Rule Number Three

When you first approach the house from this direction, you have no idea what to expect up ahead. It could be a mansion, or it could be an eccentric gardener's shack. I prefer the mansion, and so did Amanda when she saw it.

"Holy cow! This is your place?" she asked as we came to the back door.

"Yep, all mine," I agreed.

"And you bought it yourself? I mean, it wasn't given to you by your rich parents or a dead uncle or anything?"

"That's right, Little Miss Nosy," I laughed.

I walked us through the large solarium with it's magnificent windows and massive skylights into the main house. She gaped at the huge living room filled with antiques of all sorts, slowing to admire a particularly nice bronze of a mare and her newborn foal given to my grandparents back in the 1930s.

We cut past the formal dining room, ending up in the kitchen, where I poured a bowl of water for Benji and offered a bottle of spring water to Amanda. I showed her to a seat overlooking over a small courtyard complete with a bronze statuary fountain by Rodin. She was stunned to know that it was an original.

"Would you like to hear the history of this house?"

I had taken a seat across from her and I couldn't help noticing how her eyes kept straying to my legs. I was still wearing my silk running shorts and they didn't cover much territory, especially compared to the overly long shorts which were the fashion of the day. I didn't think she heard me, so I asked again if she'd like to know more about my home.

"Sure!" she replied, aware that she had missed something and trying to cover it with acting distracted by Benji. She looked up at me and I wiggled an eyebrow at her, causing her to blush.

"It was built in 1936, in the midst of the Depression by a 53 year old man named Hargill who was making a fortune in citrus and cattle. His main house was up in Central Florida, near Orlando, but he wanted a place where he could pursue his passions, which were fishing, and bringing into his bed a variety of young mistresses, some no older than you."

I paused to see how Amanda would react to such a tale. She looked amused, but not particularly surprised or offended.

"...Or so the story goes, anyway," I continued. "Old Man Hargill would fly himself down in a little two seater equipped with floats for water landings a couple of times a year, and have his babe of the season travel down by train from wherever she was from – Philadelphia, New York or Boston being the cities that first come to mind since he sold so much of his beef and citrus to vendors in those markets.

They would shack up here for a few weeks, then he'd send her home and he would fly himself back to his wife. The story also goes that she was well aware of his infidelities but put up with them knowing that they were minor flings and no real threat to their marriage.

"Now that's what I call knowing where you're bread is buttered," I added with a laugh. "His old lady had a good thing going, and she was smart enough to let him indulge in his little adventures. Hell, maybe she was doing the same when he was away!"

Amanda merely shrugged, probably thinking that such a European view of marriage was immoral. I shrugged back at her and returned to my description of the house.

"The house walls are made from brick, with cypress interior framework, covered in Italian plaster and stucco. The marble floors are from a quarry in north Georgia. The home has 14 foot ceilings throughout. It was originally built with 4 bedrooms, not including the master suite, with 4 bathrooms.

"Since then the solarium has been added, along with central air conditioning and heating, which lowered the ceilings by two feet in all of the rooms except the living room, entry foyer and formal dining room. 2 more bathrooms were added, which took away one of the bedrooms, and the kitchen was enlarged, adding another 400 square feet, bringing the total square footage to just under 5,400 square feet.

"The house has withstood 3 major hurricanes, although the solarium had to be rebuilt after Andrew. 2 people have been murdered in the house, both in the library, but at different times. President Nixon stayed here once, as did Henry Ford, Thomas Edison and Walt Disney, all guests of the owners of the time.

"After the citrus baron sold it, it was owned by a movie mogul who tried to make Miami the Hollywood of the east, which never came to pass. Then it was on the market for several years before being bought by a wealthy industrialist from Cleveland who retired here with his wife. They owned it until 1983, and dumped it when south Florida opened her doors to the Cuban refugees. They were afraid that the quality of life would suffer, so they sold it to -- guess who? Latino drug dealers. Actually part of the Cali cartel of Colombia.

"These guys would park their mule boats right out back and unload bales of marijuana and cocaine through the shed and into vans parked in the driveway out back. One of those hoods was the first killed inside the house. The Feds busted up the party, and the house was vacant for another six years until the people I bought it from came in, cleaned it up and got it back to its original grandeur.

"Then the wife came home one night, took a gun from her purse and shot her husband right through his eye as he was watching television. She thought she had seen him acting cozy with another woman that day, but it turned out to be his brother who had just arrived hours earlier with his new wife. She saw the two of them walking through the Lincoln Mall, holding hands, and had a breakdown. She drove around for a few hours, came home and shot the poor bastard as he was watching Jeopardy. The funny thing was, he and his brother looked nothing alike. She was obviously slipping some gears --- Alzheimer's probably --- and that, as they say, was that.

"I bought the house from her estate for a steal and am fixing it up a little here and there. When the market is right I'll sell it and do the same thing again somewhere else."

"Wow," Amanda said, looking around at the beautiful house. "Each owner had such an interesting story.... So what's yours?"

"It's still being written, but for a start I guess you could say that the current owner made his fortune by inventing a glue made from a barnacle's foot. Next, he invented a building material from a plant fiber."

"And then what?" she asked brightly.

"I'm not sure, but it will still have to do with plants and agriculture in some way. Maybe trying to find a way to communicate with them. Find out more of their secrets...."

"I like finding out secrets, too," she enthused. "But communicating with plants?"

I shrugged and smiled at her, giving her an expression which said why not?

"And then what?" she asked brightly.

"I'm not sure, but it will still have to do with plants and agriculture in some way. Maybe trying to find a way to communicate with them. Find out more of their secrets...."

"I like finding out secrets, too," she enthused. "But communicating with plants?"

I shrugged and smiled at her, giving her an expression which said why not?

She shook her head and laughed. "Boy, did I ever figure you wrong! I mean, look at you. Like I said earlier, you've got the tall, dark and handsome thing going like nobody's business, and here you are kind of a nerd, if you don't mind that description. Nerds are cool. They are the ones who keep the world going. Like inventors, software writers and bumbling scientists out in the jungle with their pith helmets," her tone conveying humor and not a put-down directed at me.

"And frustrated sculptors who jump to wrong conclusions, but are sweet nonetheless," I added, making her blush. My God, but she was attractive! "Artists are pretty nerdy, too. If they're not too hung up on their image of being avant-garde."

We both laughed at the image, and I got up to go shower. "If Benji needs to pee, please let him out into the courtyard here, but not in back where all my plants are. Dog urine kills most stuff, but I could care less about the lawn. You are welcome to explore the house, but if you do want to go outside, the only door that won't set off the alarm is the one to the courtyard. I have it rigged that way because there's no way into the courtyard from outside the house. It's completely enclosed by the structure."

She nodded obediently, looking over at the double French doors leading to the fountain.

"If the phone rings, please don't answer it. I have it set to go to my computer's answering machine. If anyone comes to the front gate, use the intercom to call me, or just come back and holler at me. My bedroom is all the way down that hallway," I said, pointing to the one on the far side of the massive living room, "on the right side. If I'm in the shower, holler louder. The book about Frederick Hart is in the library over there," I said pointing to a room off the main hall. "It's in the bookcase facing the fireplace, middle shelf. There are other books on art in that same section, so have a look around if you want."

"Hey," she called as I was halfway through the living room. "Thanks for letting me invite myself over."

"Sure," I replied with a smile. "I'll be out in just a minute or two."

I stripped off my shirt as I walked away, knowing she would be watching. I don't spend an inordinate time in a gym, thanks to good genetics, but I will admit to pushing some weights a couple of times a week as an addition to my cardio work, all necessary to stay healthy, along with a balanced diet. I had vowed from the time I was eleven years old to never become one more fat and lazy American, having noticed in my travels to other lands that the people of the United States are by far the most unhealthy looking in the world, save those dying from starvation or disease.

I did a quick check for messages on my computer, then switched the view on the monitor to a multi-pane view from my security cameras mounted inconspicuously throughout the house. I watched Amanda for a moment as she strolled through the living room, looking at the artwork hanging on the walls or inside elegant curio cabinets. She went into the library next, looking at the titles and trying out one of the overstuffed leather chairs in front of the fireplace. Next she peeked in at the formal dining room, before heading down the back hall toward the bedrooms at the opposite end of the house from my master suite.

I shucked my running shorts and turned on the water in the shower, giving my body the once over in the bathroom mirrors. A model, huh? I chuckled to myself. It occurred to me that she probably thought I was gay, and that's why she felt safe coming to my home. This misconception was probably reinforced by the beauty of my home and how neat I keep it. Hey, I have a housekeeper, all right? And gardeners for the three sides of the house with the standard lawns, ornamental hedges and the like. But I live alone, so how much mess could there be? Yeah, OK, so I'm a neat freak. It all goes with an organized mind. Clutter wastes time, and that's one thing I value too much to waste energy on.

I left the bedroom's door open and the bath's as well, just in case. To say I was surprised to see Amanda sitting on my bed when I came out of the shower, naked as the day I was born, would be only partially true. I half suspected her curiosity might get the best of her. I had seen the way she had been looking at me, the way her eyes took in my physique, the way her hands lingered on my shoulders when she needed to hold on when we'd make a turn on the scooter, how she had glanced down on occasion to take in my strong legs, and even once I caught her casting a sidelong look at the bulge in my running shorts. Whether or not she thought I was gay, I knew she appreciated what I had going on; that "tall, dark and handsome thing".

I didn't pretend to be surprised, nor did I hurry to cover myself. I walked across the room toward her, beads of water still clinging to my back and legs. Sunlight poured in from the bay windows on one side of the room and from the small balcony on the other. She stared as if in awe, her eyes wide and her mouth partially open. As I approached she began to stiffen slightly, embarrassed now at both our boldness. She stood, and before she could say anything I bent down and kissed her, taking her shoulders in my hands, and then letting them slide down her arms. She resisted only slightly, then stepped in closer to me, wrapping her own arms around my waist, kissing me back with an intensity which startled both of us. We broke away, me laughing and she blushing once again. I was a good ten inches or more taller than Amanda, the top of her head barely coming to my pecs. She sat down on the bed while I remained standing only a few feet away.

"Hey, you said I could be as immodest as I want. So here I am."

"Yes, there you are..." she agreed, running her eyes up and down me lasciviously, as if devouring me, before they locked onto my own.

She licked her lips and slid off the bed and down onto her knees on the floor. I didn't need any coaching to get me over to her. My cock was even with her face, still hanging flaccid, the hair around it neatly trimmed and mowed down to a half inch in length. (I've always believed personal grooming down there is greatly appreciated by the ladies.)

Amanda seemed to agree as she reached under my schlong with one hand while running her other across my thigh, tracing with a finger my tan line and the musculature of my abdominals. She gently began licking the shaft of my dick, pulling back to watch it slowly become erect before commencing again. When it reached its maximum girth and length she looked up at me. Her eyes were soft and innocent, making her look much younger than eighteen.

Her hand encircled my cock at its base and she lifted it to expose my balls. Bending further over she tentatively ran her tongue across first one and then the other. When I gave a groan of pleasure she took one in her mouth and used her tongue to torture it, working her hand up and down the 8 inch length of my crank. She had the sweetest, softest mouth I've ever experienced; so gentle it was as if she was afraid something on me might break. It was exquisite.

My cock was hard as a steel rail, the circumcised head blown up like a balloon, with the blue veins running its length bulging from the blood being pumped as my brain became starved. I pulled her thick, long hair into a pony tail so I could watch her work.

Some chicks attack a cock, trying to get it to blow seed as quickly as possible, yanking and slurping and jerking and smacking it against their lips or gagging on it by shoving it deep down their throats. But not Amanda. She just kept a slow, steady, highly erotic rhythm, cradling my dick on the body of her tongue as it went in and out, in and out. Her intent wasn't to get me to come, but to prolong my enjoyment for as long as possible.

She liked what she was doing, and didn't want it to end too quickly. She kept her eyes closed most of the time she was sucking me, and I loved looking at her long lashes and the way her cheeks hollowed out as she pulled back. Her mouth was extremely wet, yet she never slurped or made the blowjob feel sloppy. Every once in awhile she'd gaze up at me and allow me kind of a rapturous smile, as if there was no other place in the world she would rather be.

After ten minutes of this I began feeling my knees growing weak and the pressure building in my loins. It was hard not to thrust into her mouth as I got closer and closer to busting my nut, my dick craving more speed and more friction. But I resisted the temptation and let the pressure build slowly, so that when I finally released it was one of the most powerful orgasms I've ever felt. Amanda had been just steadily bobbing back and forth on my cock, gently cradling my balls and softly stroking them. My dick was deep in her mouth when the first shot of come spewed forth, but she kept right on going, milking me dry for spurt after spurt until I was groaning and grimacing.

As I pulled away from her a tiny trickle of come ran from the corner of her mouth. Looking straight into my eyes with her head tilted back she caught it with the tip of her tongue and held it there for me to see. Further on the back of her tongue was the rest of my love sauce, glimmering white against the deep pink surrounding it. Closing her eyes part way while keeping her head tilted back, Amanda swallowed, then blinked her eyes quickly a few times. I swear it was like she was waking up from a trance! She swallowed a couple of more times in quick succession, then stood up and hugged me.

"Thank you," she whispered into my chest. "I hope you don't think I'm some kind of slut or something. It's just...." She hesitated before starting again. "It's just that you're so beautiful. I knew the minute I saw you that I wanted to do this with you."

She leaned away, keeping our lower bodies pressed together, gazing up at me with a look I can only describe as adoration. I put a finger under her chin and pulled her up on tiptoe for a kiss. She only let me press my lips to hers before pulling away, acting suddenly shy.

"We can't do anything else, Chris. I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't have even done that, but I just couldn't help myself. I'm still a virgin, and I want to stay that way. I've only had one boyfriend, and I started giving him head once in a while just to keep him from pressuring me to go any further."

Yeah, like I believe that, I thought to myself. It's pretty unlikely that a girl who can honk bobo like that is still a virgin. Maybe she was the type who liked to submit to a dominant force, I suggested to myself. The way she sucked dick, all innocent and shy, she was probably the submissive type.

I pulled her to me roughly and kissed her hard, forcing her mouth open when she resisted by using a hand to squeeze her jaw. She whimpered in protest, but quit struggling. In one fluid motion I picked her up and threw her onto my bed, watching her expression for a clue. She looked terrified, but didn't try to fight me. I threw her sandals across the room. Then I unbuttoned the front closure of her ridiculous clown pants and pulled them down to her knees. Amanda's eyes were wide with shock as I worked her pants the rest of the way off. I turned so I was straddling her, my knees pressed tightly against her hips. Grabbing the tail of her billowy blouse, I pulled it up, making her arms reach over her head as I did. I forced her to sit up so I could get it all the way over her head, and while she was like that I unfastened the hasp of her bra, snatching it off her like it was an evil thing. I shoved her back down onto the pillows, and finally got a good look at what I had been wondering about since first meeting her two hours before.

Her body was the perfection that nature grants a select few. She had medium sized upturned breasts with nipples riding high; perky without being impertinent. Her aureoles were bright pink and the size of quarters. She had a slim waist and a flat belly. Not too much musculature showing, but no fat either, for which I was glad. She had flawless skin, the same pale color from head to toe. She had delicate feet, perfectly shaped calves, toned and well-rounded thighs, leading to her narrow hips. There wasn't a scar or bruise anywhere on her body. She was either an incredible healer, or had never been a rough and tumble girl. The translucence of her pale skin was such that I could make out the faint tracings of the arteries coursing her inner thighs. The panties she wore, now the only things she had on, were baby blue and pretty conservative, just like the rest of her. They even had little bows on the hips. I left them alone for the moment.

From the each corner of my big four poster king bed I pulled a restraining cuff; Amanda wasn't the first girl I'd played this game with. I favor surfboard leashes – the padded Velcro cuffs are easy to use and the vinyl cord is impossibly strong, allowing just enough stretch to give a measure hope to the person whose legs and arms are secured by them. Quick as a flash I had them on her, leaving her spread eagle and totally helpless.