Lunch

It's Just Lunch^®. It seemed like a good idea.

My name is Jack, I'm thirty-seven years old and my divorce was final seven months ago. It had been a difficult but satisfying seven months after thirteen years of marriage.

I began to have suspicions about a year earlier. Too many questions about when my tee time was and when I'd be back after playing. Too many questions about if I was working late or had work business travel. Too many unexplained unannounced outings to run errands or shopping trips without purchases. Too many mysterious phone calls while in the bathroom or hang ups when I answered the phone. Too many after shopping showers. And too many new pairs of unusually sexy panties and bras.

It cost me some cash but I hired a private investigator to either refute or confirm my suspicions. He was really good. It took him only five days to get pictures through an open window of my wife in a compromising embrace with a guy I recognized from her last holiday office party that we attended together.

When the investigator followed her to the same location two times in a row, he assumed that it was a regular stop for the amorous couple, so he rigged the room with a dozen cameras and sound recorders including several with amazing close up capabilities.

Twenty-four hours after my unfaithful wife's latest unsuccessful shopping trip, I had hours of video of her activities when she wasn't in the mall. Five days later, I had two more examples of her unfaithful meetings.

I filed for divorce two days later. She was served at work as was her co-worker who was named as a correspondent. She denied everything, of course but she moved out of the house when I changed the locks.

She counter sued for a minimum of half of everything we, or I, owned. I offered her car and clothing. She refused and we went to trial.

She denied everything. When I introduced evidence of her visiting the same location repeatedly, she insisted she had benign reasons for being there. So, I introduced the videos from inside the room, close ups and all.

The close up of her lying naked on her back with her legs up, spreading her labia with her fingers and her lover sliding into her in 4K was worthy of a professional porn movie. The accompanying stereo sound effects were icing on the cake. I'll never forget her standing up in the courtroom, tears streaming down her face and screaming, "Turn it off. Turn it off."

She got her clothes, her car, one half of our joint checking account and one third of my 401k. I got everything else, my car, the house, everything in it and the videos. The private investigator suggested I could sell the videos for enough cash to recover most of my losses. I refused but agreed he could try to monetize the videos. He agreed to split whatever money he made.

I haven't received anything yet. I don't know if he was unsuccessful or he lied to me. I really don't care. Nobody's mentioned identifying her on the internet and I haven't looked.

Anyway, It's Just Lunch^® had some appeal to me. I hadn't spent time with a woman in almost a year. I called them. When I learned it required a membership and guaranteed only one lunch a month that I had to pay for, I did the math. It came to about two hundred dollars a lunch. I hung up.

But the concept still appealed to me. But how to make it happen? I'd hadn't been on a date in over fifteen years. I had no idea how to meet women in the current climate. I knew one thing for certain. I couldn't just walk up to a woman in a bar and ask, "You wanna fuck?"

I checked out dating sites, from Tinder to SilverSingles. I tend to be conservative in my personal life and I concluded that I couldn't trust the profiles on any of them since I concluded most members were similar to me, seeking sex and, unlike me, willing to stretch the truth to find it.

I decided to try something else. I posted a message on our town's "What's happening" Facebook site.

"I'm interested in learning more about women's issues in our community. I'll finance lunch for someone who is willing to educate me."

I checked the web site almost hourly for the next dozen hours. Not a nibble.

I got a Facebook private message two days later.

"Lunch? Your place or mine?"

The wording was ambiguous enough that I was unsure of the meaning. Was she accepting my offer of lunch to discuss "women's issues" or had she decoded my intent? I didn't know.

I checked out her Facebook page. Her picture was appealing as I expected. Her posts were reasonable, without rancor or personal attacks. I took a chance. I messaged her.

"Lunch. Neutral location."

She messaged me her phone number and I called her.

She sounded even better on the phone. We talked for about ten minutes and settled on a time and place for lunch.

Still cautious since I still hadn't seen her except for her Facebook photo and that could be years old, I got to the restaurant early and sat at the bar waiting for her to arrive. I was pleasantly surprised that she looked exactly as her photo. Shoulder length dark hair, smooth skin and alive eyes. The rest of her was as well constructed as her face.

I let her be seated. I stood up, paid my bar tab and approached her table.

"Hi. Bree Ann?" I asked.

"I am," she replied. "And you're Jack?"

"I am," I replied.

"Have a seat," she offered.

A waitress brought us water and menus.

"So," said Bree Ann. "You're interested in local women's issues?"

"I am, Bree Ann," I responded.

"You can call me Bree," she replied. "And can I get right to the premise of this lunch?"

I tensed. I didn't know where she was going. "Sure," I said.

"I'm guessing that the 'women's issues' include how difficult it is for a thirties something, divorced woman to find a datable thirties something divorced man," she ventured.

I laughed. "Was I that transparent?" I asked.

"No. I'm just good at reading between the lines," Bree told me.

"It was only a two line post," I stated.

"I told you I was good," Bree laughed.

Her laughter was like musical bells. "And quick," I suggested.

"Not in everything I do," she insisted.

Unable to respond without sounding inappropriate, I said, "With that out of the way, why don't we have lunch and see what happens?"

"I'd like that," she said.

The waitress returned to take our orders. Bree ordered a broiled fish dish and white wine. I ordered a salad with shrimp and more white wine.

Our conversation was easy and fun. I laughed when she told me about her ex-teacher, ex-husband and his skirt chasing propensities and how he got caught, naked in the backseat of his car with a sixteen year old student.

Bree almost fell off her chair laughing when I described my ex's courtroom antics when she saw the videos my private detective had captured.

"Do you still have those videos?" she asked when she steadied herself.

"I have copies," I told her. "Do you want to see them?"

"Not yet," she answered flirtatiously.

The rest of lunch was immensely entertaining and informative. The conversation was littered with innuendos and double entendres. I caught most of them but, as a confirmed insecure male, I ignored them or pretended not to understand. I'm sure it bothered Bree since she seemed to be leading me in the direction I wanted to go but was afraid to pursue.

We parted friends. Outside the restaurant, we agreed on another meeting, dinner this time, and Bree gave me a hug and kiss on the cheek before leaving. I may not wash my shirt where her breasts pushed against my chest when she hugged me.

We met for dinner a week later on a Friday night. I choose an Italian restaurant with white table cloths, muted lighting and candles on the table. The service was superb, the food spectacular, the wine plentiful and the conversation intimate. Bree and I seemed to be firing on all cylinders.

After dinner, we stood in the parking lot. Neither of us wanted the evening to end. We held hands and wondered aloud about what was next. Bree wondered where we could find more wine, a hint about a comment I had made during dinner about the extensive wine collection I had at home.

Not wanting to leave her car at the restaurant overnight, Bree followed me to my home. She was very complementary about the atmosphere inside. She followed me into the kitchen where I selected a wine. Bree noticed the wine glasses behind a glass cabinet door. She grabbed two glasses and followed me back into the living room. I poured two generous glasses of wine and we sat on the sofa.

After the ease of the restaurant conversation, suddenly neither of us was very gregarious. I sensed a real sexual tension in the room. I got up and put some soft jazz on the stereo and sat next to her again.

Over the next several hours, we talked, we snuggled, we danced and shared a kiss or two. However, we were stuck on the final outcome. I think we both knew what we were headed for but I, who hadn't had sex in over a year and with serious concerns about encouraging a woman in a direction she may not want to go unless she made the first move and Bree, a traditional woman who believed the man must take the initiative, couldn't close the deal.

The hour drew late and, after a second bottle of wine, we grew giddy. "Look at the time," Bree commented. I should be getting home."

I didn't know if she was serious about leaving or prompting me to suggest an alternative. I took the latter path. "You really shouldn't drive in your condition," I said. Then I hesitated. "I could drive you home," I offered.

"You shouldn't drive either," commented Bree.

"You could stay the night," I offered and then I balked again. "I have a guest room upstairs, with its own bathroom. You could stay there."

"I don't have anything to sleep in," said Bree.

Was that another opening? I didn't know. Instead of taking the risk, I offered her a long t-shirt of mine that could serve as a nightgown.

Bree followed me into my bedroom to get the t-shirt. "This is very nice," she commented while testing the firmness of the king sized bed. I handed her the t-shirt. "I'm not sure this is long enough but it should serve in an emergency. Let me show you the guest room."

Bree followed me upstairs. I showed her the double bed in the guest room and the attached bathroom where I pointed out a collection of new toothbrushes and toothpaste she could use. I left her in the room, alone to do whatever she needed to do before going to bed.

Downstairs, I picked up the empty glassware and wine bottles, generally straightened things out and went into my bedroom. I brushed my teeth and relieved myself. Back in the bedroom, I stripped and put my clothing in the nearby clothes hamper. Since I usually slept naked, I just climbed into the bed prepared to sleep.

But sleep was difficult. I couldn't help thinking about Bree asleep upstairs and chastising myself for passing on so many opportunities that could have led to Bree sharing the bed with me.

I was lying under the covers on the bed when I heard something moving on the stairs. I lay still with my eyes half lidded as someone pushed the bedroom door open.

I could see Bree standing in the doorway lit from the back by the dim light of the moon shining through a nearby window. She was wearing my too short t-shirt that barely reached below the waist of the panties she was wearing.

I feigned sleep as she tip toed into the room. She moved around the end of the bed, pulled back the covers on the opposite side of the bed, slid into the bed and pulled up the covers. Somehow, just having her in the bed with me, calmed me and I fell asleep.

I woke several hours later and she was still there. I turned toward her and watched her breathing in her sleep. I reached out and touched her shoulder to prove she was really there and fell asleep again.

Dawn was breaking outside my bedroom window when I woke again. Bree was still there. She was lying on her side facing me with her head supported on one hand watching me. "Good morning," she said.

"Good morning," I echoed. "I didn't hear you come in."

"You were asleep and I decided to let you sleep," she said.

"Is it time to get up?" I asked.

"It is," Bree confirmed, "unless you were talking about getting out of bed."

I couldn't let her implication pass this time. "Bree, last night was the most ridiculous evening I can remember. We danced around each other to the point of insanity and we're starting again this morning. Bree," I emphasized, "I want you in my bed with me. I want to hold you close to me. I want to kiss you. I want to taste you. And I want to make love to you.

"And," I continued, "If you feel the same way we should meet back here after breakfast."

Bree laughed. "You just can't help yourself can you?" she said. "Even when you agree on what has to happen, you find a way to procrastinate. But, okay. We'll have breakfast and meet back here afterwards."

I smiled but didn't move. "What are you waiting for? Get up and get ready for breakfast. We both have to get ready. You go first. I'm not exactly dressed modestly enough right now."

When I still didn't move she said, "Wait. You're naked under there, aren't you? You sleep naked and you can't get out of bed without being embarrassed. Jack, you're incredible in a seductive way. I love it. Look, I'll pull the sheet over my head so I can't see you. You get up, grab what you need and head into the bathroom to make yourself presentable. I'll head upstairs to ready myself and we'll meet in the kitchen for breakfast."

Bree pulled the sheet over her head. I checked and got out of bed. I walked over to my dresser, grabbed a pair of briefs, a t-shirt and shorts and headed for the bathroom. I think Bree was peeking but I ignored her.

When I came out of the bathroom, Bree was sitting Lotus style on the edge of the bed waiting for me. The t-shirt barely reached her navel and her white panties were sheer enough to get my full attention.

"What?" I managed. "I thought you were going upstairs."

"I changed my mind," said Bree. "Jack, we've been dancing around the inevitable almost since the moment we met and I've decided that it ends here."

She watched me as I stood silently in front of her.

"Let me explain," she said. She took the bottom of the t-shirt on the sides and pulled it off over her head. I don't know where it landed. I was too busy absorbing the beauty of the nicest breasts I'd ever seen.

"Well?" asked Bree.

I couldn't talk so I pulled off my t-shirt.

"Yes," said Bree and she stood up in front of me.

I pushed my shorts down my legs and kicked them off.

Bree smiled, stepped forward and kissed me before stepping back again. She pushed her panties off and kicked them somewhere. Her pubic hair was trimmed to a perfect triangle pointing to the Promised Land. "You like what you see?" she asked. "I trimmed it just for you."

I nodded and licked my lips. I reached for the waistband of my briefs. "Let me do that," offered Bree.

She knelt in front of me and grabbed the sides of my underwear. I looked down. She was intently focused on what she was doing and what she might find. Her breasts were touching the front of my legs and I was envious that my legs got to touch her breasts before I did.

Bree slowly removed my briefs. My erection revealed itself in front of her face. I looked down to see if my erection met my expectations. It did and I shifted my gaze to watch Bree. She took my erection in one hand, kissed the tip and slid her mouth over it for a few seconds.

Then she stood up, threw her arms around my neck and kissed me. A kiss I would remember forever. I wrapped my arms around her and we fell on the bed laughing and kissing each other. I got to touch her breasts and kiss them too. We rolled around until Bree was on her back and I was between her legs. When I entered her it felt like I'd been holding my breath for a week.

Bree was experiencing something similar. Within seconds, she was shaking all over and the pressure was building within me as well. Less than a minute later, I was ejaculating inside her.

We clung together, neither of us wanting to separate. But the inevitable happened and I slid out of her. We lay together, sharing kisses. "I'm sorry," I said.

"For what?" asked Bree.

"Not a very impressive first performance," I said.

"Jack, "said Bree. "You're an idiot. That was the most incredible first performance ever. I can't imagine how it could have been better. My orgasm started almost before you were inside me and your orgasm brought tears to my eyes. Don't ever apologize to me again for loving me."

"But I came inside you," I stated.

"You did. I knew you would. I've been on birth control for over a week," explained Bree.

"You knew?" I asked. "You planned for this?"

"How could you miss that I planned for this. Almost everything I've said and done all night was hinting at exactly this," said Bree.

"I didn't miss it," I confessed. "I was afraid to push it in case I was misreading you."

"You weren't misreading me," announced Bree. "Here's the deal. Whenever we're together, wherever we are, you just tap me on the shoulder and we'll fuck. Capisce?"

"Wherever?" I stammered.

"Not literally, but I bet we can manage in some places that it wouldn't be expected," clarified Bree.

"I'm giddy with the possibilities," I said.

"I'd rather you be hard," laughed Bree.

"Breakfast?" I asked.

"If we come back here immediately afterward," stated Bree.

"I could bring breakfast here," I suggested.

"Things could get kinky with the jelly," commented Bree. "We'd better eat breakfast in the kitchen and save the rest for here."

I think I knew what she meant, but kept quiet and couldn't wait until breakfast was over.

Bree went home Sunday afternoon. Neither of us wanted her to go but she insisted that we both needed some rest since we had to go to work in the morning. She promised to be back Friday after work.

Her plan was only a suggestion. Tuesday evening, Bree rang my doorbell. She rushed in and kissed me. "I forgot to explain that shoulder tapping isn't only for you," she said. She tapped me on the shoulder.

She was back Thursday evening. Before she left, I gave her a key to the house so she didn't have to knock before she tapped.

Some evenings she was waiting for me before I got home.

After three weeks, Bree was getting philosophical. "This is ridiculous," she stated. "I'm spending more time here than at home. It's like I'm addicted to you. Every time you're inside me it feels like the first time and, if there's a cure, I don't want to know about it."

"There might be a solution," I said.

"A solution? Not a cure?" asked Bree.

"Not a cure," I confirmed. "I have plenty of room."

"Oh," mumbled Bree. "Are you hinting at something?"

"Was my hint not enough?"

"I could live with you?" asked Bree.

"Live with and more," I informed her.

"I accept," shouted Bree and began tearing off my clothes.

"Another first time?" I asked.

"The hundredth first time," Bree said.

Things worked out nicely. Bree's lease was up for renewal in a month and she canceled it. Except for some personal items and family heirlooms, she sold or donated most of the furnishings. She took over the empty dressers and half the walk in closet off the bedroom for her clothing. Over the first month, I watched with enjoyment as she rearranged things to her requirements, especially in the kitchen. It took me weeks to remember what drawer or cabinet the items I knew we had were now located.

Whenever and wherever became our joint mantra. We tapped each other on the shoulder often. Within the first month, we had sex in every room and closet in the house, including the garage. I swear Bree was looking for other venues.

We ate together, we slept together, we showered together and we managed our more personal bathroom duties without awkwardness. I knew every inch and crease of her body and visited them often. I touched and tasted her whenever we were together. Bree knew me just a well although she spent considerable time teasing my genitals with her mouth and tongue.