Kate Ch. 01


“Is there anything I can help you with, ma’am?” I said. She was good looking, certainly over 45 years old — how much over that would be hard to say, but certainly younger than I was. A pert nose, red lipstick, red curly hair that L’Oreal would term ‘bright auburn,’ slate eyes lit up within so much that they could be called silver. Below the generic tee-shirt were smallish bumps, definitely not more than a B cup, perhaps even smaller. Jeans, medium heels that brought her up to, perhaps, five feet six or seven. I noticed the lack of a wedding ring or other big jewel. Not bad, I thought, not bad at all for a sleepy Wednesday afternoon in January.

She looked me over, toe to hair, as thoroughly as I’d inspected her. She stared straight into my eyes. “Oh, there are things, yes, definitely.” I kept my eyes locked with hers, she gave up first. “I’m looking for a laptop for my friend.”

“I’ve got plenty of them,” gesturing to the two serpentines and one long shelf loaded with the devices. “What does she want to do with her computer?”

“He’s a guy.”

“Oh, sorry about that. So, what does he want to do?” We chatted about that, then she moved me on to other subjects. I certainly didn’t mind, chatting with her was better than dusting shelves. We got into whether or not she needed a new printer. She laughed gaily whenever I gave her a little joke, and then she put her hand on mine, perhaps accidentally, perhaps not, when I showed her where the SD card went into the slot. “Do you print out a lot of pictures?” I asked.

“More than I should, probably.”

“What are they of?”

“My friends, my dog, the travels I take.”

“Where do you like to go?”

“Florida, the Caribbean, any place that’s warm.”

“Don’t like this weather?” For the last few days, somebody had been shaking the snow globe, and there was a good seven inches on the grassy areas, and the mounds in the parking lot were nearly six feet high.

“Absolutely not,” she agreed, “although nights like we’re having can be nice if you want to stay by the fireplace.”

There wasn’t anyone around, particularly managers, and I didn’t think she’d mind, so I quizzed, “What do you do by the fireplace?”

“Oh,” she smiled, “sometimes I read, sometimes I watch TV, sometimes I romp around. Depends on the company I’m with. What do you like to do by a fireplace?”

“Drinking a hot toddy is always nice. Playing games.”

“What kind of games?”

“Board games, Wii, or, even better, the ones you make up as you go along.”

“Yeah, I like those, too,” she agreed.

The sales manager roamed in the next aisle, we went back to the professed objective of the meeting, I gave her the specs of the two or three computers she’d been looking at, filled her in on the details of the setup service and protection plans. “If there’s anything else I can help you with, just let me know. I’m Adam.”

“I’m Kate. I’ll be back. I promise.” With a delicate finger, she poked me in the chest.

As she walked from me, I touched her on the arm. “I’ll be disappointed if you don’t come back.”

“Oh, count on it.”

These things happen at an electronics retailer. It wasn’t the first time in my four years at the store I’d flirted, or been flirted with. The other times nothing happened, for I was loath to pursue the prey too far. I was still a few years from retirement, and I was working full time not for the money — I’d socked it away fairly well when I was working for a living — but for the health care. Paying for it before Medicare kicked in four years from now would drain my 401K pretty severely, and if I got fired for making advances toward customers, it would hurt my finances.

I daydreamt about Kate for a couple of nights, her smile and eyes coming to me in my fantasies. Other than her name, though, I didn’t have the slightest idea of how to reach her. Three days later, somebody else flirted with me, and I forgot about Kate.

Then came a Saturday afternoon shift ten days later. It was mildly busy, time was going fast, and while I was taking care of one customer, another guy caught my eye. “I’ll be with you as soon as I’m done,” I promised. I finished up with them rather quickly, then looked for the short, mildly pudgy, bald-headed fellow. I found him standing by the laptops, looking at (surprise) the lowest cost computer. “Do you think this will do the job?”

“Depends on what the job is.” Just then I felt a prod in my back. Turning around, there was Kate. “Oh, hello!”

“Hi. See you found Rich.”

“I guess I did. You’re Rich?”

He blandly admitted the coincidence. As the three of us chatted about his computer needs, I came to the discernment that Kate and Rich were a couple. An old Joe Jackson song came to mind. ‘Is she really going out with him? Escort Pendik / Is she really going to take him home tonight?’

Rich answered my questions and responded to my suggestions in a tedious monotone, Kate was boisterous and all over the place, interrupting my smooth sales pitch continually. “What about the little things over there? They’re cute!”

“Those are netbooks. Excellent machines, if all you want to do is get on the internet and check email. Not much good for anything more.”

“Maybe I should get one. I could put it in my purse.”

“Maybe. Here’s what I use.” I reached into the pockets of my khaki, got my iTouch out, jumped on my browser.

“I’ve got one of those,” she admitted. “Maybe you could explain a few things for me.”

“Sure.” Rich just stood there with a vacuous expression, apparently he was used to his girl friend jumping in on his personal space.

After three or four minutes, we moved over to the iPod docks, and I put her Touch on one. Surprisingly, there was a total of only twelve songs on it. “You’re into repetition, I take?”

“Not really, I like a lot of variety.” The sparkle in her eye alerted me that she might not be talking of music. “But I just got it for Christmas, and don’t know how to get all those songs on.”

“It’s easy.”

“Yeah, but it’s always fun to have someone help you with the ropes, isn’t it?’ A little wink. “Maybe you could help me sometime.” At this, Rich just gave her a look that could be interpreted, ‘oh, that old line again.’

Eventually, we went back to computers, and Rich picked out a computer that fit his needs. For whatever reason, he wanted to think about it some more, so I gave him the information and wished them well. As she left, Kate said, “See you soon,” and poked me in the arm.

“I can only hope.”


Less than a week later, I was sitting in the Panera Bread before work, working on my laptop. “Hey, it’s you!” Kate said.

“So it is. Sit down. How are you?”

“Fine. What are you doing?”


“Writing what?”

It was quiet in my corner, no one could eavesdrop easily. “Erotic stories,” I admitted.

“Nah,” she denied.

“Really. Want to read it?”

“Sure.” I turned the laptop to her.

previously been harmlessly on her arm now went to her midriff and a finger snuck through the border of her blouse onto the bare skin below.

Tracey didn’t complain. In fact, she bent her head back to a position where Paul could kiss her if he bent over slightly, and this he did. Tenderly, their lips met and the tongues touched, exploring then drawing back for another flick. Paul’s hand continued the expedition, and he unloosed one button so he could put his entire palm inside the blouse. As they continued to kiss, a finger made contact with the bottom of her bra and he traced the edge from one rib to the other. Since she failed to protest the intrusion, he became emboldened and the finger traveled up the valley between her breasts and traced the top of the bra. As his curled digits continued the investigation of the bare skin above her underwear, his wrist smoothly brushed the mound of her breast.

Tracey was fully aware, of course, of the intrusion, and while her brain was screaming, ‘You can’t do this!’ another part of her was lazing in the attention, relishing the heat rising from her innards. If she made no effort to halt Paul, she also, other than the continuing kiss, failed

“Well, that’s not bad. Can I read the rest?”

“After I’m finished with it.”

“When will that be?”

“Who knows? It’s more of a hobby with me than a profession. Although I’ve been published.”


“Yeah. Ezines mostly. Twice I’ve had stories in anthologies.”

“Hmmm. I don’t think I’ve ever met a real writer before.”

“You still haven’t. I sell computers, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” We continued to chat about my other ‘career’, I told her she could find me on asstr and if she wanted to. We switched to talking about her, I found out that she lived nearby in an apartment complex.

“With Rich?” I asked.

“Oh, you’ve got that all wrong. He’s just a friend with limited benefits.”

“limited benefits?”

“Yeah. We’ve known each other for twenty years. His wife threw him out a couple of years ago, and I sort of took him under my wing. I help him do things around the house, invite him over to dinner once in awhile. He chases me, sometimes I let him catch me. It’s all very innocent.”

“I see.”

“So did you mean what you said the other day?”

“Of course I did,” I exclaimed, as if my feelings were hurt. “And, by the way, what did I say?”

“How you promised to help me with my iTouch.”

“Oh, that, sure. What do you need?”

“Come over to my place, show me how to put things in it.”

“I’d be happy to show you how I put it in.”

A wicked smile came to her face. One of her fingers came gently to my nose, gently pushed on it. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

I made an appointment to come over to her house the next night after she got home from work. I was working the early shift.


When I knocked on her door, I was holding a single rose. With a ribbon around it’s stem, I’d attached a little plastic stick. “What’s that?” she asked, accepting the token.

“One-thousand, four-hundred and thirteen songs,” I replied.

“Really. On this little thing?”

“You’d be surprised at how big little things can get.”

“Oh, show me!” And she led me to her computer.

First, I showed her how to put a CD in, bring up iTunes and import the songs. Then we hooked up her iTouch and I showed her how to sync it. “Wow,” she said, “so that CD is now on the Touch.”

“Yep. Now watch this.” I put the flash drive on, copied the songs unto the hard drive, imported them into the juke box software. It took some time, then when we connected the iPod, it was slowly transferring the songs. “That’s it,” I said, “for that, you owe me a drink.”

“Wine okay?”

“Just fine.” I followed her into the kitchen, she got out glasses and popped the cork. We clinked glasses, then she poked me in the chest. “Thanks.”

I poked her back, right in the middle, in the small gulley between her breasts. “You’re welcome.”

She poked me again, this time three inches to the left of center. “Watch where you’re putting that thing.”

I followed suit, my finger prodding the softness to the inside of her breast. “I will.”

Again she jabbed, this time right on top of my nipple. I cupped the breast — even encased in a bra, it didn’t completely fill my palm. She looked into my eyes, hers were sparkling. “You ready for this?”

I answered, “Absolutely.” I picked her up by her waist, sat her on the counter top. My mouth was dry, my pulse hammering. I leaned in, brought my lips to hers. It wasn’t any surprise, we both knew why I was there, but still, that first kiss, when you’re sure it will go so much further, is filled with suspense. She kissed me back, easily, yieldingly. A hand brushed the side of my hair, mine went to her back, then, further down, to her waist, to her rear end. The kiss became zealous, she bit my lip and I wondered if she’d drawn blood. My hand went once again to her breast, she sat on the counter and put her legs around my back, drew me to her. We humped through the clothes, our groins locked. She pulled off her blouse, reached behind her to unclasp the bra. I looked at the tits, they weren’t the tiniest I’ve ever seen — maybe. But because of their miniature size, the years had done little damage to them. They sagged just a little, the spots in the middle were also small, and although the center was crinkled, they did’nt rise far from the smooth white skin surrounding them. I bent over to suck on them, she was pulling my shirt over my head, then we quickly began pulling our jeans off each other. It was awkward, of course, it always is, because I was standing she managed to get my pants around my knees and I kicked them off. My sailor was standing at attention and she grasped it in her hand, giving it just a little wank, then assisted me in assigning her britches to the floor. She had one long scar on her abdomen, leftover from a surgery long ago, and she had a landing strip, about three inches wide, of red pubic hair liberally mixed with ashen strands. I put a finger inside, found the tunnel to be soggy with readiness. She leaned back, awkwardly, against the cabinets, let me play with her.

I leaned down, now here was a surprise! The clit was the exact antonym of her breasts. An inch long at least, extending unprotected by her outer lips, and the pinkness was nearly as thick as her little finger — it was huge! I put the shaft within my lips, sucked and nibbled, and found that, apparently, it was as sensitive as it was immense. I sucked and licked, and licked and sucked, and sucked and licked, and each time I touched the amazing stud, she whooped with glee. I stuck two fingers into the slipperiness, and there, just where I expected it to be, was the g-spot. I have a hard time believing that some people think the g-spot is a myth, and an even harder time knowing that many men can’t figure out where it is. Letting my digits roam through the cavern, I brought Kate to an amazing orgasm. Her eyes rolled up, her skin flushed even more than it already was, her toes clenched until I was worried she might tear a tendon. But I didn’t stop. Two, three minutes later she opened her eyes, let out a huge breath. I knew it was time for round 2.

I stood, positioned my pole — it’s no more than average size, but if you know what to do, size doesn’t matter — at the lips, but didn’t immediately enter. Instead, using my hand to guide it, I used the head to stroke the labia, up into the hair, around the clit, and down into the crevice between her cheeks. She didn’t bat an eye, presented her back hole for a little massage, but I didn’t press it in; I was simply exploring the territory, I learned that in some subsequent journey the land wouldn’t be off limits.

I returned to the main attraction, dipped just the head in, letting her feel the intrusion, flexed my muscles down there a couple of times. I withdrew, wiped her fluid in my palm, presented it to her mouth where she wolfishly licked her own moisture. Then I put it in again, buried half of it. Again I tightened the muscles, now I was deep enough to sense her response. I withdrew the second time, then went back one more time, slowly pushing inside her, smoothly, in no seeming hurry at all. I withdrew, almost until I was outside her, then suddenly, without warning, slammed it in until I was buried as fully as I was going to go, my head against her cervix. I was watching her face as I performed the maneuver, her eyelids flew open wide, I swear I could see sparks of red fill her pupils. I continued to pull out, almost to the point of disengagement, then ramming back in as hard as possible. Six, seven, eight times I repeated the motion, Kate was moaning in elation, suddenly I found myself welling up in orgasm. I stopped my movements, willed myself not to come. I shuddered, spilled perhaps ten or twelve drops into her tunnel, Kate kept with me, and quickly the crisis was over.

I don’t do that often, usually I’m in a situation where I can control myself better. But when I do stop — have a mini orgasm, I guess you could call it — for the next hour, I’m superman. I can screw as much as I want, remain as hard as a tree trunk, particularly with the help of the big blue pill, and never worry about shrinking. So I kept on going.

In the position we were in, she sitting on the counter top, me between her legs, I had access to her entire body, with the exception of her ass. So I started a long, protracted screw, combining the motions of my dick within her, with various external excitations. I would stroke skin, run a hand through her hair, cup a breast, tweak a nipple, suck on a finger or knead a toe, and, of course, flick the clitoris. She was in almost constant orgasm for a good eight minutes. Finally, as the counter was three inches two high for me and I was standing on tip toe for much of the incursion, my legs finally gave out, and I withdrew.

“Are you done yet?” I asked.

“No, you haven’t worn me out quite yet.”

I pulled her off the counter, escorted her to the couch. I knelt on the floor facing the furniture, positioned her so that she was facing the pillows and away from me, pulled her onto me. This was a posture we could both control. If I sat on my haunches she could move to give herself pleasure, or I could rise up onto my knees to obtain maximum penetration. We stayed in this position for a long time, I rubbed her back, reached around to play with her tits, she was fond of reaching between her legs and playing with my testicles. Once in awhile, I’d put a finger in the nether crevice, feel the round ring. She encouraged this, wiggled her ass against the intruder, I thrust first a finger to the second knuckle, then the entire thumb inside. When she approached orgasm, she’d move her fingers to her clit and assist the oncoming blast.

After quite a long time of this, I noticed the period between her orgasms was growing longer, the explosions contained less dynamite. It was time for me to pleasure myself, and I pulled her down onto the carpet on her back, knelt between her legs, buried myself within her. I thought of nothing but my own gratification, moving to provide friction on the most sensitive areas of my shaft, and there it was, welling up, overcoming every conscious thought I had. I pelted my sperm into her, long streams of fluid. Kate helped me use her, pulling my ass towards her, clasping her thighs around my waist, opening every inch of herself to me. She may have come for a last time with me, I couldn’t really say, I was too immersed in the sensations running through my body, centering, of course, on my balls and the tip of my dick.

At last I was completely empty, I rolled off her onto my back, gasping for air, sensing the aftershocks of the huge jetting. She spoke first. “Oh, you’re good. You’re so good. How did you get so good?”

“The same way I got to Carnegie Hall.” Either she didn’t know the punch line, or perhaps she was simply allowing me to have my fun. “Practice, practice, practice.”

“Well, then, I think we’ll have to practice some more, don’t you?”

. . . To Be Continued

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