Nooner

James Webb—we just called him Webb around the office—worked on our engineering team. I'd have put him in his early thirties. He was medium-to-tall, slim, light sandy haired, and cordial enough, the kind of guy an engineering student like myself found easy talking to professionally.

I worked in XYZ Corporation's experimental shop that summer, having come to Davis City halfway across the country at their invitation because they licensed an invention I'd patented and wanted help in the experimental shop readying it for the market. Three months summer work and an expense-paid, extended driving vacation to a new part of the country promised a welcome adventure before I headed back to college for my junior year.

Davis City was a misnomer, at least if you consider a Mid-west community of 6000 a town rather than a city. But every small town has big city aspirations, right? Out there in its wide valley, Davis City had plenty of room to grow, that was for sure. Over its hundred-fifty years it had sprawled some, but unlike many, hadn't died at its core. The lazy river through its center, and Lake Davis—a nicely landscaped, hundred acre gravel pit, really—within the city limits provided focal points for family picnics, the annual E. M. Davis Day celebration, and the few tourists who might venture twenty miles up a going nowhere road from the interstate.

Webb always worked on projects different from those to which I was assigned in the experimental shop. Mostly I only had to do with him during the office's morning break, which the engineers, the office staff, and shop staff always took together. I was the only outsider, but you'd have never known I was non-local from the way everyone welcomed me in. Once the fellows just out of high school discovered I drove a car considered hot for its time, the would-be drag racers and NASCAR fans chummied right up, and we got along fine. The older office folks accepted me right off, too, I suppose that's because small town folks are pretty much small town folks no matter where you go. Within the second month I got two Saturday dinner invitations from families with eligible daughters.

Other than morning break, I saw little of Webb except when he dashed in through the shop at starting time, then dashed out again right at quitting. Apparently he lived close by; I gathered this from the good natured another quickie, Webb? he endured each noon from Jerry, the experimental shop clown. Maybe it was only joys of family that put that smile on Webb's face when he returned, and that anticipatory look on his face each time he left.

He played it pretty cool, considering everyone in the shop and office was either related to him or had attended school with him. His wife was local, so everyone knew her, too. Her cousin, who lived with them, came from some place too far away to matter.

I bumped into Webb, his wife, and his cousin-in-law one evening at the Davis Center Market, the only time I saw them together. I spent most of that meeting with my eye on the cousin—of course trying not to be too much the lecher. Tall, slim, brunette, poised, gorgeous, even without flirt on her part. Although not overdone, if she wasn't a model, she'd missed her calling.

Thinking back, so had Webb's wife.

***

"We all ready?" Julie Miles asked her cousin.

Elsie Webb flipped the comb through her shoulder-length, dark hair and stared at herself in the mirror. "Showtime," she whispered.

Julie felt growing apprehension every weekday at 12:07, and today presented no exception. How could she keep up with her cousin? After all, the man for whom they both waited was Elsie's husband. Julie had no claim on him. She looked down, said a silent prayer, and sucked in her non-existent belly. He was so good! Good to Elsie, good to her, and good compared to that turkey Julie had divorced four years ago.

Yes, that was Frank. How could she have been stupid enough to marry him? Julie had done all the work while he loafed. She often shook her head when she thought about that whole situation. Sure, he had a handsome build, but it did her no good for protection. Instead, she needed protection from him. Her protection came in the form of packing her bags one morning as he lay dead drunk in the bed she'd bought, asleep in his unearned lover's slumber. Her face healed up pretty well during the bus trip halfway across the country to take refuge with her cousin and her husband in Davis City.

"I heard Webb's car," Elsie said, her voice pinched by anticipation and girlish enthusiasm.

Julie nodded. Yes, she knew that sound by heart. She just hoped she looked as good as he deserved. God, her knees felt wobbly! Maybe she shouldn't have worn her cousin's stilettoes, but to be complete, her bustier costume required them.

Both women looked up as footsteps on the wooden porch said someone had arrived. As she held back, Julie prayed those were Webb's footsteps. She looked toward Elsie, to see her fidgeting, too.

The front door opened.

"Anybody home?" Webb called as the door closed behind him.

"Go!" Elsie said emphatically. "Go get him!"

Julie shivered. Now or never, she thought. She put on her best stroll and met him as he rounded the corner into the bedroom hallway.

"Hi, Webbie," she said as she stood as tall as those heels allowed. "Good morning at work?" With that she kissed him on the cheek.

"Always good after a morning wake-up with you."

"Not with Elsie?"

"Always good with either of you ... or both."

"Good. Now you come on back here. Elsie's waiting for you, too. Only an hour off for lunch today, too, right? So let's not dilly-dally."

He shook his head. "I gotta be the luckiest guy in the world," he said, sounding as if he intended only himself to hear.

Elsie met him as soon as Julie led him into their bedroom. Their bedroom it was, Julie thought. And their bed. She'd helped Elsie pick it out one afternoon three weeks after she arrived from her bus trip, met her at the station, and gotten re-acquainted with her cousin. This husband of Elsie's was gorgeous, smart, too, and an all-around gentleman who knew how to treat women. Nothing flashy about him; only action where and when it mattered.

Like here he was now, home from work at noon in spite of everything else he might have found to do. She wanted him more than she'd ever wanted anyone.

"Honey?" Elsie said to Webb, almost in a whisper.

He nodded, his eyebrows lifted.

"Who you want first?"

"Can't I have you both?" He said as he slipped off his clothes with Julie's help.

"Oh, that's sweet. But I mean, whose pussy lovin' you want first?"

"You got the straws? Draw for it." By now he lay stretched out on their huge bed. Julie jerked open the nightstand's drawer and held up an empty coffee mug with two paper drinking straws sticking out the top.

"You draw, Elsie. He's your husband."

"He's your cousin in law. You draw ... or let him." Elsie pointed in Webb's direction.

He pointed back. "You two decide."

"We can't. We both want you so much."

"Oh, all right, then." He reached toward Julie, snatched one slip from the glass, and read it. "Says here BOTH, with Elsie first."

"Oh, you wonderful liar! You just said that because you're my husband and you think I should get preference. Isn't he wonderful, Julie? Well, time's a-wastin.' Stay there on your back, Honey, and remind me why I married you."

Elsie clambered unceremoniously onto the bed and sat splayed on him with her back to his knees. She picked up his erect penis and slipped it slowly between her lips, then into herself, oscillating her buttocks in a circle as she did so.

"Oh—you—are—so—good—Baby!" she moaned.

"And you're one of the two best nooners a man ever had."

"And we're going to keep it that way, right Julie? Climb up there and sit on his face. He's even better down here when you do that. You'll make her come with your tongue, won't you, Honey? We both love it lots when you do that."

Julie scrambled onto him and sat on his chest, then scooted forward and settled her mound over his mouth so he'd be able to lick her clit as well as her pussy lips. Damn, he was good at that! Hell, he was good at everything! She knew it, Elsie knew it, and if he didn't, she and her cousin damn-well better clue him in post-haste!

***

"Almost late again?" Jerry chided as Webb rushed back through the shop that noon hour. "One minute to go!" he said, glancing sarcastically at the master clock

Sometimes we kidded around, calling the straight path from the shop's rear door to the office door Webb's Race Track. The general consensus was: Don't set up your project in Webb's Track or you'll get trampled.

Webb only smiled, as he usually did. Being a young male, I could only speculate as to what put that expression on his face, but hoped some day I'd be lucky enough to find out. One thing for certain: If I ever enter politics, I'm sponsoring laws making lunch two hours long. An expression like Webb's deserved to last more than sixty minutes.