Grain Dealer -or- Invitation Only

Chloe was tired: tired and lonely. She had been ten weeks away from home, and driven over ten thousand solo miles, every inch of it on the wrong side of the road. It was just when you thought you were used to it, to driving on the right for god's sake, that your guard dropped and you made some idiotic mistake that could kill you. She hadn't let her guard down yet, thank heavens. Yanks! They were related to her, back some centuries, so how the hell had they decided to drive on the right, anyhow?

And god-damn King George III for his infernal stupidity in letting this country slip away: one of the private Texas ranches she had visited was almost as big as England, certainly the size of Scotland at the very least!

She was so tired that for the last couple of weeks she hadn't even given a thought to this trip's extended lack of male companionship. Of course, it was a purely business trip, high-intensity, fast-paced, with no room whatever for adventuring. Even so, late last night after dinner she lay down in her hotel bed and idly toyed with herself, but it just wasn't there. Frustrated by the conflict between mental horniness and physical unresponsiveness, she stopped after a while.

To compensate, she took a long luxurious bath, did her nails, shaved her legs and pits, trimmed her bush. Even shaving her pussy-lips (a trait she'd learnt from Mother, to the great pleasure of most of her men) hadn't helped, although it usually set off her libido brilliantly.

She stood there in the awful fluorescent lighting and studied herself in the mirror for a long time after the shave. She knew she couldn't really see herself accurately, nobody does, but it was worth an occasional self-reminder that she really was a genuinely attractive woman.

Red-highlighted dark-brown hair. And she was in good shape: one of her personal vanities and sanity-helpers was an absolute insistence on staying only at hotels with spa and gym facilities... and USING them!

She had never quite made it to five feet: with her intervertebral disks decompressed after a good night's sleep, and if she took her deepest breath, and thought thick-scalp thoughts, she could almost make it... but not quite. Ninety-five pounds, sometimes ninety eight, depending on her period.

Still very slim-hipped: she liked that, hoped fervently that it would remain so. The problem was, her father had been adopted and there was no hint of a father's identity in the papers. So nobody knew anything about his genetics, therefore about half of her own.

But there was hope that supported this particular vanity: a sister twelve years her elder still had the shape she saw in the mirror. Keep fingers crossed! Bust, 34A, but nice nipples and areolas on symmetrical little hillocks, no worry about gravity's future effects here! A small, round face with slightly pointed chin, and utterly non-traditionally for a Brit, perfect teeth. Thank you Mum and Dad for those!

She had always had this perfect "no-sun-lots-of-fog" complexion, which was good since she had such fair skin. It was almost red-head skin, with a touch of duskiness to it, perhaps some Indian or Pakistani blood had sneaked into her lineage a few generations back. She toyed occasionally with the idea of a DNA analysis, but hadn't done it yet. Such leakage was not all that unusual in modern Britain.

Now, in the early dusk of the final work-day of the trip, finally, she was beginning to relax. She watched Glenn pour the wine he'd just retrieved from the fridge in the corner of the big conference room. A nice prosecco, she noticed: she was impressed. A good choice. Glenn. Nice name, very old-British in fact.

Glenn busied himself with the wine. He was a principal in this company, and did their large negotiations himself. Young for that, he seemed: she didn't know, guessed him at about 38, maybe forty. Attractive man, a runner, good shape, that much she DID know.

The office was on the 17th floor, part of the firm's huge corner suite, facing west and south, with a beautiful view over the ocean. Very posh. Floor to ceiling windows, and a conference table so big they called it the aircraft carrier. The remains of their late-afternoon lunch sat in the take-out containers at the far end of the carrier. She had a nice view over the desk, towards the western horizon: scattered high clouds promised a spectacular sunset.

She sighed internally: the USA was one of her two big annual trips, each over six weeks long, each composed of a nonstop string of intense dealings with ranchers, agribusinesses, grain dealers. It was exhausting, this business of spending long chunks of her life on three different continents every year.

She did the US in the northern-hemisphere autumn, buying futures on American grain to feed the British appetite for bread. The other trip was equally long, during the southern hemisphere autumn, down south. Mostly South Africa and Australia. Whatever the problems were here, in dealing with Americans from individual huge-landholding ranchers to big agribiz firms, she vastly preferred doing business, and how she was personally treated in the process, in America. Aussie men and their attitudes towards women churned her stomach.

At 33, Chloe was far and away the youngest chief buyer her own firm had ever had. Not to mention the only woman ever to hold the job, in the largest, and one of the stodgiest, flour-milling firms in all of Great Britain. In that true bastion of male domination and testosterone, she had managed quite well.

She was smarter, more energetic, and better trained by far than the internal competition. Well versed and experienced in negotiations, personable, and perfectly willing to use her femininity and her tiny size to her advantage in a male-dominated business. It was fun, actually, watching the men fumble when faced with a woman. A 95-pound woman, pretty, young, well-dressed. She took no prisoners, and very few of her adversaries realized it until long afterwards. If ever.

Of course, there were some disadvantages: she would positively SCREAM, she thought, the next time some old-fart mid-western American farmer in his obligatory bib-overalls ("overhauls"!!) told her she was "...cute as a bee's knees, cute as a bug's ear, just knee-high to a grasshopper" or any of the other two-dozen bits of crapola that passed for conversational currency out on the Great Plains.

She accepted the glass of wine.

Glenn was a good person, seemed sensitive to her moods and to the moment. He said nothing, just raised his glass, they clinked, sipped. He didn't force-start a conversation. They sat side by side, looking at the strengthening sunset. Chloe was comfortable, and relaxing quickly.

The territory was familiar, for this was her third annual visit. She had arrived the first time, two years ago, in tow behind the man she had replaced. Old-fashioned Brit, skinny, tall, side-whiskers and honest-to-god bowler hat and rolled umbrella-cane. That, she decided, was his personal shtick, the little imbalancing that gave one an edge in bargaining. Her femininity and size were her own shtick. And My God!, she thought, the clumsy way he had propositioned her, half-way through the tour! He had been shocked when she turned him down, too. As if she had somehow insulted him, denied him his RIGHTS!

Then, on the second day of their negotiations here, Mr Bowler was hospitalized with a heart attack and she had consummated the negotiations on her own. The Bowler had retired after that, so she had by default become the "temporary, acting" chief buyer, a field promotion. She had done so well that despite the firm's anti-female bias they had made it permanent. And they were quite happy, now.

This-year's negotiations with Glenn's firm were over, the contract was now signed. The slender document meant half a million bushels (what an idiotic unit of measure!) of hard durum winter wheat from next year's harvest, to help feed the Midlands and London itself. Their two identical copies lay in identical folders at the far end of the carrier, beyond the little island that held the conference phone and miscellaneous office tools.

The carrier was arch-typically American, she thought: utterly practical: a whole secretarial desk-drawer in a relatively atrocious, ugly plastic holder, plonked down right in the middle of this huge, elegant, formal table. But they were right: through any conference, one always seemed to need staples or a ruler or scissors, and there they were, immediately to hand. Incongruous but sensible. Ultimately non-British!

The negotiations had gone smoothly and easily, as usual with Glenn. Actually, it was hard to characterize their dealings as "negotiations" at all, at least in the traditional sense. It was a very different process with him than with many others - no antagonism, much more a discussion of how to maximize each party's interests than a strident attempt to brow-beat one another into concessions. They both believed in simplicity and directness, win-win. Quantities, price, when and in what form and where money was to change hands, who did insurance, shipping, contingencies. One, two, three, four. Clear, concise. Pretty. Her bosses liked her contracts, because they understood them. Any eighth grader could. It was such a relief to deal that way!

They were now alone in the office. At five, when the staff left, they had still been deep into final details on the contract, one-on-one, no need for the hired help, so Glenn sent them on their ways to home and hearth or whatever.

Glenn was good company, too, and a capable, personable companion. Much more sophisticated and fun than most of her business mealtime companions, at least over here in the colonies. They had gone out to dinner on each visit: in year one, with old Bowler in tow. Glenn had been married back then, but it was uneasy and troubled. He'd been frank about that. Then last year, the pending divorce. He hadn't been happy at dinner that time, but was obviously relieved.

And while he was clearly attracted to her, he had made no untoward comment or action. She appreciated that. Business friends, a good arrangement.

Then yesterday, dinner again, year three. Divorce over and behind him. Much freer, much more personable out from under that burden. She understood: she had married at 17 (IDIOT! She scolded herself every time she thought of it!), divorced at 22, had no interest in repeating the sequence. At least, not yet. Certainly there were no ready candidates in view.

Glenn flattered her by saying how much he had been looking forward to the meeting, to her company. Flattery, yes, but sincere: she could tell. Any woman could.

She gazed out the window. She finally spoke: "I don't think I like that new building. Not at all."

The building was next-door: on her first visit the site had been a parking lot, then last year a hole in the ground. Yanks, and the speed with which they did things. No wonder they ruled the bloody world. "You say you have this square mile of bare dirt and you want a city on it? No problem, come back in six months, love." Bingo!

This time, the lot had become a completed, fully-sold-and-occupied thirty-story condo. This building and the newbie were close together, separated by an alleyway, perhaps, but not a real street. Nearly touching distance. The wind must really whistle through the little gap during a storm, she thought to herself. The floor-heights were perfectly matched, too: the towers rose in lock-step.

She studied the room across from them in the new structure: the curtains were drawn back, and it was obviously someone's bedroom. What a view they had, over there. Not even a supporting post where the two all-glass walls met at the corner. Expensive territory, you bet! At least, the new building didn't block the office's view of the ocean and sunset.

Glenn shrugged, and told her "We own this building, you know, so we had some discussions with that owner and his architect. That's why it at least doesn't get in the way of the view. Then we got the land between here and the shore rezoned, so the view won't ever be threatened again. Cost some money, though."

Then he said "Here!" He handed her a pair of binoculars from the secretary on the carrier. "We keep these here to watch planes and ships and sunsets. Best place in the city for that. Try them out."

She set her wine down, took the glasses, scanned the horizon for ships, watched briefly as the bottom edge of the solar disc peeped out from under a cloud. The world flared bright red-gold, beautiful. The light was searingly intense. Glenn stepped over to the wall, killed the overhead room-lights.

"This is my favorite time of day in here. Better with no ceiling lights to reflect from the inside," he said.

Chloe just nodded.

Glenn refilled their glasses. As he did so, there was activity in the apartment. Lights came on. Then, moments later, a couple strode into view, stood at the window facing the sunset.

She and Glenn studied the couple. They were in running clothes, and their bodies glistened in the golden light. Sweaty. The man was big, probably six three or more, and strongly built. Good looking, with a startling, totally-bald head. Yul Brynner, Telly Savalas: it looked oddly good on him. Sexy, she thought.

The woman was tall, too, and statuesque, darkly blond, obviously large boobs strapped down with a jog-bra, long runner's legs. Chloe felt a twinge of jealousy: she'd always wanted to have a figure like that, and no amount of compliments from her men had completely squelched the feelings. Chloe gave the couple nicknames instantly in her mind: Yul and Blondie. The couple stood there, rapt, the man behind the woman, cradling her in his arms, pulling her close. He bent his face to nuzzle at the nape of her neck, and she slid her hands behind her, between them, and overtly fondled his crotch.

At that sight, an unexpected gust of raw, aching desire blew through Chloe like a squall at sea: if she had been a four-master, she would have been laid hard over on her beam ends, nearly capsized. Her entire belly churned, and she felt her juices flow.

Beside her, Glenn went "Hummmmmmmm ... interesting!" Then, moments later, "Nice looking couple, no?"

She glanced at him: he was as entranced as she. She giggled slightly and said "Yul and Blondie. That's who we have over there, don't you think?"

Glenn grinned and agreed: good names.

Even through the jog-bra Blondie's nipples were obvious, big, hard-aroused, proud. Yul cupped them in his hands, caressed them.

Chloe's mouth went dry, and her own breasts ached and tingled, rather like phantom pain. Then Blondie spun in Yul's hands, and they clinched. Wrapped in one another's arms, they made an even better-looking couple. Moments later, Blondie's hands were down inside Yul's shorts. Yul seemed to protest briefly, waved his hand at the wide-open window, made motions obviously indicating they should close the curtains.

Blondie looked carefully out through the window, her hands still busy. She stared so directly into the office window that both Glenn and Chloe thought they'd been seen. But no: Blondie shook her head, grinned up at Yul, said something long and apparently complex to him. Yul craned his neck, and then he, too, seemed to be looking right straight at Chloe and Glenn. Yul squinted mightily into the incredible glare, then grinned and shrugged, said something short and apparently cute, for they both laughed and immediately returned to kissing.

Moments later, Blondie did a slow-motion squat, running her tongue down Yul's centerline, and tugging his shorts down as she went. Yul's erect cock sprang up free, a hard red arch in the sunset-glow, broad-backed, heavily veined, and LONG! Blondie inhaled absolutely all of that impressive length as Yul shuffled his feet, trying to get them free of the shorts. Her nose bumped against Yul's pubes, into his bush, as the entire shaft disappeared down the tunnel of Blondie's throat. Chloe sighed. She had always wanted to be able to do that, never managed it. ("Not YET!" she commented to herself, thinking "...after all, there's lots of life left in which to practice.") But certainly NOT with a toy that size. Sometimes, size DID make a difference, didn't it?

Glenn sputtered loudly. Chloe turned slightly towards him, her own face flaming a deep red that was undetectable in the sunset's glow, and said "Dearie me! I do believe we've tapped a private line. That's impolite, isn't it? But you know, I don't think they even suspect that we're here... the glare from our windows must be absolutely blinding to them, the angles are almost perfect for that!" It embarrassed her as soon as she said it, the sentence was so nearly a plea to continue watching!

Glenn smiled quietly at her, nodded, and said "I bet you're right. Plus, it's way past business hours, so they're probably sure there isn't anyone over here. And they look adventuresome, don't they? Not to mention being attractive physically! Personally, I hope they don't close the curtains. I'm almost ashamed to say so, because I'm not really a voyeur, but this might be an interesting show. I've never watched. Not another couple, anyway. Although I do like mirrors..." Then, realizing what he was doing, he muttered, "That is, of course, we can play voyeur if you're at all interested. I didn't mean to be pushy or rude or anything, you know."

Chloe looked sideways at him: Glenn's touch of embarrassment intrigued her, made him actually cute for the moment. Her mind was ticking away silently, weighing things. It wasn't a very conscious process. After a moment, she said quietly, looking straight into Glenn's eyes, "Neither have I. Watched others making love, that is. You're quite right, it might be interesting... if they don't figure out that they're on stage. Which I'm sure they will, eventually, won't they? So... I'm game if you are. That is, IF you have another bottle of this prosecco, and IF we can go out to dinner afterwards. Besides, who knows, we might learn something!"

Glenn held her gaze unflinching, and eventually said in a near whisper, "Wine we have. Dinner is not a problem - in fact, I've been hoping all day for a chance to issue an invitation. You're on, Miss Brit!" He strode over to the fridge for a new bottle, then locked the office door on his way back.

Chloe didn't notice: she had the binoculars up and zoomed them in so that her entire field of view was full of mouth and cock. It was a whole new experience for her, and far more arousing than she would ever have thought likely. Hidden things in her: how interesting! She didn't even glance down as Glenn opened the new bottle and refilled the glasses.

Glenn stood there beside her chair, bottle in hand, watching with her. Each could feel the other's body heat. Neither looked at the other, neither said a word, for some time. Across the way, long slow strokes.

Eventually Chloe muttered, "Circumcised, he is. That's nice."

Glenn was just as preoccupied as she, and replied without thinking, "I couldn't tell, not from here. Binoculars can be fun, no? Me, too, circumcised. I've always been glad of it. Interesting that you should say "that's nice", Chloe!"

She looked at him briefly, stuck out her tongue, said "Girl's entitled to her opinion. Or to her 'taste', so to speak, n'cest pas?" Then it was back to the binoculars, hiding from her own self-induced blushes. Internally, she was nearly appalled at herself. What the hell did she think she was doing, anyhow, making ribald comments to Glenn?

Even while Blondie worked on Yul, she was busy removing her own clothes: the shorts dropped, and the halter came off. Rather than miss a stroke, she pushed the bra down over her hips and stepped out of it. Something glittered in her navel, and Chloe focused in: an actual jewel, perhaps a diamond, in a gold navel-piercing. Cute. Wouldn't that HURT, though?