Vanessa

Okay, so this isn't Chapter Two of "Hook, Lie & Sinker". But this was a story that was bursting to be told, and I decided that, while I make sure that anything I write at this point in my "Hook" story series won't conflict with the major ending-points I've got in mind, I might as well take a little time and go in a slightly different direction.

I will say one thing in advance, however: In my opinion, Vanessa is a justifiable example of a Loving Wife (even though I've received plenty of comments that this genre is intended for cheating wives and their accepting – meekly or otherwise – husbands). For me, a "Loving Wife" is any woman who is going to look outside her committed relationship for sexual gratification; to that end, this story will be staying in the Loving Wives category…please don't bother writing to express any dissenting views on that point.

For the record, there's very little sex in this tale. What sex there is, while somewhat graphic, is there solely to show how deep the intimacy runs between the two main characters.

As always, I appreciate your feedback and, whenever possible, your encouragement as well.

-Ntropy586

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"These things happen for a reason."

"Time heals all wounds."

"There are plenty of fish in the sea."

I've got to be honest: I've heard these (and other) platitudes more times than I can count. My friends keep repeating things of this sort to me pretty much daily; strangers, upon hearing my story, do so as well. Perhaps they think that, through sheer repetition, things will somehow become less painful. But as I have never yet come across anyone who has been even remotely in my situation, I really have no idea if this sort of well-meaning "help" is effective. I don't want to belittle my friends; they've been a rock of support since well before I met Vanessa. I just don't want to hear another pithy line that's supposed to cheer me up, get my head straight, or put the nightmare that was my relationship with her completely from my mind. So why don't I tell you my tale, and see what your thoughts are….

First things first; my name is Robert Wagner. Yes, my parents were somewhat less than original, and I've had all sorts of fun growing up while "Hart to Hart" was on the air. I caught all sorts of grief from my classmates – and others – over my parents' decision, and learned early on how to at least give as good as I got; from trading verbal barbs to swapping punches and black eyes behind the school at the end of the day, it was one heck of an education! But as the years went by, and as I entered high school, these things ceased to be as much of a problem, and I was able to devote my attentions more toward my formal education instead. Oh sure, I was a typical teenage boy – I wanted to get a PhD in girls but, because I was a typical teenage boy, the reality of my skills with the ladies was far, far less impressive than the self-image I worked hard to convince myself to believe. I know I was grateful when Sally Morse and I put an end to my pesky virginity, but it wasn't because I was suave like Cary Grant; she thought I was kind of cute, and I made her laugh, and since we both were up for it, it sort of happened. Yeah, I know: a Hallmark moment, to be sure.

But by the time I graduated from Rochester High School and went to the University of Michigan, I had more than a rudimentary knowledge of the female form, and at least something a wee bit better than guesswork on how to please a woman…or so I thought. Let's just say that university life was a real eye-opener. I had dated (and slept with) a handful of girls before making my way to Ann Arbor, but it was during my time there that my education began in earnest. I pursued a finance degree (graduated Summa Cum Laude, thank you very much!) during the day, and pursued Emily Davis during the weekends. It was at her hands – no pun intended – that I discovered the most important facet of lovemaking: it's not about my pleasure, it's about giving that pleasure to my partner. Trust me, that's heady stuff for a 19 year-old kid to be grappling with!

But this isn't about my college years. So I'm going to leave there by saying that I did well, academically and socially and, upon receiving my degree, took a position with a multi-national bank. I was assigned to their offices in Phoenix, Arizona, and left the dubious joys of rain, sleet, snow, hail, ice and wind-chill temperature readings for 300+ days of sun. Oh yeah, I loved it. Don't for a second kid yourself on that account. My family soon became accustomed to the very infrequent visits from me, but made up for it with their trips to the Southwest to see me instead. I, in the meanwhile, had settled into my career and began putting in the long hours that were part and parcel of starting at the bottom end of that totem pole.

I met Vanessa one afternoon as I was coming out of the break room for my floor. She had popped down from where she worked, two floors above mine, to see a few of her friends, and I was immediately taken with her. Let me see if I can paint you a picture: Vanessa was about 5'4" tall, with deep, rich, dark brown hair that flowed to just past her shoulders. She was petite, almost pixie-like, in stature, with a face that had features so finely crafted that one might think Bernini himself was involved in the design. From her dark, chocolate-brown, almond-shaped eyes to the thin line that was the bridge of her nose, right down to the dimples that lined her generous (yet sensuous) mouth whenever she smiled, everything seemed to work to enhance every other part of her. I was enchanted, no doubt about it; yet I was also quite aware that the company I worked for took a very serious view upon anything that could even be remotely considered sexual harassment. So I did the only thing I could. I was friendly and polite, but left all the game-playing behind.

That's right. I didn't flirt with her. I didn't ask her out. I didn't do anything whatsoever that could be construed as putting her in a situation where my words and deeds could be thought of as even remotely sexual in nature. Somewhere along the way, we became friends. Her trips down to visit her friends on my floor slowly began to also include trips to see me and I returned the favor from time to time, heading up to her floor to have lunch, or even just stopping by her desk if I happened to be up there on business already. Sure it was hard at first, not giving in to those baser instincts that I'd relied on throughout high school and college; but I had my head on straight and kept my dick in my pants – both literally and metaphorically.

After several months, however, things again moved ahead. Lunches in our break rooms turned into going outside to grab a bite to eat at one of the bistros nearby, or even just taking our lunches and sitting out on a hillside and soaking up all that sunshine that Arizona is known for. Our conversations ranged all over the place and virtually no topic was taboo, though I didn't bring it into sexual areas even then. All in all, we were becoming fast friends, and I was finding that the battle between my hormones and my common sense wasn't such a difficult one. In fact, I had somehow managed to do to her what I'd experienced from women once or twice; I'd moved her into the "friend" category.

I'd pretty much come to the realization that I had a remarkably enchanting friend when fate stepped in and proved that I really wasn't the master of my own destiny (despite what they teach you in business school). Vanessa and I were enjoying a lunch of Mexican food at one of those places you just have to be a local to know about, when she hit me with a question.

"My mother had two tickets for Les Miserables on Friday night," Vanessa began, "but can't go and gave them to me. Would you be interested in going?"

I was stunned, absolutely speechless for a few moments. If someone had taken a picture of me at that precise instant, I have no doubt in my mind that I would have been the stereotypical image of that guy with his jaw hanging about a foot below the rest of his mouth, his eyes goggling with surprise. But to my credit, I recovered and recovered quickly. Closing my mouth, and trying my hardest to make sure that the look on my face didn't reflect the nearly-maniacal glee in my heart, I told her that I would be delighted to go. The rest of our lunch passed rather less eventfully, as we discussed the evening's schedule and what, if anything, we might wish to do before or after the performance.

For the remainder of the week I was on Cloud Nine. If I had a soundtrack that accompanied my daily existence, I'm certain that I'd have been sued by the Walt Disney corporation for swiping several of their more upbeat works. But for all that, I still rationalized things. Remember, she's a friend from work, I'd tell myself. She just asked you to go to a play with her, not go to bed with her, I also repeated.

The play was wonderful, and Vanessa's company was absolutely delightful. From the dinner we enjoyed before the show (thanks, Paul Flemming, for making our evening magical) to a cocktail at a great little underground jazz club in Tempe, our evening was magical. I was sorry that it had to end, and when it did I gave Vanessa a tender hug and let her into her house. That's right, no kiss. Hey, I'd seen what happened to those who made the mistake of thinking that it wasn't sexual harassment just because it wasn't business hours! I'd been invited to a play, had enjoyed it immensely, but at no point had either of us referred to it as a "date". Call me a coward if you will, but my appreciation for the credo of "who dares, wins" stopped well short of the line where I would risk my job.

Evidently, though, I had done something right that night, for the next weekend saw me spending time with Vanessa yet again. In fact, the following weeks contained more and more instances where she and I would be spending time with each other. From hiking the trails around the Phoenix Valley, or climbing Camelback Mountain, to even taking a leisurely stroll around Arizona State University's campus (if you've never been there, I recommend it; the architecture is amazing!), the two of us were sharing more of our "personal" time with each other…though you'd never know it to see the two of us at work. I was still very aware that I could be walking a very fine line, and didn't want to suddenly rush ahead and ruin a budding relationship, a wonderful friendship and possibly my career all at the same time.

Things finally came to a head, though, when Vanessa and I took a drive to the observation point at South Mountain, where the lights of Phoenix, as well as the rest of the valley, were spread out before us. As we sat there atop a low wall, Vanessa nestled into my arms, I suddenly found her turning toward me, our lips touching as she leaned in again for what was the start of many a passionate kiss. Perhaps I'm a romantic, but for me there was nothing else in the entire universe at that point. I took no notice of the view, saw no lights, heard no sounds, felt nothing whatsoever aside from Vanessa in my arms, her lips on mine, our tongues darting and dancing as we sampled each other after so long. Eventually we came back to reality, and our brief conversation put us firmly on a "dating" footing.

Dating Vanessa was something I was not entirely prepared for, though even now, looking back, I don't regret that part of our relationship a bit. We hadn't really discussed our private lives up to that point; however, I did know that she had two children from a previous marriage, and that her family was from the valley. As we moved forward, I began taking on a role within her family, and spending plenty of time with her two boys. Mark was eight years old, and rather precocious, while his little brother, Sam, was four (and rapidly approaching five). I also got to know her parents quite well. In fact, I soon was calling her mother, "Mom" within the first two weeks of our newly-expanded relationship, and her sister April (who lived in Tucson) and I seemed to hit it off on those rare occasions when she'd drive up to visit her family. From trips to the zoo, to movies at the local mega-plex, or even just playing in the backyard, I was loving the life that came with being a semi-surrogate father. The boys, while spending time with their biological father, seemed to bond with me…and I with them, as well.

Months went by, and our relationship continued to grow. Those times we could get for ourselves were cherished, and we actively explored each other. To that end, "Mom" was a godsend. For whatever reason, she'd considered me a member of the family from the moment I had been introduced, and took both Mark and Sam for an evening pretty much whenever we might ask. It led to a greatly heightened sense of intimacy between the two of us, and led to more than one memorable moment. To give you some idea of where we were as a couple, let me share this with you:

I had invited Vanessa and the boys to my condo for an afternoon of playing in the gigantic pool that the complex had opted to build. My "condo" had originally been designed as a luxury apartment, but due to the local demographics that market had failed to catch on. But by going condo, however, they had managed to sell the properties (and make back their investment), while still offering the amenities that had been planned-for from the get-go. For me, that meant access to a wonderful gym, a vast pool, sauna, and several hot tubs. For the kids, it meant an afternoon of playing until they were too tired to go on.

Vanessa and I took the exhausted children back to my place, where we put them to bed in my room. I'm a softy, I'll admit it; I stopped as I was closing the door to just enjoy the angelic look of peaceful exhaustion on their sleeping faces. Vanessa, however, had other ideas. As I closed the door and made my way down the hallway, she suddenly grabbed me and pushed me against the hallway wall. I was shocked, and pleasantly so, when she suddenly got this fierce look on her face and, grabbing the front of my shirt, looked deeply into my eyes and said, "fuck me, now!" just before she reached up on tiptoe and kissed me.

I didn't need to be told twice. Quickly bending down, I scooped her into my arms and carried her into my living room – the farthest point either of us could be from the boys, yet still be in the apartment with them. Laying her on the sofa, I began tracing kisses along the angle of her jaw, while my hands gently caressed their way down the front of her top, opening the bikini ties whenever they weren't teasing her body. Slowly, my hands inched their way from her shoulders to her breasts, exploring first the top, then the sides of her sensitive flesh, before tracing gentle circles inward to her already-aroused nipples. At each gasp of breath from her, I'd switch from gentle kisses to lightly nibbling whatever exposed area of flesh I happened to be in contact with at that moment. Back and forth, over and over, my hands seeming to act of their own will, while my lips, teeth and tongue kept stoking the fire within her.

Item by item, her clothes were rapidly becoming a small pile on my floor, and at long last I began my journey past her belly button. If she thought I had been teasing her before, I was positively Machiavellian in my exploration of her hips, legs, and (at long last) her now very-moist and sensitive pussy. Oh sure, there are those who will insist on calling it by its clinical term (vagina), or who want to take the vulgar approach and refer to it as a cunt; for me, that supremely enjoyable part of a woman has been – and will continue to be – a pussy. I've heard it called that by pretty much every woman I've been lucky enough to date, so you'll have to forgive me if the term seems trite. It's what I'm going to use, whether you like it or not.

Vanessa, by the time my tongue had finished tracing gentle circles down one leg, and back up the other, was clutching my hair and trying her hardest to guide my head (and that teasing tongue of mine) to her very aroused and positively leaking pussy. Allowing her to think she had accomplished her goal, I began tracing my way along her outer labia, lapping up those few juices which had managed to make their way that far as she squirmed under my previous oral onslaught. Up and down, again and again, coming close – tantalizingly close – to her clitoris, but always stopping just short of that hyper-sensitive bud. Pausing only long enough to take another quick breath, I then shifted my attention to her inner labia, lightly flicking that sensitive flesh as I made my way over each and every inch of exposed flesh before extending my tongue and dipping it as deeply as possible into her copiously-leaking pussy itself. Again and again, I approached her clit, leading her closer to her release before running by tongue back downward, into her honey pot…and occasionally dropping below even further, to gently tease and stimulate that small portion of skin between her pussy and ass.

Vanessa was climbing the walls, metaphorically speaking. On the one hand, I was doing my utmost to prolong her arousal, and to ensure that when she finally did reach her release, that it would be cataclysmic. On the other, she was (even then) very aware that her two young boys were out cold in a room no more than 30 feet away from us. Trying to keep her reactions as quiet as possible was providing yet another source of arousal for her. If you disagree, just try to NOT think of something, say a puppy, for example, for five minutes. The odds are, you've already thought of a puppy, just by trying not to!

But all good things must come to an end, and my slow build-up with Vanessa was reaching that point. Once again tracing my way upward toward her now quite distended clit, I continued upward, gently wrapping my lips around that engorged and positively hot portion of flesh. While my tongue darted around the outside of that tiny mass, and then along the ridge of it, my lips were providing suction and I began a gentle humming that had her quickly grabbing a pillow from the couch to cover as much of her head as possible with. It was the moment for which I had been waiting, because at that point I inserted my middle finger, rubbing along the front wall of her pussy…stimulating her G-spot. Her muffled moans became more strident, coming with greater frequency, and at last, when I felt her pussy beginning to contract on the finger now gently circling along her Graftenberg spot, I suddenly stopped licking, sucking and humming – and, lifting my head ever so slightly, blew a warm (yet forceful) breath onto her again-exposed clitoris.

Vanessa's hips arched off the couch, while her pussy did everything it could to drag the rest of my hand in to join the finger giving her so much pleasure. Her juices were flowing, and it was all I could do to lap up as much of them as I possibly could – no mean feat, considering just how much her body was thrashing around at that point! Eventually, her orgasm subsided, and after several minutes of my simply holding her, I stepped out of my trunks and gently lowered her onto my aching rod. Inch by inch, gravity drew her downward until we both were on the floor, seated, her atop me while her legs wrapped around my back. My legs were bent in front of me, as if for yoga, and by raising and lowering my knees, I provided the movement for the both of us. We were both in ecstasy at that point, and with the position we were in, our difference in height meant that we were face-to-face. There was plenty of kissing, but otherwise we had settled into a slow, gentle rhythm which led her to one orgasm after another.