Guilty Pleasures Ch. 08

Welcome to my latest series, mashing up a few more tropes. This series turned out to be a crazy ride, so get ready for something that ends quite unlike it begins.

One thing you can be sure of, even though this is Literotica, and this story could easy veer off into... THERE, it does not in fact, go THERE. So either don't fear, or don't get your hopes up, whichever your preference.

Lastly, as always, I am not going for deep truths or gritty realism. The aim for me is a plausibly ridiculous course of events.

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Guilty Pleasures - Eight

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"Come on, Mon! It's obviously a freaking horse," Stan snapped at his wife when Peter called time.

We were at another couple's home this weekend for the neighborhood get-together, playing Pictionary.

"But, its legs are too..." Monica, his wife tried to counter.

"A horse! A horse! For the love of all... I said no to dog three times!" Stan almost yelled. "Can't you see, woman?"

The rest of us were quite uncomfortable, to say the least. It was not long after this that a break was mutually called for, and more drinks supplied. Not always the best medicine for a tense situation, but things did calm down. Stan went back to being a tool to other people, mostly other guys, instead of to his wife, and that was a lot more situation normal.

Yancey and I were both past masters of avoiding Stain, I mean, Stan, and we huddled together, outside of his current orbit.

Yancey was being his own brand of weird. I was leaving for Las Vegas Tuesday morning, and he wanted to talk about my trip. That was more than a little weird, because, well, I was taking his wife with me, for the express purpose of having as much crazy sex as we could squeeze into two days and two nights, midweek. And he knew that, because it had been his idea in the first place.

The fact that this was neither the weirdest or the most shameful thing I'd done that month told me a lot of what depths I had sunk to. At least the Vegas trip was arguably not shameful... I mean, it was nothing but fucking another man's wife for seventy-two hours straight.

"I haven't been to Las Vegas in years," Yancey said, manfully trying to enjoy the Budweiser that our hosts had not started chilling early enough in the day. "I need you to place three bets for me while you are out there."

"Three bets?"

"Yeah. I made those same three bets each time I've been. I never win, but it is tradition. And good things usually come after I do, so..."

"Superstition?"

"Superstition," he confirmed. "First time I placed them, I got a raise when I got home. Second time, we found the house we live in now. Fourth time, a relative I didn't know existed left me twelve grand when she died."

"Checks out," I agreed.

We then had a long wrangle about whether cabs or Ubers were better in Las Vegas these days, which was pointless since it had been at least five years for us either of us since we'd last been there. We talked about buffets. We talked about Blackjack and Craps.

What we did not talk about was Wanda. At all. The subtext, of course, was that she would be doing all this stuff, and lots more, with me. That was quite clear. But she was not mentioned.

"You really ought to go check out one of the topless revues," Yancey said. "Like X-Burlesque, or Fantasy down at the Luxor."

"You think... I should go to a casino sex revue?"

"A little clean, dirty fun never hurts. To kick things off, you know?" Yancey said, his voice just a touch strained. Yuck. This was Yancey's idea. This whole, larger thing was at his insistence! I did not need him getting flutterbyes. And Wanda and I did not need anything to kick things off. We kicked off quite nicely together whenever we were alone these days...

*

The next morning, I found myself, God help me, looking at reservations for X-Burlesque, which was closer to Caesar's than the Luxor was.

This was ridiculous. I picked up my phone and texted Wanda.

ME: Yancey is trying to get me to buy us tickets to a tittie show.

ME: Um, do I buy us tickets to, like X-Burlesque?

This was idiotic. But I was unsure on what the etiquette was about suggestions from a husband when you were taking his wife across state lines for immoral purposes...

WANDA: Fuck no!

Thank God.

WANDA: He told me his idea too. I already booked us for a show called Rouge. It has super buff, half-naked dudes to go with all the titties.

Her text was followed by no LOLs, no JKs, no Gotcha gifs... She was serious.

Apparently, we were going to a tittie show our first night in Las Vegas.

*

My Thursday workday always ended with a product design meeting, which was almost always a huge waste of time. They had been invaluable earlier in the process, but now they were a sort of zombie calendar event. A whole crowd of our top people wasted valuable workday hours in a room, each presenting an 'update' in turn with information that was usually not new at this point in the process, and which everyone knew already anyway. It was not a 'this meeting should have been an email' sort of situation, it was a 'this meeting shouldn't be happening at all' kind of thing.

But this meeting still happened anyway, every week, because no one quite wanted to be the one to suggest we kill it. And it would be critical once again later on when we spooled up the next design cycle. So I sat there, having wasted everyone's time already with my non-update, listening to Frida do the same with hers, all while trying not to notice too much that Thalia had bought a new suit that actually outright flattered her figure. Her figure that, yes, as I suspected, deserved some flattery.

Our president Thalia did, at least, run a tight ship during meetings. Trevor would let them go on forever if left to his own devices. He hated meetings, but could not stop himself, once one began, from exploring every rabbit hole he found. He and Thalia butted heads a fair amount, but one area where he especially valued her was the way she kept his meetings on point.

This week was particularly pointless, and Thalia had us done by 5:30. As was my habit, I left work at the end of the meeting.

I used that early departure to occasion my grocery shopping each week. My ex had always done that task while we were married and I wasted tons of food and made lots of emergency supplemental trips to the store when it first was just me, shopping for food on my own. Nowadays, I was a machine. I kept a record of my standardized kitchen and freezer inventory, and re-filled it as needed. I planned my meals, and added those specific requirements each time I hit the store. And yes, I always left myself a little time to wander and see what new products there might be for me to try. I had grown to like the grocery store.

I had felt like trying a different brand of hot dogs this time, and I was standing there with my hands full of wieners, looking back and forth between them, when I heard a merry voice. "That's a lot of hot dogs. Is that all a single guy eats?"

I looked up and saw Monica Ashburn leaning over a full cart. I had a momentary brush with a heart-attack when I saw a fresh pineapple in the upper basket of her cart. But it was sitting upright, thank God.

Yes, the upside-down pineapple in the grocery cart is a real thing. No, you won't get hit on every time. But you will get hit on a surprising amount. I guess the rest of America has a hidden sex life. It is not just me.

Still, considering her husband Stan, if Monica had her pineapple upside down, I'd have understood. And I'd have wished her luck.

But hers wasn't upside down.

"Gotta resupply for my daughter's hungry masses. I'm heading to the freezer section next for a new case of frozen burgers," I said, waving my hand over all the buns in my cart.

"Oh, that's right, your backyard 'kid-outs'," Monica remembered. Everyone knew about them. "You are a saint, Clark, cooking for and feeding that swarm all the time."

"Eh," I said dismissively. "It's just frozen hamburgers and hotdogs, soda, and... well, I should buy stock in Lays." I pondered the bags of Doritos and potato chips taking up a third of my cart glumly. "It's a small price to pay to see my college-student daughter on the regular. And honestly? She had good kids for friends."

I shied away from the fact that several of those friends had morphed into dangerous, shameful secrets. Also, I avoided the fact that I couldn't quite get up the moral fiber to hate myself over that transformation.

"It's entertaining," I finished lamely.

*

Sunday, Becca, who knew I was going to Las Vegas, but damned sure did not know who with, brought over a bigger gang than normal. Mary was back as a fixture after her brief banishment (exile?) (time in hiding?). Stephanie and yet another fucking cheerleader were there. And there were way more boys than usual that week.

I knew why, of course. The multiplicity of bikinis was only a side-benefit for most of these guys. The next week was the start of intern recruitment for the Fall. Most of these extra males had engineer's tans, which is to say, no tan at all. I lost track of how many times I gently slapped one or another of these supplemental dudes around about not putting sunscreen on.

I also took a lot of very surreptitious notes about these guys. I couldn't tell whether or not they had the necessary brains to fill our need, while in a setting like this, but I could tell a lot about their personality. There were a few that I thought might be pretty great. And more than a few that I did not want anywhere near my employees or any project I was working on, no matter if they were Steve Wozniak with circuits.

And of course, the fact that I had a Vegas trip coming up was discussed a lot. I ended up giving a half-hour tutorial on proper Blackjack strategy to about six guys. The four that instantly glommed onto the fact that it was a simple math problem got good marks in my secret book. The two that wanted to know where the fun was in using a rigid system like that, I internally struck off immediately.

Mostly though, I was left alone to my work, as was my want. I had more work than usual, because I was going to Las Vegas, and because I was typing up personnel reports.

And then Stephanie decided that she wanted her White Claw.

She came bouncing over, with the other cheerleader following. That girl remained standing, not sure why they had come over to talk to a fossil, but Stephanie seemed used to me by now and plopped down to sit on the chair facing me. She put her hands on the seat beside her pressed together legs and leaned forward with a brilliant smile. It was an innocent enough posture, in principal. But her shoulders hunched as she leaned toward me, along with her arms pressing in from the sides, squishing her considerable bust together and threatening to squeeze those mounds out of her bikini top like toothpaste from a tube.

Or at least that is what my diseased brain was hoping for in the moment.

"How ya'll doin' today, Mister Howard?" she chirped. "This is Bea," she added dismissively at her sidekick. No, to be fair, she wasn't being dismissive, she just seemed focused on me. "Do you have any new flavors for me this week?" she smiled, with a twinkle in her thirsty eye.

"I actually bought a Costco variety pack this week, Stephanie," I said, trying to pretend that the reason I was not looking her in the eyes was that I wanted to get back to my laptop. That was bullshit, of course. She had awesome tits, and they really did seem like they wanted to spill out. I was resigned to the fact that she had to be able to tell where I was looking, but maybe we could both keep it deniable.

"Oooh!" Stephanie giggled. "Mister Howard went and got me a selection!"

"You aren't the only 21 year-old who hangs out here," I scoffed. "And believe it or not, I also have friends my own age!"

"Wow!" she replied with wide eyes. "And they drink White Claw like little girls?"

Fuck. Were we flirting?

"White Claws?" Bea asked perking up.

"You aren't 21, Bea," Stephanie said, throwing her friend under the bus.

"What?"

"My house, the State's rules," I repeated my mantra to Bea. "Gotta be 21."

"You didn't have to rat me out, Stephanie!"

"He checks IDs, Bea," the slightly evil blonde said, twisting her body unnecessarily sinuously over to reach into my booze fridge and select a peach-flavored seltzer.

Yep. She was a bitch. Right? It made things easier, if I didn't like her.

Except she really wasn't being bitchy, I realized. She was brusque, but she had clearly just wanted to head things off from becoming uncomfortable for either Bea or me. Maybe one day, she would learn how to actually do that without making things worse. But today was not yet that day.

I looked uncomfortably at Bea. She looked back in at me in irritation, then flounced off toward the soda cooler, which I had taken to positioning far from me to reduce interruptions.

"Sorry, sir," Stephanie said quietly. "Bea can be a little prickly. She is so pretty, she thinks she should get whatever she wants."

Considering that the admittedly pretty Bea was at least an order of magnitude less attractive than Stephanie herself, that seemed like a fairly extraordinary statement...

Stephanie flipped her long blonde hair back over her shoulder and cracked open the can, apparently in no rush to return to the rest of the group. "Well thank you anyway, Mister Howard. I do appreciate it. Hey, this peach-flavor is good!"

I tilted the one beer I usually allow myself during these things toward her in a silent toast, and took a sip.

"How can you like beer?" she asked conversationally. "It tastes like ass to me."

What I should have said was, 'Language!'

What I did say was, "How would you know Stephanie? Have you ever tas...?" I cut myself off with a gurgle and hung my head.

"Mister Howard!" she exclaimed in mock horror. Then she bounced to her feet exactly like someone who has an actual athletic scholarship in... bouncing, and shoved my shoulder playfully. "You are bad!" And with that, she was off to chat with a group of people nearby which did not include Bea.

I looked away, only to see The Trinity, Carol, Mary, and Anne, all together and watching me and Stephanie with grins that I did not like. I looked at my watch. It was just less than an hour before I should start cooking.

"Becca!" I called out loud for my daughter.

"You rang, Daddy-O?" she replied, heading over my way.

"You are sous chef this weekend," I declared, not really wanting to work closely with any of her trio of disasters right now. Not after those looks.

"Oh, all right," Becca grumbled. "It's been a while. I guess it should be my turn."

"I guess it should," I laughed. "How many vegetarians do we have today? This is a big crowd."

"Um... six."

"Six? Wow," I mused. This could be a problem, with what I had on hand.

"And two are... vegans."

"Really?" I gestured to the grill, implying all the smells it would shortly be producing.

"They wanted to come," Becca shrugged. "I don't know what Jaime is thinking, but Freddy's a Boyfriend Vegan, and I think he actually wants the smells."

"A 'Boyfriend vegan'?"

"Yeah. His girlfriend is vegan, and he is trying it for her sake."

That girlfriend must be very good in bed...

"Okay, here's what I need you to do," I said, thinking fast. "Get me the cast iron grill from the kitchen cabinet. I can cook the eggplant and zucchini on that so the vegans won't get yucky charred meat on their food. Then... Look, you brought a big crowd kiddo," I said apologetically. "I'm going to need you to run to the store and get more produce. Get two more packs of these new hot dogs while you are at it. And check the soda situation before you go."

"Dad! I didn't drive today."

That was a new development.

"Then get your boyfriend, whatshisname," I said, indicating the current whatshisname in question, "to drive you."

"Dad!"

"No," I said softly, with an obviously evil smile. "You can take my truck." Becca hated the truck. "Leave him here with me. I've wanted to have a chance for a nice, uninterrupted chat."

"I'll get him to drive me, Dad."

Thought so. I might be helpless putty in the fingers of every other damned female I encounter, but I could still manipulate my own daughter, dammit!

Unfortunately, removing Becca from the equation meant that a minute after she and The Boy left, my three disasters all descended on me.

Hoo boy.

"What has you lot all giggly?" I asked suspiciously.

"Stephanie," chirped Mary.

"You two looked like you were getting along," Anne added smugly.

I rolled my eyes. After checking to make sure the Barbie in question was not in earshot, I leaned forward and asked in genuine inquiry, "Yeah, what the heck is going on there? She's been sweet to me lately because I let her have a drink, but today she was full on flirting with me."

"Um, I may have told her?" Mary said with a playful grin.

"And we may have confirmed it," Anne added, smiling.

"Told her what?" I asked, already despairing.

"That you think that she is too hot for her own good."

"And why, in God's name, did you feel the need to tell her that?"

"Just to put it in her head," Mary said smugly. "Stephanie likes to torment guys who are interested in her. I'm going to enjoy watching her go at you."

"We all are," Anne said. "Who knows, maybe you'll get lucky..."

"You girls are going to be the end of me," I practically whined.

"Relax, Mister Howard," Mary said. "Stephanie's really a nice girl, if an incurable flirt. She's just teasing you."

"Are you sure?"

"Probably."

*

I spent all day Monday making sure everybody at my job know I was taking a virtuously restorative vacation during the middle of the week to use up vacation time and become a better person... shit like that.

Toward the end of the day, Thalia came in to see me. Apparently, my decision to take the plunge and do a quickie vacation was already paying dividends. No rank and file, not even my own team, had put in yet to use vacation time, beyond requests already submitted for Thanksgiving and Christmas, but a few other managers had put in feelers just that day about short trips. Apparently the fact that I had not already been fired was convincing a few that this was not all some giant trap. The rank and file would follow, Thalia told me confidently.

When Thalia had entered my office, I had been woolgathering about Wanda. And about topless revues. And about our super-deluxe suite at Caesar's. And about what I wanted to do to and with Wanda in said suite.

This was something I needed to avoid in future when Thalia might drop in on me. Her new, still fairly conservative, set of business suits might not exactly show off her figure, but they sure as hell didn't hide it any more, either. I was becoming increasingly certain that her figure was much far more than merely adequate.

Getting a hard-on over Thalia would be a thousand foot capstone on my recent series of spectacularly bad choices...

Mercifully she left. I worked a little late to show I was still a team player, and to remind my own team that they better make me look good while I was gone, then went home, packed, ordered pizza, and binged six episodes of Friends before going to bed and not sleeping much.

*

I picked Wanda up at her house, about an hour after Yancey had left for work. We navigated the airport seamlessly, boarded the plane, and both promptly got on our laptops and did work for more than the first hour of our direct flight.

I had done too good of a job getting things settled before we left, and I closed my laptop. Wanda had closed hers a few minutes before. She looked at me.

"Looking forward to it?" she asked with a leer.