Message-ID: <4347eli$9709241014@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: zanna@whoever.com (Joyce Melton & Morgan Preece) Subject: Repost: Mercedes 1: The Conch {Morgan Preece} /C*R* 10/10/10/ Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.tg Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <343ae767.19423677@news.gte.net> If you like this story --or any story on the net-- tell the author. This story is intended for the entertainment of adults only. If you are under 18 or if reading this would involve anyone in an illegal act, please stop reading immediately. If you are offended by strong adult-oriented themes, explicit sex, erotic fantasy or vulgar language, what are you doing here? Copyright (C) 1997 by Morgan Preece. All rights reserved. Permission is hereby granted for non-commercial use of this complete and unaltered text (including disclaimer paragraph above and this paragraph and the next two) in electronic form such as posting to EBBS's or Newsgroups or free access Electronic Archives. Electronic storage of unaltered copies for personal use is also permitted. Any other use of this text is a violation of copyright. No permission is given hereby for any sort of distribution to minors or other persons to whom such distribution would be illegal in the jurisdiction of distributor, recipient or intermediary. No hardcopies may be made without written permission from the author. If you want to put this story in a CD-ROM archive for distribution at nominal cost, E-Mail the author at the address below for a copy with a different copyright notice. Inquiries about other commercial use should also be E-mailed. Do not come to my house, you don't know where I live and you will get lost. Comments are welcome, fanmail being the only feedback a newsgroup author gets. Email may be addressed to the author at ZANNA@WHOEVER.COM. Enjoy. =========================================================== Mercedes by Morgan Preece Chapter I I had quit college a few years before, short of my degree because of a lack of drive, I guess. Smart but lazy, with less-than-rugged good looks that attracted more than my fair share of women. I found it easy to meet an older woman who wanted the company, not even necessarily in bed, of a virile young man. Many of them were willing or even eager to help with "tuition" or "rent money," allowing me to lead an easy life that seemed to have no end and I never had to think about morality. I kept myself neat and presentable, even stylish, my dark blond hair long or short as fashion dictated, usually boyishly clean-shaven, and my gray-green eyes always smiling. Those who didn't want to bed me often wanted to mother me or play other games. Always the willing playmate, at twenty-two, I thought I had done a little bit of everything. Then I met Sylvia in an upscale bar in Newport Beach. The Conch had always been a sort of happy-hunting ground for me. Dim enough to hide the imperfections my chosen prey felt they suffered. Close to country clubs, yacht clubs and toney beach houses, it offered full-strength drinks, an easy- listening soundtrack, deep booths and a discreet meeting place for rich ex-wives on the make. The woman I spotted, Sylvia, really didn't look the type to want what I could offer. Tall, dark-haired, full- lipped with clear skin and green eyes, she looked younger than my usual sugarmamas and frankly, prettier, but she gave me the eye and I moved in. When I got close I discovered her beauty and made a guess as to her wealth. Her body fit the strapless green cocktail dress like it had grown there with her large titties supported by some unseen nether garment or possibly sheer willpower. Her waist seemed improbably slender to flare so into hips unfashionably full. Her thighs tapered artistically to sculpted calves, trim ankles crossed above high-heeled strappy sandals. She enjoyed being admired and I played it up with smiles and eye signals. The low-cut deep green cocktail gown, diamond choker and other jewelry she wore probably cost a year's "tuition". I felt my interest rise. Her shoes alone must have cost $600. She offered to buy me a drink and I asked for mineral water but she said no, I should order white wine. She put her hand on mine as she said this, her bracelets flashing emeralds. I nodded to the waitress to bring the wine. Sylvia smiled, her teeth expensively white and straight. "I'll have single-malt, up, with iced mineral water on the side," she ordered in a throaty voice that seemed as deep as my own. Her long, tapering nails scratched the back of my hand when she spoke and the thrill of it surprised me. Greed, and something else, stirred in my mercenary heart. She drank her Scotch quickly and sipped her mineral water while we talked. I played with my wine glass. Her husband, she told me, lived on the East Coast most of the year where he worked in investments. Here, she lived alone in a big house in Laguna with just a maid and an old college friend who occasionally came down from Malibu to keep her company. She laughed when I pried and she admitted that the college friend was female. "It's a big house, even when there are three of us, it's lonely. Where do you live?" she asked. I told her I had a studio near Fifth Street on the peninsula. "I'll bet it's cute," she said, "let's go see it." When she stood up, I realized her height without heels probably matched my own. Since I am only five-seven this has happened before. Some women are put off by men who are not taller than them but she didn't seem to mind. With her heels on, she towered over me by three or more inches. She grasped my elbow in a strong grip and steered me through the crowded bar out to the valet parking. They brought her a red Mercedes hardtop convertible, gleaming like blood in the harsh parking lot flourescents. "Get in," she said, "I'll drive." I was used to acting as chauffeur and I really wanted to drive that car but I got in on the passenger side. The inside was rose and black leather and smelled deliciously feminine, like the car's owner. I watched her while she drove the short distance to my apartment, her confidence and her competence intrigued me. An elegant, beautiful -- rich -- woman who seemed to have everything in life that I wanted. She saw me admiring her and smiled, slowly, with a promise of things to come. I wondered what I could do to make this a long-lasting relationship and I felt the stirrings of my own easily aroused lust. Sylvia licked her lower lip, flared her nostrils and adjusted the position of her beautifully broad ass on the seat as if preparing to make love to the gorgeous car. My bone forced me to squirm in my seat, too. I didn't want to waste any ammunition before the war began. Certainly an advantage in my line of work, I had never had much problem getting up for the job and I could delay my own climax almost indefinitely while manipulating my clients to one shuddering satisfaction after another. Sex is all in the mind anyway and I approached each woman as an intellectual puzzle subject to physical manipulation, like one of those multicolored cubes. All women seemed to respond to my concentration on their desires rather than my own. When I made love I never hurried because I had nothing I would rather be doing at that moment than pleasing my lady. Sylvia differed from all other women I had met, right from the start. With every other woman I had always the sense that I could respond to the challenge of reaching her emotions, that I could ride her pleasure to my goal. Sylvia pleased herself, always, I sensed. I felt like a passenger in the vehicle of her passions much as she had relegated me to the right-hand seat in her Mercedes. Watching her drive was more arousing than watching a Las Vegas stripper peel off layers of erotic clothing. Her arm movements caused her heavy breasts to jiggle. Her softly curled hair swung when she turned her head to check a mirror. I could hear the whisper her stockings made as she worked the clutch in her high heels. Her expressions changed from moment to moment as she maneuvered the sleek car through the still heavy late-night traffic of the penninsula. She frowned as an inconsiderate driver tried to cut her off. She smiled as she passed the poky old limo cruising slowly down Balboa Avenue. She pouted at every stoplight and sighed in satisfaction when she again had her foot on the gas. When we stopped, her perfume surrounded me with musky intensity. I hardly noticed the g- forces she induced as she drove the little red car too fast and almost too well. I noted the skin texture of her neck, guessing her age at forty-plus, allowing for the readily available miracles of the Gilded Coast. Her hands still looked young enough to do dishwashing commercials so she couldn't be more than forty-five. The importance of knowing your lover's real age had occurred to me early in my scandalous career. Grunge rock would likely mean little to her and she probably remembered laughing at Saturday Night Live when Chevy & Co. were bright new comics and not endless reruns on the Comedy Channel. She may have screamed ecstatically at the Beatles or the Stones, saw Bill Cosby perform at her college. She most likely remembered where she had been when JFK died and Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. All of these things could be important in finding ways to turn her on, bring her to climax, acquire some of her money and let her down gently when it came time for me to move on. Not that I thought about it that way, I just collected the information and used it when I needed it. Like the interesting correlation I had seen before between women who liked to drive hard and ones that liked to fuck hard. She found my address with no problem, even finding a parking space in front. I leaped out of the car but she was too fast for me, she had already opened her door. I made it around the car just in time to catch a glimpse of her thigh as she allowed her skirt to ride up high enough to show that she wore stockings with garters, not panty-hose. I knew then, for sure, that she intended to have sex tonight. We tripped up the steps to my third-floor studio and as soon as I had fumbled the door open, she slipped her hand into the top of my pants and pressed her lips to mine. She had my meat in her hand and her tongue in my throat before we well inside the room. Those on-display breasts pressing against my chest felt softer than pillows. Her other hand tangled in my hair pull-pushing me into her deep kiss. She tasted of whisky and smelled of expensive musk as I drove my own tongue into her mouth in rapid, rhythmic thrusts. I cupped one hand on her plush ass to pull her into me while I reached for a nipple with the other. I bumped the door closed with the side of my own hip and we both started a little when it slammed but it hardly disturbed our fierce rhythms. She unzipped my fly and brought my cock out into her hand where she played with it while we kissed. Her thumb against the underside of the tip, her fingers working the barrel in a now soft, now hard, pizzicato. I had her nipple in my hand but she pulled away, dropping smoothly to her knees, caressing me as she went down. I tried to follow her but she had pushed me against the wall forcing me to stay upright. Quickly, she pulled my pants down to my knees. This was not going according to my usual plan. Her lips touched the end of my dick, several velvety kisses, each one shivered me to the base of my skull. Then her mouth closed over my entire prick. The tip worked against the back of her palate, her toungue quickly stroked me nearly to climax. The curly hair of my crotch scrubbed away at her indelible lipstick. I thought of money and refused to cum. She watched me from under her dark brown curls, smiling with her eyes, teasing with a wink. One of her hands played with my asshole while the other caught my wrist, digging savage red fingernails into the pulse-point, her thumb trapped my own against the palm of my hand, pulsing. I played with a much-beringed ear with my free hand. Surprisingly for a woman of her generation, she wore six earrings in the left ear; three rings in the top of the ear with a stud, a large hoop and a teardrop dangle all in separate holes in the lobe. I wondered if she went in for piercings in other places, I yearned to find out. I yearned to cum but still I held back. She changed tactics, working her head like a movable cylinder on the piston of my rigid cock. Her tongue, lips, palate, even teeth providing excruciatingly delicious sensation while she worked a finger into my asshole, probing for the cum lever. Her thumbnail teased the root of my prick, counterpointing the driving rhythm of her head and mouth and finger. I had never had a "client" who knew so much about cocksucking. My body wanted the release this beautiful woman offered but my intentions were in conflict. My back arched, the cords in my neck stood out. I trembled with a determination not to give her an excuse to end this encounter early, but my one cardinal rule had always been, give them what they want. I had just decided to let myself cum, regardless of how unprofessional it seemed when she pulled her head away from my cock. (to be continued) -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /