent go right to a man's dick and evoke an involuntary penile reaction?

She held out an impeccably manicured hand, and I noticed how tiny it was. Sick fuck that I am, I always get instantly aroused when a woman has small hands, 'cause as an old sexual mentor once told me many years ago, "Always seek out a chick with tiny palms, because every dick seems enormous to them."

(Of course, I was about eleven at the time of that sagely advice offered by a much older gigolo in the SEVENTH grade, and didn't get a chance to try out the theory for about another seven years or so, but hey, I never forgot it. Wisdom is timeless.)

"Myra. Myra McIntyre." Her introduction was simple and humble, befitting of a Texas girl. From the neck up, she was a true angle. From the neck down, she looked as cut as a kickboxer or fitness model, which I was to learn she was indeed both. Five-feet two, one hundred and ten pounds of sheer, fit, feminine grace. A young steel magnolia.

I grasped her palm, expecting a death-grip in return, but instead was greeted by a warm, soft handshake that lingered a second or two longer than it needed to. "John, John Walters," I smiled deep into her sparkling fawn-brown eyes. "And that's Anais Anais you're wearing, isn't it? Your perfume?"

Her eyes sparkled in glee, and she lowered her turned-up pixie-like nose to her upturned wrist and sniffed. "Why, yay-ess, I guess you're right!" She slapped my thigh playfully, and I remember thinking that about six inches higher and Dale Carnegie himself would have been arrested for lewd and lascivious behavior, unable to contain his libido. "How did you know that?" she squealed happily, seemingly truly intrigued.

Just at that exact moment, the course administrator, a silver-haired man who resembled the prototype of everybody's cordial grandfather, cleared his throat, calling the class participant's attention to the podium. I leaned over and whispered in her ear, inhaling her flowery scent at closer range, my dick getting harder by the second. "I'll tell ya later, Myra. Over lunch, maybe?"

She winked and gave me a thumbs-up. "You got it, mystery man. Can't wait to find out what other tricks you may have."

Oh, maybe one or two, Myra.

As fate would have it, the instructor organized a group lunch for the class at a TGI Friday's across the street, so Myra and I didn't get a chance for some time alone, though we made small talk throughout the day, especially during our brief breaks.

In one such conversation, Myra revealed that she was married, but I was garnering from her own words and body language that she didn't seem to be all that enthralled about the whole situation. I was receiving subtle signals that maybe this might be worth pursuing, but intuition also told me that this was a woman who no doubt was hit upon constantly, and a very subtle approach might prove to be the most successful.

So, essentially, I had to walk that trepidatious tightrope between ambition and aggression, between not coming across as too eager to get into those skintight shorts of hers, while facing the reality that I'd be getting on a flight back home in three days and may never see her again. Fate had placed her next to me, I decided, so fate ultimately would determine whether or not Myra and I would be intimate.

Well, that, and my ever-trusty trump card. It's nice to have an eight-and-half-inch dick in such a situation, it's a very convenient ice-breaker when needed. A good ace in the hole, so to speak. Plus, life experiences and a keen attention to detail have shown me that a woman makes it known when she is willing to fuck; if the right sensors are aroused, the proper boundaries are maintained, and the correct buttons are pushed.

It could have been wishful thinking on my part, but I was getting discernible vibes from Myra that she just might be willing to seek an opportunity of her own for some playtime, since she was about fourteen hundred miles away from hubby for a few days.

Late in the afternoon, a session in the seminar gave me a chance to push the envelope a bit, a risk/reward type of game that I decided was a chance worth taking. If it backfired, in a worst-case scenario, I could easily see myself losing my job to a sexual harassment claim. True, Myra and I weren't co-workers, but if she blew the whistle on me to the Dale Carnegie group, my actions would get back to my new employer before I returned home, and I would be 'career toast'.

However, as Joan Rivers once said in perhaps the most accurate definition of what constitutes sexual harassment, "Sexual harassment depends entirely on how attractive the woman finds the man." I was getting enough cues from Myra to roll the dice. Hey, I can always get another job, right?

We were asked to break into pairs and describe a situation to your class partner that made one feel unappreciated in a workplace setting, and ask the partner's advice as to what counsel they could offer. Of course, Myra and I chose each other as partners.

I beseeched her to begin the exercise by telling her, "Please, you go first, consider me Ross Perot." She wrinkled her nose, not understanding my analogy. "All ears," I explained.

She giggled delightedly, responding, "You think a Texas girl would have gotten that one." The joke seemed to immediately put her even more at ease, and she leaned closer to me as she commenced on her story's journey.

I had heard somewhere that if a woman's toes are pointing straight at you, then she's sending signals that she's interested. Myra had curled her legs criss-crossed into a Lotus sitting position on her chair, and her toes were pointed directly at my crotch. I'll have to look up what that means, but I'm betting that it's good.

"Well," she began hesitantly, "I'm a little embarrassed to say this, but I sell fitness equipment and apparel, and it's important to me to look good. But, sometimes...." Her face turned an adorable bright shade of crimson, and her eyes bashfully looked up at me for comfort.

I gave her my best sincere "Otter" Stratton look, the character made famous by Tim Matheson in the movie 'Animal House' as he seduced both Mrs. Wormer and Fawn Leibowitz. "Go on, I'm here for you," my eyes said silently, imploring her to continue, as I looked up the slight gap in her shorts as she was sitting cross-legged to see a pair of lacy pink panties covering her Texas honeypot. All I was missing was a toga, but if I had one on, my raging hard-on would now be stretching the sheet beyond recognition.

She smiled at me, looking down, and I wasn't altogether certain, but I think her gaze lingered at my dick now. Just to be sure, I made not the slightest movement to conceal myself. I was rock-hard, the only part of me that could ever hope to approach being as hard as her body, and I wanted her to know it.

She continued in almost a whisper, glancing around to see if our classmates were eavesdropping. "Well, I don't know how to say it, so I guess I'll just blurt it out. I'm very proud of my body, I work very hard at it, but I don't want to just be looked at solely as a sex symbol." She looked back up at me with those huge almond eyes. "Does that make sense, do you know what I mean?"

My reply was swift. "I know exactly what you go through, Myra. I get tired of being viewed as a sex symbol myself sometimes." She put a hand over her thin, lipsticked lips to stifle a laugh, but then she studied my face to see that I was being serious. Or, at least, appearing to be.

I sighed the forlorn sigh of a sad, unappreciated artist. "You see, Myra, and maybe you've noticed, I'm very well-endowed, and well...." I looked up to see her eyes darting between my own eyes and my lap, flicking back and forth, one to the other, not focusing on either, not knowing where to look. It was working.

My chest heaved mournfully again, and I gave her my best puppy-dog eyes. "Well, in a few companies I've worked for in the past, I made the mistake of dating a few of my co-workers, uh, and once word got around about my, um, size..." I paused for dramatic emphasis. "I sometimes felt like I was viewed likewise, as just a piece of meat."

Myra licked her lips involuntarily, and she squirmed in her seat, her eyes continuing to flutter back and forth between my face and my rising cock, now tenting in my trousers. I couldn't help but notice that Myra was spending more time focusing on my lap now.

Suddenly, the moderator's voice brought us back to our task. "Ms. McIntyre, Mr. Walters, please tell us about your example."

Myra's cute face was the color of a Texas Rangers ball cap, and she stammered, trying to gain some composure, so I stood up and began an impromptu diatribe. "Certainly. We were discussing the pros and cons of first impressions when making sales presentations, and how best to use them in your favor, or learning how to overcome objections."

Myra heaved an audible sigh of relief, and the group quickly chimed in with some trivial examples of their own, effectively letting us off the hook. As the class members' attention was diverted away from us, Myra reached under the table and rubbed my knee lightheartedly.

"You're an evil, evil man," she smiled. I pretended like I ignored her comment, keeping my attention riveted on the front of the class, but grinned at her from the corner of my mouth.

'Oh, you have no idea', I thought to myself.

At the conclusion of the day at five o'clock sharp, I made it a point to scurry up to the front of the class and engaged in some frivolous, prolonged conversation with the teacher, just to see if Myra would linger behind and wait for me.

She did.

I walked out into the lobby, seemingly oblivious that Myra was approaching me from behind. "John," she called. I kept on striding to the door, acting like I couldn't hear her.

"JOHN," she said, more forcefully, assuring that I couldn't help but to heed her voice this time. I turned, feigning surprise that she was still in the lobby.

She looked at me a tad apprehensively, almost back on her heels now. "Where are you rushing off to, do you have a big date or something?" She stood there and rocked that magnificent specimen of female physique back and forth on her sandalled heels.

I glanced at my watch as if I had an urgent appointment, then lightened my face in a grin. "A date?" I looked at her to gauge her reaction. My approach was proving very successful, her eyes radiated a barely-concealed lust from the unheard-of possibility of being blown off.

Her taut nipples now poked unwittingly from beneath her tight, cranberry-colored blouse, as if the nipples themselves were two tiny cranberries.

"No, I wish I had a date," I laughed.

She crossed her arms over her chest, seemingly aware of the effect her body was having, betraying her. She clearly wasn't used to doing the chasing. "Where are you going, aren't you staying at the hotel here?"

My answer was truthful. "No, nope, I'm staying way up in Daytona Beach, at least for tonight." Daytona Beach was a good forty-five minute drive up Interstate 4. "See, when I booked my hotel for tonight, I didn't really pay much notice how far away it was, but it's too late to cancel for tonight."

She tapped her foot on the lobby carpet and bit her lower lip unconsciously in a subtle display of frustration. Was the frustration sexual?

"Well, um, can you stick around for a drink or something?" She twirled a finger around her silky auburn hair, and when she moved her hand, it caused her fabulous nipples to again be on display, with full-headlights on. Bingo, I thought.

"Ya know, I'd love to, Myra, but, see, I, um, told a friend I hadn't seen in a while that I'd let her take me out to dinner tonight in Daytona." I saw Myra wince ever so slightly when she heard the word 'her'. I had let Myra know that she was being rebuffed, ever so politely, for another woman, who was interested enough to want to take ME out to dinner. Myra didn't have to know that this woman didn't exist, I kept that my little secret for now.

Truth was, I wanted to get to Daytona, see the NASCAR track, ride my own car on the beach, take in a few greyhound races, and get a good night's sleep. Alone. So I could fuck Myra silly tomorrow night.

Before I turned to go, I could see the disappointment etched in Myra's pretty face. Against all odds, this was working like a charm, except if anything, I was having second thoughts as to the wisdom of this master plan of playing hard to get. Myra looked as if she might be ripe to go tonight. But, I resolutely stuck to the execution of Plan A, dropping the next seed for thought.

"But, hey, I'll tell ya what, Myra, I haven't made any reservations for a hotel for tomorrow night yet, so why don't I book a room here and I'll let you take me out to dinner tomorrow?" I grinned at her with my best Beaver Cleaver boyishness to let her know that I wasn't THAT arrogant as to expect her to really take me out to dinner.

Myra, though, jumped on the suggestion almost too willingly. "That sounds great! It's a deal," she said, and then quickly, seemingly cognizant of her unbridled, school-girl-like enthusiasm, she harnessed back her zeal a notch, then asked, in a much huskier tone, "Um, is there anything in particular you like to eat?"

She let the double-entendre hang in the air like a hot air balloon.

This time, I let my eyes scan her incredible torso without any pretense of ambivalence. Her legs parted almost imperceptibly, and her finger tangled in her hair with the heated fervor of a majorette twirling her baton. I envisioned that same finger dipping deep into her cunt frequently tonight, masturbating herself into a frenzy at this unaccustomed position of being pussy-teased.

Our eyes blazed into the others. "Oh, there's definitely something that is my favorite thing to eat, yes." My cock jumped up in my pants. I could almost hear it asking me, "Boss, tell me again WHY we're not tapping this tonight?" But I continued, nonplussed, watching Myra's nipples get harder, in tandem to my dick.

"So, why don't we just find a quiet, little place where we can share some things we both really like to eat?"

She gave me the same wink and thumbs-up gesture that had sealed our ill-fated attempt at lunch earlier today. "Can't wait," she said, her voice two octaves lower than it had been all day. Then, she issued me a health advisory, which I appreciated. "Don't stay up too late with your 'friend' tonight." She curled two fingers of each hand into a quote-endquote symbol over the word 'friend'.