Dale Carnegie Course

"You might want to save your energy. Ya know, for class."

I winked back, letting her know I was in on the joke, and tendered a suggestion of my own. "Oh, and, Myra, will you do me a favor tomorrow?" She nodded her intent to comply. I glanced down at her sensational legs, imagining them wrapped around my neck in about twenty-four hours, my face buried between them.

"Wear something that shows a little more leg tomorrow, will ya?"

The same finger that had been making curlicues in her locks trailed down to the deep cavern between her cleavage. "Oh, I might have to go shopping tonight now, John, seeing as I don't have a date like some people."

"And I think I'll come up with an outfit or two that will show just the perfect amount of leg for a quiet, little dinner date."

"So come hungry."

I jerked off while driving east to Daytona on Interstate 4, but just the once, and was sound asleep by nine-thirty.

I had a dinner date in Lake Mary tomorrow.

I woke at 4 a.m after a very fitful night of semi-slumber at best. I was beginning to harbor serious doubts about the wisdom of my Plan A, wondering if I had not gone the pussy-teasing route, would I be fucking Myra at this very moment? I mean, talk about 'time is of the essence'. I had a flight back to Philly in about thirty-eight hours, and the chances were very good that I would never see her again.

Maybe, just maybe it wasn't the brightest idea that I played hard to get, especially when all signals were that I had a free 'Get Into Myra Free' card.

Or, was it something else, something even more frightening to the fragile ego? Could it be that I WAS indeed intimidated by Myra and her beauty, most specifically that wet-dream-like hard body of hers? Was my first impression accurate; did I fear that I couldn't handle such a fit firecat in the sack, that my sexual performance would be critiqued by a critical one-woman audience, that my own slight love handles would repel the sleek, fitness model?

Nah, that wasn't it.

Not that this revelation will shock anybody, but men are so one-dimensional and shallow. If they get even the slightest sniff at a remote chance to bed a fitness model, they're probably going to mortgage their 401K.

Women, on the other hand, are so much more cerebral. Men should sincerely take lessons, and pay dearly for them. If you can enter and intrigue and captivate and arouse their minds, and if you don't fuck it up and aren't morbidly obese or look like Freddie Kreuger on a bad manicure day, well, truth is you might just get to play WAY over your head.

What's that football analogy? It's like a punter out-kicking his coverage.

Oh, and it also helps immensely if you have let them know, and can back it up at game time when it counts, that you have a really big dick. It's like chicken soup, it can't hurt!

I looked down at my half-erect cock and admired its God-given girth, and thought about all of the women that had expressed a combination of anxiety and anticipation when they first got their eyes on my thick, eight-and-a-half-inch barbell, surrounded by two overly-sized testicles that served as the accompanying free weights, and decided it was time, right now, to let Myra have an opportunity to have a pre-dawn workout.

I showered hastily, putting on only a loose pair of shorts and a t-shirt, picked up the hotel bill envelope that had already been slipped under my door, and headed back west on Interstate 4 in the darkness, making it back to Lake Mary in about 40 minutes, arriving at the Hilton Garden at just past five-fifteen. The sky was still pitch-black, with only a sliver of the moon hanging low in the light fog that seems to cover Central Florida as a daily early morning occurrence.

I pulled my rental car around to the side of the hotel's parking lot that was pretty much obscured from any outside visibility by an eight-foot-high row of shrubs and a line of cypress and oak trees covered in Spanish Moss, and flipped the lid of my cell phone and dialed the hotel's number, reaching the main desk.

"Good Morning," answered a voice that was far too cheery for barely past five a.m. "Thank you for calling the Hilton Garden Inn, how may I direct your call?"

"Myra McIntyre's room, please."

After a short pause, the phone rang six times, and I began to have exponential trepidation with each ring after the third. Maybe this wasn't the best idea; maybe I had misread her signals; maybe she was still asleep; maybe I should just......

"Hail-low?" came Myra's unmistakable drawl, not sounding the least bit sleepy.

I tried to sound as confident as I could, thankful that she couldn't see my trembling hands. My heart raced as I whispered, for some reason. It wasn't like anyone could hear me. "Mornin', Myra, this is your wake-up call!" That was really cheesy, I thought, I probably should have planned this out a bit better.

I could hear her voice lower an octave, probably in irritation. Putting myself in her shoes, I guessed that I, too, would be pissed off if I received a wake-up call that hadn't been requested. "Who is this?"

Beads of sweat began to form on my brow. I stammered quickly, "Myra, I'm sorry, it's John." Silence. I panicked. "John, from our seminar?" Help, my insides squealed.

Her tone lightened considerably. Thank God for that. I wiped my brow and exhaled a sigh of relief as I heard what sounded like restrained glee in her voice. "John! My God, where are you? Are you in your room?"

"Well, Myra, you probably aren't going to believe it when I tell you where I am. But first, did I wake you? If so, I'm sorry, I really am."

She giggled that delightful giggle. Sweat on my brow was rapidly being replaced by blood rushing to my loins. "No, no," she replied. "I get up at five to do my crunches."

"Crunches?" I asked. My only thought of crunches at this ungodly hour would be the kind that the cereal captain is famous for.

She laughed again lightly at my phys-ed ignorance. "Sit-ups, silly. I was in the middle of my 'abs' routine. Two hundred every morning."

Of course. Two hundred sit-ups at five o'clock. How absent-minded of me, I forgot to do MY two hundred push-ups this morning. Well, dammit, I'll just have to do FOUR HUNDRED tomorrow

My next thought was what in the world was I thinking when I thought I could keep up with this human-dynamo fitness fanatic. Where is the pre-dawn traveling viagra salesman when you really fucking need him?

Myra's voice brought me back to the reality of the present set of circumstances. "John, are you still there?"

"Um, yeah, yes, Myra, I'm still here. In fact, uh, I really am HERE."

I could hear her moving about in her room, not out-of-breath in the slightest. I'd have been on the defibrillator on about sit-up number forty-six.

"What do you mean, you're HERE?" She hesitated, doing the math. "You mean in Daytona?" Her tone turned a bit pouty, mocking me. "So, how was your hot date? Did you never go to sleep?"

I was waving my hands in dismissal of that gross prevarication, though she couldn't see me. "Um, there was no date for me, Myra. It, uh, it didn't work out that way, change of plans, we never got together. And...."

I was finally getting to the point, albeit in a clumsy way. "Well, that's why I'm HERE. In the parking lot. Of your hotel. In my car. Outside. Ya know, the Hilton Garden." Nothing on the other end. "Um, in Lake Mary?" My voice trailed off now, sheepishly. I expected security to arrive at any moment.

I could hear her inhale, her voice shushed a bit, almost whispering herself now. And was it my imagination, or did she sound the slightest bit excited? "You're shittin' me? You're here? Outside?" I imagined her peeling back the drape to take a peek. "Where?"

"Um, well, I'm not sure exactly. Um, hold on." I looked through a slight opening in the row of tall shrubs, and could make out the neon lights on the facade of the Friday's where we had our group lunch earlier today. Um, yesterday. Whatever. "Um, I'm on the side of the hotel where that Friday's is. Hey, uh, if you don't mind me asking, seeing as I'm so close and everything, uh, what room are you in?"

I heard her laugh softly. She was catching on to my plan now, it seemed, and she liked it. Her voice became huskier. I already liked it when her voice became huskier. "Two-oh-eight. Looks like I'm on the other side of the building from where you are." She paused, ever so slightly, throwing out the first ball of the game, so to speak.

"But we can solve that little problem. Why don't you come on up?"

The bait had been cast, and against all odds, Myra was gobbling it up. My dick was now so distended I could almost use it to steer the wheel by itself. My own speech lowered into my best bedroom voice, if indeed I had such a verbal weapon in my arsenal.

I always thought that whenever I tried to talk low and sexy, I sounded a bit like the Papa character in the cartoon series, the Berenstain bears. Ya know, the mumbler? More times than not, during pillow talk in the throes of sex, the woman usually lifted up her head and cupped her ears and semi-yelled, "WHAT? What did you say?"

Barry White, I was most definitely not.

But undaunted, I carried on. "Nope, no, I have a better idea, at least for now. Why don't go open your drapes a tad and I'll pull my car around to the other side. OK? I'll blink my lights when I can see you."

Myra was with the program now one-hundred-and-ten percent. It wasn't going to be necessary to distribute a course outline. "Mmmm, sexy. That's hot. Like I told you earlier today, you're an evil, evil man. Let me turn a light on, that will help."

She continued with a good idea of her own, a willing co-conspirator, my partner in crime now. "But wait just a minute. Give me your number and then hang up so I can call you on my own cell phone. I wanna be able to move around."

My phone rang as I turned the corner, parking lights on only, and I saw her almost immediately, one level up, the second window in from the end. I blinked the lights to my car in acknowledgement and she flickered the lights in her room. I found a parking space almost directy beneath her window, the proverbial front-row seat.

Game on.

She had on a white midriff blouse, and even from my distance, I could see the nipples poking through the cotton material as if they could cut the plate-glass of the window. Below the waist, she wore a pair of tight midnight-black spandex short-shorts that revealed a prominent camel-toe.

Her abs were impossibly tight, her waistline whittled, her shoulders were perfectly rounded off with muscular mushroom caps, her teeth were bright white with a smile exuding unbreakable confidence, her hair was shiny, and she stood confidently in the window upon her strong legs with sexy sweeping quads.

She was poised, polished and ravishing with that athletic yet compact build. She was the epitome of health, wellness, and fitness. She was a 'Fitness Model', the picture of strength and beauty that so many women strive to attain.

And she was going to masturbate for me. And we both knew it.

Her voice came through the line, and it was especially erotic as I could watch her mouth move through the window at the same time as I heard her voice. It was like Skype. Only much fucking better. "Am I dressed appropriately for the occasion?"

I freed my already wildly twitching cock from its snug confines in my shorts, breathing a deep sign of comfort as it unraveled. "You're off to a good start." I began to gently stroke my mast to its full length. "Your body is simply amazing, you know that, don't you?"

Myra began to sway her hips back and forth seductively to her audience of one, the phone tucked under one ear. "Mmmmm. And here if you didn't have a hot date of your own, which you didn't have after all, we could have started this show ten hours ago." She moved her body to the right, next to a small circular, working table, and reached to place her phone on it. "Hold on, I'm gonna put you on speaker, I want free access with my hands."

"Good thinking," I encouraged her creativity.

"Aah, that's much better," she moaned, both hands freely moving over he taut, tanned tummy now. "Can you hear me OK?"

"Oh, yes. Better yet, though, I can see you perfectly." My dick flip-flopped in my lap like a freshly caught tuna on deck of a vessel.

"Is your cock out?" Myra asked in a low, growling guttural groan, her voice unrecognizable from only a few minutes ago, sounding as if it were possessed by a demon. She began to raise one hand to run it over her impossibly firm breasts through the thin shirt, while the other snaked down between her thighs, grazing over the spandex workout shorts, teasingly circumventing Ground Zero for the time being.. "I've been playing with myself all freakin' night, imagining what your cock must look like."

I hissed through the line, saying the words she wanted to hear. "Yes, my cock is out. And it's angry, and long, and thick, watching you. Wanting you." She moaned as I watched her begin to pull on her erect nipple. "Do you want it? My cock?"

Her tiny, thin mouth opened in a "O" and I heard and saw her gasp as she began to rub her pussy over her shorts. "Yay-ess."

My dick got even harder, if feasible. I felt like I had a Lincoln Log in my fist. "Take your shirt off and rub those beautiful tits". I was assuming the role of both director and choreographer for our show.

She smiled lustfully, and even through the distance I could see her eyes flash with excitement. She slowly peeled the blouse over her head, and whirled it around over her arms for just a few seconds before tossing it to the carpet. She stood before me topless now, and Myra began to cup both beautiful globes in her small palms, her pink nipples extending like the tips of two coral-hued Crayola crayons.

"Mmmm," I urged her on, with my own voice. "Sensational." I watched her head lean back in pleasure as her hips began to rock back and forth in a more animated dance now as she sexily caressed her perfectly-shaped mounds. " You love doing this, showing off your body, don't you?"

She didn't reply this time, I could only hear pants coming through the receiver. "Touch your pussy," I ordered. Myra moaned louder. "Play with yourself."

She complied, her right hand lowering to the waistband of her shorts, and her fingers disappeared into the abyss, and I could see the outline of her digits begin to explore her swollen folds under the skin-tight shorts. "That's it, Myra, so fucking hot you are. How wet are you?"

She grinned, raising her one hand from her nipples and bringing it to her neck in a soft pet. Her other hand continued its squirming exploration of her cunt. "Like a West Texas gully-washer. Have a visual?"

I smiled at the entire package. watching her, hearing her, seeing how turned on she was. Yet, I wanted to continue to control the pace. I wanted a long fuse on this Longhorn-state firecracker before she exploded. "Not yet, not a full one." I hesitated, pausing for dramatic effect, until she peered out the window into the darkness, the sky lightening just a bit in the distant east horizon.

Her glance outward to seek further instruction was my cue. "Take your shorts off. I want to see your pussy, Myra." She grunted in one loud, continuous "unnnnnggggghhhhhhhh" as she slid the shorts, like a second skin, down her muscular thighs.

She kicked them off of her ankles, raised them to her face, and brought the crotch of her shorts to her lips, her tongue extracting out from her mouth, and she licked the material of the spandex. "I taste sooooo sweet," she purred into the phone with that husky drawl standing naked before me now, savoring her nectars. She lifted one finger from her pussy and held it in the air, curling it, and I could see the moisture on her fingertip, like the early-morning dew on a jasmine.

At that point, I had to release my frantic grip on my dick, lest there be a gully-washer of cum splashing against my interior windshield. Just then, I heard a roar in the parking lot around the corner, and startled, I jumped up in my seat, my dick damn near smashing against the steering wheel. Try to explain that injury to the paramedics.

A trash truck rumbled into the corner of the lot to pick up the contents of the compactor, just a few feet from my car, serving to partially obscure my view of Myra's window. "Fuck, just my luck," I mumbled, forgetting temporarily that Myra was still on the other end and could hear me. I looked to my right, and I could see the driver peering up towards the building, into Myra's window, his day having just gotten exceedingly more interesting.

The driver's mouth opened and his jaw dropped down in disbelief, his eyes parked onto the vision of Myra's naked form like a heat-seeking. He was older, perhaps sixty, and a small stream of spittle ran down his chin, dripping from the corner of his mouth, which also held a dangling cigarette.

"Um, Myra, that man can see you now, much better than I can," I stammered into the phone, issuing fair warning that this was not a one-man audience anymore. I opened the door and hopped out of my car, surprising the garbage truck driver, whose eyes darted between me and Myra's window, trying to assess the situation. Meanwhile, the ignored compactor clanged against the roof of the truck with a thunderous "BANG", suspended in mid-air as the driver had not maneuvered the controls to manipulate the descent into the cab of his vehicle that stored the trash.

I could see Myra clearly once again from my vantage point outside of the car now, and she had a small smirk on her face, nonplussed and apparently amused at the chaos transpiring beneath her window. "Well, then , I think it's high time you got your butt up here so you can keep your front-row seat, John." My dick and I liked that idea. I could tell by the way he nodded at me as he heard her voice and saw her continue to display herself to the truck driver and me.

"I'm gonna prop the door open by the dead bolt so you can enter. Again, its room two-oh-eight." As if I'd forgotten.

"I'll be the girl leaning spread-eagled over this table, if you can't recognize me."

"Let's give this nice ole driver a team show, shall we?"

Usain Bolt himself could not have made it through the lobby, up the steps and to her room any faster. True to her word, the door was propped open, and as I opened it, slowly for some unknown reason, I saw the tightest ass in the world bent over the round table, with Myra's salmon-colored swollen labia peeking out between her ass cheeks, one finger eased into her dripping cunt.

"Lick me or fuck me?" She tendered me a choice that had no incorrect answer. But she gave me a hint as she looked backwards over her shoulder at me.

"I need to see that cock of yours. Now."

My shorts lowered to the floor as I stroked my long, thick shaft, pre-cum oozing from the purple mushroom head. Her eyes widened in glee. "That answers that question. Oh, what a fucking cock."

She took her full hand now, and opened her cunt to me like a Christmas-morning present in a wet box, the other hand bracing herself over the table.

"Fuck me," Myra demanded.

I walked towards my target, big dick in hand, and Myra's eyes pierced into my own as she drawled, spreading her legs even wider in anticipation of the missile landing. "I've always wanted to fuck to an audience."

Just the tip of my dick and two inches or so slid into her humid channel, but that was all it took for me to know that I had entered the tightest, hottest, wettest slit that I had ever felt. She came with the force of a flooded Brazos River within seconds, her wails echoing through the hotel room, and I could only imagine the fury with which our lucky driver friend was assaulting his cock in the parking lot below.

I knew well enough to thrust slowly, her vise-like cunt was not going to accept my full length all at once. Not yet anyway. Her face flushed, Myra intuitively knew this as well, as she gasped at me, her cunt churning on my shaft to entice entry. "My pussy is only about eight inches deep, so I'm not sure this will fit all the way."