Chapter 5
I wonder what a Wrangler would do in a situation like this, Joan Wonger mused as she sat alone in her pink Volkswagen across the street from where the big building was going up. I mean a Wrangler like Sara.
Joan had never considered herself one of the more avidly interested members of The Wranglers when they were all back in high school. Oh, she had enjoyed sex when it came right down to it. And a couple of times she had been something of a leader in tracking down and tripping up a couple of the cuter boys in their school. But to think of herself on the same level as Sara and Priss, or even Mary, was something she found hard to accept.
But here she was, sitting across from the construction site where Mary's young husband, Walt Bates, would be getting off work in only a few seconds. And she didn't have a ghost of an idea on how to go about attracting his attention.
The old flat-tire routine wouldn't work, she decided. Instead of being lucky enough to get Walt Bates to come over and help her, she would probably get a dozen or so roughneck types who would be trying to look up her dress all the time they were fixing the flat. And the same would be true of pretending she had run out of gas, or needed a push down the hill.
Joan vetoed trying any of those dumb things. Instead, she elected to just still her thumping heart and stay right in the car, hoping that fate would show her a way. She was positive of what Walt Bates looked like, and even what he would be wearing. She had worked all that out with Mary who had described him to a T. Mary had seen to it that Walt wore his red shirt today. Besides, if all else failed he was wearing one of those, name tags below his collar. She certainly couldn't miss that.
She was still flipping over the safer approaches to this crazy mess she felt herself in when a whistle blew and the construction crew across the street began to pack up.
Lord, it was time-and she felt about as seductive and sexy as a damp noodle, worried Joan.
With a small burst of female egotism, she leaned over to check herself in the mirror. Her pale, almost girlish face stared back at her from the soft frame of dark hair. Deciding that her lips looked too lifeless, she unscrewed the cap on her lipstick tube and painted her mouth until it was almost bright red. Then she had to bite into a half-dozen tissues to bring her lips down to a shade of whore-scarlet.
Joan had just begun a frantic teasing of her bangs when the men began to pour out of the front of the construction site. She watched with her nerves tingling as the horde of husky, laughing, dirty men filed by her car with lunchboxes and tools swinging in their muscled arms. Some of them looked her way with more than casual interest, but she had only eyes for a red shirt. Then she saw him.
Walt was walking along with two other men, and he was carrying the biggest part of the conversation himself. Joan was glad of that because it gave her a good opportunity to take several long and zesty looks at him without his being aware.
"Nice," she breathed, feeling a faint little nudge of sexual interest beginning to coil somewhere in the region of her pussy, "but then I never did doubt Mary's taste in males... "
She watched as Walt continued on down the sidewalk to his car. He stood there for what seemed an eternity, still talking to a couple of the men. Then he waved good-bye to them and crawled into his car for the trip home. Joan felt depressed at her own lack of initiative. There she sat, like a dumb toad on a stool, while Prince Charming walked right by her. She could almost hear Sara's cynical, nagging voice in the back of her mind saying: Well, don't just sit there, you little ninny-follow him! Maybe he'll have a flat tire!
So, when Walt pulled away and started down the street, she gunned up the VW and zipped right up after him. She was too timid to follow him bumper to bumper, but she did keep him in view. She told herself that at least she could see where he and Mary lived-in case she had to get there on a more decent occasion. She had almost given up hope of snagging her man when her luck changed.
Walt pulled his car up to a bar, and got out. It wasn't really a bar, but more like one of those cheap beer joints where working men go. The kind of place that has a big, blinking Schlitz sign in the window and a pool table in the back.
"Well," she breathed, addressing herself the way she thought Sara would, "are you going to sit here until he comes out and miss him again, or are you going to march in there and pray for luck?"
She decided to march. The second she walked into the place, she knew she had made a small tactical error. It was full of men only, and she looked about as conspicuous as a neon propeller on a burlesque queen's tit. A dozen spirited wolf whistles and catcalls greeted her quick safari to a middle stool at the bar. But after she had eased her buttocks up on a stool, most of the men went back to talking and drinking.
The bald, fat bartender came up her way, looking at her with that fishy-eyed look reserved for streetwalkers. It was obvious to her that he didn't like a female gumming up the social club he was running.
"You want somethin'?" he husked at her.
"Uh, yes, a beer, please."
"You drink any special kind, sweetheart, or just anything the boys will buy you?"
She blushed scarlet as her lipstick, and was about to give the fat bastard a piece of her mind when Walt Bates stepped up and did it for her.
"Hey, Jack, easy on the lady. Can't you see she's not like your sister?"
"Now you look here, buster!"
"No, you look. Give the lady a drink, or I'll make this bar off limits to every working union man in town. Then you'll be drawing that weak beer for your kinfolks, hero."
The bartender muttered a quick apology and limped off to get the lady a drink.
Walt grinned and touched the tip of his hardhat with his finger. "You'll have to forgive the management. He went to college in a barn, most likely."
"But you didn't," she managed, her voice a trill of warmth.
"I didn't go much at all. Uh, you here waiting for somebody or something?" Lord, Mary's hubby is a quick worker, Joan thought.
"No, I really did just come in for a drink. Would you care to keep me from being molested again?"
His smile was quick and a little unsteady as he slid onto the stool beside her. "Well, I can't promise I won't try a little molesting of my own," he said, huskily.
She grinned, feeling a slight swell of her tits at his suggestive remark. "Are you sure your wife wouldn't mind?"
She saw the dull little glint of indifference in his eyes. "Like they said when I was in college those two weeks," he breathed, "what your professor and your wife don't know, won't hurt 'em."
"I guess you learned it all right there."
"I'll tell you one thing I learned. I learned that it's a lot more comfortable to drink your beer in a booth than it is on a stool."
She got the message, and without a word she allowed him to escort her back to a booth at the far end of the bar. A booth that sagged to the side of the wall because so many couples had sat in it close together, hip to hip.
Walt sat on the same side with her, and she felt almost threatened by the size of him. Even when she was walking across the floor with him she had felt a little like a midget. But she had always felt that way. She was as small as a ballet dancer with a waist that almost any man could practically reach around with one hand.
"Say," Walt said, settling in beside her and pushing her beer over into her reach, "how tall are you, how big, I mean?"
She smiled. "I'm a little over five three in spiked heels. And I weigh... "
"Never mind," he cut in, grinning. "The next thing you know I'll be wanting to know your age and how big your husband is."
"I'm not married," she lied, casually. "Are you?"
"Me? Naw, this is my grandmother's wedding ring I've got on. I wear it for sentimental reasons, period."
"I like a sentimental man."
"Yeah, well that's me. I'm so sentimental I cry over dirty socks. Hey, want to hear some good music?"
She nodded and he climbed out of the booth to play the juke box. It didn't take her long to see why he made that particular move. The box was standing sideways to the booth, and that gave her a perfect view of him from the belt down. She didn't pass up the opportunity to check his box, which was the whole idea. And the rather promising lump she saw against the side of his leg sent a wanton little thrill down her spine.
Joan Wonger, she warned herself, you ought to be ashamed of doing this! You know darned well that if you go to bed with Mary's husband, you'll hate yourself in the morning... but you also know you'll hate to see the morning come!
He came back to the booth and slid up beside her again. This time his hip pushed flush against hers, and one of his hands casually rested on the top of her thigh. Since they were back in the shadows, she didn't try to push his hand away. In fact, she welcomed the heavy warmth of it. She felt her pussy begin to thicken and tingle.
"You know what I like about you, hey, have you got a name?"
"Veronica."
"No kidding? Can I shorten that to Vee?"
"Be my guest. And your name?"
"Uh, how about Joe?"
Joan smiled. "Could you make that Walt?"
He looked dumb for a second, then remembered that his name tag was showing plain as shit. He grinned. "Okay, so you know me. Fair enough."
"You were going to tell me what you like about me, remember?"
"Oh, yeah. What I like about you is you're just playing some kind of damn game doing this. You're not the type to play hooker in a cheap dive like this."
"Thanks a lot."
"No, I mean it, damnit. Listen, I know a real lady when I see one. I knew a countess once."
That opened her ears for her. "A countess?" she echoed. "You mean a real person of nobility?"
"Correct. It was when I was stationed in the MPs in Paris-in the army about six years ago."
"And I remind you of her?"
Walt backtracked with a sly grin. "Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say you remind me all the way of her. At least not yet. Anyway, she was a lot older than you. About forty or over."
"But a real lady, eh?" she breathed. "One like me?"
She made the pointed remark because his hand was busy moving lower down her thigh. It was trying to locate her pussy. But from the casual way Walt was continuing the conversation and sipping his beer with his free hand, you would have thought they were talking about flower arrangements.
"I met the countess one day in one of those little street cafes down in the Latin Quarter in Paris. I was out of uniform, you know, and just killing time watching the girls. Man, that's one great city to girl-watch in."
He had his fingers under the hem of Joan's dress now, and everywhere he had touched her she was getting goosebumps like crazy!
"So this countess sits down at the table next to me and starts up a conversation. Real correct and polite kind of talk you could hear from anybody, but with a ritzy accent and a voice that would have sliced a London fog. To make it short, she invited me up to her place for a glass of wine."
Those damned fingers of his were now up to the elastic band of Joan's panties. The vaginal lips of her cunt were pushing out against the tight nylon crotch. She wanted to trade a little banter of her own with him, but she didn't dare trust her voice. She was afraid anything she might say would come out as husky as a whore.
"So I go up to her place. I figure, what the hell. I figure if she wants to show me a good time, I'll let her. I'd been shown a couple of good times in Paris already by real Frenchy gals, if you know what I mean."
Joan knew all right, but at the moment she was more involved with making love to his fingers with her panties and thighs. She wanted him to get his damned hand under the elastic band because she knew that if he didn't scratch her itching slit, she would have to.
"Want to hear the rest of it?" Walt whispered, checking at the same time to see that nobody in the bar was looking back at them or paying them any attention. "Want to hear the good part, like they say?"
"Uh... mmm... "
His whole hand was up under her dampening panties now, cupping her cunt like a warm muffin. He squeezed it the way a baker might squeeze a lump of dough.
"This countess was the oral type... hell, that was okay with me because I'd had my pipes drained by experts ever since I was fourteen. Remind me to tell you sometime about the Widow Green on my paper route when I was fourteen... about how she used to put her false teeth in a glass of water before she... hell, forget that story. I just mentioned it to let you know that when that fruity old countess suggested I might like a nice hot blow job, I knew she wasn't talking about whistling forty choruses of "Stardust"-know what I mean?"
"Aaargh!"
Walt had his finger up her cunt now, all the way up to the second knuckle. He was wriggling it in a circle so that her whole pussy seemed to be sucking on it, the way a hungry baby tries to suck a fat nipple.
"She wanted me to take off all my clothes, which I did. Then she wanted me to take a shower, which I did. Then she wanted me to get on all fours in the middle of her big gold bed so that she could squirt whipped cream on my balls and up my asshole, which I damned sure didn't want to do."
He waited for a few seconds, diddling her lathering snatch with that cunning finger of his. Joan couldn't get her breath except in short, half-gulps of joy. So, to keep her from coming right then and maybe yelling like a pirate as she spasmed, he pulled his finger quickly out of her twat and started dragging his hand out from under her panties.
But her own hand shot down under the booth and grabbed Walt's strong wrist, forcing him to push his finger back into the pouting, plump lips of her dripping hole.
"Hey, you like that, eh?" he grinned.
"Make me come," she whispered, raggedly.
His eyes twinkled with the kind of lust that a man feels when he has a female so goddamned hot that she's begging for it.
"You don't want a finger baby," he whispered. "I was just doing that to steam you up a little. Hell, I've got something a million times bigger and better than my finger to tease your pussy with. Feel it under there!"
Joan's hand feathered blindly over his leg and into his crotch. She could feel it, all right. She could feel eight or so inches of stiff meat that was pushing up against his pants like a tent pole.
"Want me to fuck you with that?" he asked, hoarsely.
"Yes! But please finish what you started!"
He grinned. "You mean the story of how the countess ate out my asshole with her tongue?"
"No, damnit! Finish making me come!"
But he wouldn't. Despite her pinching fingers on his wrist, Walt pulled his hand arrogantly out of her panties and brought his finger up to his mouth. He smelled his knuckle, grinned, then licked his finger with the flat of his tongue. "I sure like the taste of pussy," he admitted, huskily.
Joan was more than just a little frantic now. She knew that in a sense he had tricked her, fooled her, made a mockery of her. But she couldn't have cared less about that. She knew that she wanted to be fucked. And the sooner she got this bastard pussy teaser Mary had married into a motel, the better.
"Well," she said, finally making her voice as flat and crude as she could, "do you enjoy making females miserable?"
He glanced at her over his beer. "Hey, honey, don't get your hormones all tied in knots. I'm gonna fuck you... maybe."
"You mean there are conditions?"
"A couple, kind of."
"Name 'em, damnit."
Walt smiled, then shook his head warily. "Hell, I don't know whether I should name those conditions, or not. You might wanta call the cops, or something."
"I didn't yell for mama when you had your elbow up my hole, did I?"
"Well, no, but... "
"So name your conditions, stud!"
He took a deep breath and a long swig of his beer. Then, making sure that nobody was within shouting distance of their booth, he leaned his mouth over to her heated ear and gave her the glad tidings.
"I'll fuck you if you'll promise to do everything that crazy countess did. She taught me some positions that aren't even in the book. I've been wanting to do that stuff with a willing female ever since-including my wife. But I haven't had the goddamned nerve to suggest it. You say okay to going to a motel with me and letting yourself go, and I'll make that pussy of yours gush like a faucet!"
Joan took a ragged breath of joy, and nodded her agreement: Hell, for a chance to learn just what positions he was talking about, she'd have promised him Fort Knox.