Chapter One
Samantha Peters had a problem with men. They mystified her, for she had never been really
comfortable with them, and in particular, their crudity and sexual demands.
She worked for the department of Administration, in a small cubicle overlooking the
courtyard. While the other young women came to work dressed, for the most part, quite
casually, Samantha dressed in business clothes every day, including Friday. She wore knee
length skirts with hose, dress pants, dress blouses and jackets, and dress shoes. She
dressed, as one of the other girls remarked, like someone “old”.
And in many ways, Samantha had an old head about her. Her mother had had her when
she was just fifteen, and then run off and left her to be raised by her grandmother.
Needless to say, her grandmother, who as an immigrant from Bavaria was conservative to
begin with, impressed upon her granddaughter the evils of men and the absolute necessity
of chastity until marriage.
Samantha had grown up under the stern and demanding eye of her grandparents, taught
that hard work brought rewards, and complaining brought nothing. At twenty-two she had
already been acting-manager of a small group of junior clerks. By twenty-four she was a
junior project officer, and by twenty-six she was already a senior program officer, one
step away from middle-management and a $100k salary.
She was thoroughly respected for her hard work, her keen intelligence, and her
assertiveness in pursuit of following rules, procedures, and regulations at all times.
That is to say, her assertiveness and self-confidence were respected, her
dedication to the rules and processes were somewhat less respected. This was the
government, after all, and so many rules and procedures were incomprehensible, and seemed
designed to make it impossible to get anything done.
Others mocked and cursed the arcane rules and processes which took so much time and
accomplished so little. Not Samantha. Sam embraced rules. She needed to know exactly what
the rules were, needed perfectly defined parameters in which to operate. Her manager, who
admired her intelligence and hard work, nevertheless called her anal to a fault, when it
came to rules and regulations.
Samantha, however, knew how to navigate the often incomprehensible requirements to
get work done in the civil service. It made her quite comfortable to know exactly how
every process was to be run, what path was required to obtain permissions for what tasks,
what forms had to be filled out, and how, and sent where in order to establish the proper
degree of oversight for any project or program.
And if those rules meant it took two months to buy a box of pencils, well then, it
took two months to buy a box of pencils, and that was all there was to it. The proper
outlook was to plan your use of pencils so you started the process of ordering them two
months before you needed them.
That mindset made her a perfect bureaucrat, and helped explain her success. It did
not, however, make her at all comfortable around men, on dates. There didn’t seem to be
any set rules in place for that, and men didn’t behave in a predictable pattern, nor
follow any particular set of procedures.
And they all wanted sex! They wanted it almost immediately! When she was a
teenager, her refusal to have sex with a boy until and unless they became regular dating
partners was not particularly unusual. During her infrequent dates (she preferred to
spend time with a good book) they had pawed and groped and fondled and kissed, and she had
wrestled them off time and time again, her grandmother’s stern admonition to hold onto her
chastity and not get pregnant (like her slut of a mother) firmly in mind
Thus her chastity had stayed with her until college, when a particular bout of
depression had led to unwise acceptance of a standing invitation at a frat house party,
and an even more unwise consumption of alcohol (she did not normally drink) had led to sex
in an upper bedroom with someone whose name she still didn’t know.
Afterwards, of course, she felt horrible, sick from the alcohol, and disgusted with
herself. She felt dirty, sore, and ashamed, and vowed to stay away from alcohol and, for
the most part, men, forever after.
Once in her twenties, however, she found herself in something of a quandary. The only
men she could stand to date were older men, men with more maturity and substance, not
callow youths who played video games. Such men expected their women to be mature in
attitude, and that included their outlook on sex. That wasn’t to say they expected them to
put out on the first date, but they expected, certainly, within three or four, to be
getting a lot more than their hands held.
Unfortunately, the way she had been raised had given her a poor outlook on sex. Her
initial experience had made it worse. And now she was afraid that if she actually did have
sex with a man, especially an older, sober man, he would immediately recognize her
appalling lack of experience, laugh at her, and dump her for someone else.
Sam was now making very good money, enough to buy a small condo, and a nice car, and
still put money away into savings. But unlike college, where she could spend every night
studying, the civil service was a day job which required no night work. She did not need
to take work home, and there was rarely any overtime. That left her very little to do
after work other than read.
Of course, she was and had always been a voracious reader. One of the three bedrooms in
her condo had been turned into a den and library, with floor to ceiling bookshelves
covering the walls. She found the books – reassuring. They surrounded her with knowledge.
Sitting on the smooth, gleaming walnut shelves which covered the walls, they reminded her
she was an intelligent woman of means, not a thoughtless bimbo working in a restaurant.
All the furniture in her condo, in fact, was heavy, polished, gleaming wood. None of
that glass and stainless steel for her! Combined with the leather chairs and sofa, this
made the condo curiously masculine in tone. And it had been suggested by some that her
discomfort with men disguised a desire for women. But nothing could be further from the
truth. If men flummoxed her with their behaviour, she was mystified at the emotionalism
and silliness of women her age.
She was cordial with many women, but not really close friends with any. Her lack of
interest in fashions, in Hollywood, in gossip, robbed her of many of the normal
conversational topics used to begin such friendships. Her dislike of clubs, of alcohol,
and of dancing, meant there were few places she really wanted to go out to anyway.
She worked, she went home, she made dinner, and read a book, or occasionally surfed the
internet. That sufficed, for now. And eventually, she hoped, she would come across some
man who was quite like her, and then, somehow, she wasn’t sure how, they would begin a
satisfying relationship. Somehow.
And then, oddly enough, that was exactly what happened. Although, not in any remote way
was it the kind of relationship she had ever envisioned. Nor was he in any remote way the
type of man she had ever imagined herself being with.
His name was David. And he was old enough to be her father. Well, if she’d known who her
father was. In fact, given her mother’s age when she was born, he was probably older than
her father.
She was twenty-six, and he was forty-six. And he had no respect for rules at all. He
flouted the rules whenever he could get away with them, mocked them when he couldn’t, and
twisted them at every opportunity. He was also a mere clerk! True, he was a senior clerk,
who had amassed an amazing amount of knowledge about administrative procedures, rules and
regulations. But still, he was beneath her, someone she could give tasks to and have him
report back on their success. Even his boss was on a lower level than she was.
And yet, he teased her. No one teased Samantha Peters. She was too stern, too uptight,
too anal. He teased her like she was his little sister, for, he said, that was the best
way to treat young girls at work. At first she had found him annoying, then irritating,
then she had come to accept him and roll her eyes at his silliness. Then he had become –
comfortable to have around. For in his own way he was predictable where other men were
not, predictable, undemanding, mild-mannered and unthreatening.
And friendly.
Sam was surprised to discover she enjoyed his company, that she laughed at his silliness
and jokes, and that sometimes she even agreed with his disparaging comments about certain
rules and regulations. He was quite insightful about management, though very mocking
towards it, and had a shrewd intelligence, if very little ambition.
She started having coffee breaks with him, and then eating lunch with him, as well. They
talked about many things; philosophy, history, culture, politics. Sometimes, they even
talked about sex. Oh nothing crude, of course. But he teased her about her clothing, and
on her dark rimmed, almost horn-rimmed glasses. And he asked about boyfriends she didn’t
have, and whyever she didn’t given what an incredibly beautiful woman she was.
She snorted in disdain at that. She was most certainly not incredibly beautiful. She was
willing to admit, sometimes, on a good hair day, that she was presentable, and her body
fit. That was as far as she was willing to go. His statement otherwise was simply part of
the casual teasing and flirting he indulged in with so many women at work.
He shook his head at her one day in the cafeteria, grinning in his lopsided fashion. “Do
you have any idea how oddly sexy you are?”
“Oddly sexy?” she snorted.
“Well, I think it’s the way you dress. It’s so – uptight that everyone figures that you
must go home afterwards and don some sort of leather cat woman outfit and slash your whip
around.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I doubt everyone thinks that,” she said.
“Well, let’s just say men wonder about you, about what that uptight exterior is
hiding.”
“I’m not hiding anything. I am uptight.”
He laughed. “You’re not so bad.”
“Oh trust me. I’m very uptight. I was raised by a Hungarian grandmother who thought men
were tools of Satan. I was painfully shy all through school and rarely dated at all.”
“Are you saying you’re a virgin?” he said mockingly.
She flushed a little. “That’s none of your business,” she said waspishly. “And no I’m
not saying that. I’m just saying that – I’m not exactly a free spirit. I believe in rules
and discipline.”
“Then you do have a whip,” he teased.
She coloured. “I do not own any leather, unless you count the couch.”
“No stiletto heels?”
“Certainly not!”
“That’s too bad.”
“Why is that too bad? Because you males like to indulge your dirty fantasies?”
“Because at your age you should be having a lot of fun, going to wild parties, going
crazy and getting drunk.”
“I don’t like wild parties, thank you very much. And I don’t drink.”
“Well I don’t drink either, and at my age I’m kind of past wild parties. But you should
be doing more than sitting at home alone.”
“I enjoy my own company.”
He shook his head as she bent over her soup and lifted a spoon to her lips. Then he
reached out and let his finger push back the blonde bangs above her glasses. It was a
curiously intimate gesture, and Sam felt herself oddly close to him, comfortable for some
reason.
“You need to feel thrilled from time to time. When was the last time you felt
thrilled?”
“I got a really good bargain on an antique lamp last month.”
He laughed out loud and she grinned somewhat proud of her timely retort.
“But when you’re old an gray, what are you going to have to look back on?”
“One does not need to have a misspent youth.”
“Better that then a well-read youth,” he replied.
“You need a boyfriend.”
“One will come along.”
“Not the way you dress.”
“One will come along who is impressed by my intellect, not my body.”
“I’m impressed with both,” he said with that same lopsided grin.
She grinned back. “What is so impressive about my body?” she asked, knowing that, at
least in part, she was fishing for compliments.
“That’s dangerous territory,” he said, “at least at work. But even in the clothes you
wear, which seem determined to hide your shape, I think one can discern that your shape is
more than worth looking at.”
“I don’t need men staring at me at work and engaging in filthy little sexual fantasies,”
she said.
“They do that anyway. No matter what you wear. Men are like that. We’re all whores.”
“Clearly.”
“We can’t help it.”
“You don’t try. So what exactly is it about my body which you regard as impressive? That
it’s female? That I have breasts?”
“Well, again, without getting into details you surely wouldn’t want, I suppose I could
say, purely from a casual, observational viewpoint that the shape of your derriere is one,
depending on what trousers you’re wearing on any given day, worth appreciating – in a
completely non-harassing, non-sexual way, of course.
“How can you say I have a nice ass and not think that’s harassing or sexual?”
“I can observe that a flower is pretty without wanting to ravish the flower. I can
observe a painting is pretty, or that a horse has the right shape.”
“Are you comparing my ass to a horse?”
“That would make me a real horse’s ass, wouldn’t it?”
She laughed.
No other man could talk about her ass without embarrassing her. But David could. The
goof. And so he crept in under her radar. They lived not very far apart, and soon were
commuting together to save gas money. Their first date, though neither of them thought of
it as such, was watching a documentary on his big screen plasma television.
“Don’t even know why I bought the thing since I rarely watch television,” he said.
He was a bachelor, and owned a small bungalow with a back yard swimming pool which he
used for exercise, regularly doing laps. The living room contained a smoked glass and
black steel desk, and while he disparaged her lack of “fun” he was not a man who regularly
entertained visitors. Instead of a sofa he had a love seat and a recliner. The recliner
wasn’t in position to watch the TV so they both sat on the love seat, fairly close
together.
He was a perfect gentleman, completely unthreatening, and perhaps that was why Sam began
to get ideas. She liked him a lot. She trusted him. And she had exchanged more information
with him than any man she’d ever known. He knew she was inexperienced sexually, though she
hadn’t given him details. And he was always complimenting her, telling her how hot she
was, how cute she was. Oh it was said in a joking fashion, but she thought, somehow,
oddly, that he actually did think her attractive.
She toyed with the idea of kissing him, and wondered what that would be like. She’d
already hugged him numerous times – as a friend, of course.
And so, when she left for home, she gave him another quick hug and then, very daringly,
gave him a quick kiss on the lips, a peck really, followed by a grin. He seemed a trifle
surprised, while she felt her chest go tight as she turned and skipped down the stairs.
Later that week she invited him to her place. He admired her books, for he was a big
reader himself, and they talked about some of the books they had both read as she set up
the movie in her own DVD player.
This time, when he left, he gave her a peck on the lips – only it was a bit more than a
peck, more like a smooch, followed by a wink as he turned and left.
And it was in his place, the next week, when the kiss turned into something a little
more than a kiss, when his hands seemed to almost casually slide onto her hips as she
kissed him, and she held the kiss a little too long, long enough for him to respond, and
her heart started to flutter and his hands slid further around her. And then, somehow,
they were kissing each other, and she had no idea what to do about it, except that, she
liked it.
His hands slid up and down her back as they kissed, and his tongue eased delicately
across her lips as she felt her pulse racing. Then they both stepped back, a bit
breathless, and, her voice squeaking a bit, she said goodbye and hurried home.
The next day he leaned on her cubicle wall and invited her to come over Saturday
afternoon. It was supposed to be very hot. They could do a little swimming, barbeque some
chicken or burgers. She said yes, and then, horrified, realized that meant she had to
appear in a bathing suit in front of him.
She almost cancelled, agonizing over what to wear, what messages what she wore would
send him. If she wore something very conservative, a one piece, he would tease her and
call her an old lady. And right now she didn’t want that. She wanted him to appreciate her
as a desirable woman. But what if she wore something revealing and he turned into a
lusting pig!? She couldn’t stand that.
But better to find out now.
Not that she would wear something revealing, of course. Samantha Peters didn’t own
anything revealing, nor had she ever. That evening, and the next, and the next, she
shopped for bathing suits. That was a difficult task, for she was not at all comfortable
with her body, with all that pale skin, with undressing in a semi-public place like a
store’s fitting room.
What she finally settled on was a black bikini. It was fashionable, so he couldn’t
accuse her of being uptight. It would, in fact, shock him, she thought, with no small
sense of mischievous delight. It was not exactly revealing, however. It was just the
standard bikini, with a bandeau top, and full bottom.
It was her first bikini, in fact, and the first of anything she’d ever considered
wearing around other people which actually displayed anything remotely like cleavage. The
bandeau top squeezed her breasts together from the sides, and while it covered her
appropriately, there was a little trace of cleavage at the top. She removed her glasses.
She mainly wore them for fine detail, like when she needed to read. And certainly had no
need of them at the pool.
She put on a good front, though her red face gave it away a bit as she greeted him in
it. And she covered it by irritably observing that while women’s bathing suits seemed to
get smaller and tighter all the time men’s bathing suits grew larger and baggier.
“You’re right,” he said. “When I was in my teens men wore what you’d almost call Speedos
now. They were short, and tight. Now we get to wear these things, which fall almost to our
knees.”
They sat under the umbrella, and she put oil on, and talked a little, and then he dove
into the water, and she had little choice but to follow.
It was the water which did it. It felt – clean to be horsing around in the water. It
didn’t bother her to feel his skin touching hers as he picked her up and flung her back,
as he let her step into his locked hands and leap high to splash into the water. And the
bandeau top kept slipping down now that it was wet, now that she was bouncing around, and
it displayed a lot of cleavage.
“Wow, look at those,” he said at one point, teasing her by ogling her breasts.
“Stop that, perve!” she said, crossing her arms over her breasts and turning around.
He laughed at her of course, robbing his remark of the kind of seriousness which would
have embarrassed her.
And she kept tugging it up, only to have it slip down, and then, somehow, they were
standing together, her breasts pushed against his chest, and she was looking at him, and
he kissed her lightly on the lips. She laughed and kissed him back, and then, they seemed
to slowly melt together.
Standing there in the pool, their bodies pressed together, his hands stroked her bare
back, then eased down further, cupping and kneading her buttocks under the water. His
tongue pushed a little deeper than before, and she parted her lips, welcoming it,
breathless, excited, confused. The water made everything clean even as she felt what had
to be his erection pressing against her.
His hands slid down into her bikini bottom, stroking her bare bottom, and Sam felt a hot
jolt of liquid excitement ripple through her mind and body. Breathlessly, she stood there,
doing essentially nothing as his kiss became deeper, as his fingers caressed and kneaded
her buttocks. And then a hand came out of her bottom and slid up across her breast.
She almost pushed him back, but it was no longer there anyway. Now it was on her side.
So that was all right. Except it slid back again, more slowly. Again it didn’t stay, so
her impulse to push his hand off died before her hand had even moved an inch.
His tongue was tracing a line along the inside of her lips as he sucked lightly at her
own tongue. And then he turned his head in and nibbled at her earlobe, then at the nape of
her neck. She moaned softly, her breasts flattened against his chest, and she felt the
softness of his own skin under her fingers.
He turned her against the side of the pool, and she leaned back against it, breathing
much too heavily as he kissed his way along her shoulder and then down onto her upper
chest.
“W-we were… s-supposed to be having a b-bar-b-que,” she gasped as his mouth rained soft,
slow kisses across the top of her exposed breasts.
And then he tugged the bandeau top down, and she gasped as his mouth slid down onto her
erect nipple and sucked.
“Don’t!” she gasped, pushing his head away.
He didn’t fight her, but straightened, grinning, kissed her on the top of her nose and
said “Why?”
She opened her mouth, trying to explain, then realized she didn’t really know why not
herself. And then he kissed her again, and pulled her against him, and her bare breasts
pressed against his chest. The heat of his body seemed to set them to burning and
throbbing, and she could feel her stiff nipples rubbing against his chest hair.
His hand slid through her wet hair, and then gently – pulled. A little dizzy, she didn’t
resist, letting him pull her head back, letting him arch her back across the low side of
the pool, arch back away from him so that her breasts were now visible. She shuddered as
his other hand moved across her breast.
Then his mouth took her nipple into it, and he sucked at it, his tongue flicking across
it so that she felt little electric shocks setting it tingling and throbbing. She wanted
to protest, but her words were nothing but a breathless groan as he licked and sucked and
fondled her aching breasts.
Her legs were parted under the water, and his thigh was grinding against her right –
there – producing very odd sensations and emotions that were adding to her sense of
breathless helplessness. His right hand moved up and down her body, stroking and caressing
her breasts, her belly, her ribs and hips and bottom, and then slid right across her
pussy.
As with her breasts, it didn’t linger, so that the panic she would have felt did not
emerge. But it returned again and again, fingers pressing down against her right – there
–
where it made her legs want to turn to rubber.
And then his hand was suddenly inside the front of her bikini bottom. The feel of his
fingers sliding along her thin furrow, rubbing at the top of her cleft, almost made her
cry out in shock, and she moved to push him off. This time, however, he held her steady.
His fingers, which were so gentle in her hair, wouldn’t let go, and trying to straighten
up pulled her hair against them.
“D-Don’t! S-stop! D-David!” she gasped.
And then it was too late, for the way he was rubbing her there was sending shock waves
through her body. She shuddered and gasped aloud and her hips rolled and ground against
him in helpless response. She could not even pretend that she didn’t welcome it, and he
curled a finger up and penetrated her, sliding it deep into her pussy as he bit down
harder on her nipple and sucked harder still.
The orgasm seemed to come from out of nowhere. Suddenly it was as if she were having a
seizure, her hips bucking, her back jerking and arching, her head rolling and jerking from
side to side as choked, animal sounds emerged from her parted lips.
She collapsed, limp, gasping, across the side of the pool, chest heaving. He grasped her
buttocks and lifted her up, setting her on the rim of the pool, which was at waist height
to him. And then, before she could get her scattered mind put back together, he tugged her
bikini bottom down her legs and off, then spread her legs wide.
And then he was between them, bent over, his tongue licking and circling along the edges
of her pussy. She was too dazed to feel the shame she should have felt at being so naked
and obscenely exposed to him like that. His hands caressed her thighs and buttocks as he
kissed her clitoris, then thrust his tongue into her furrow and slid it up and down along
her slit.
His thumbs spread her labia open and he pumped his tongue inside her, then slid it up
and circled her clit.
Sam was starting to get her breath back now, starting to get her mind back. She reached
for him, her hands pushing weakly against his head. But he ignored her, bent over her sex,
licking more strongly, his tongue now lapping at her clit as she moaned and whimpered a
complaint. Again it was a gasped “don’t!”, and again the sensations he was rousing in her
robbed the plea of any force.
And suddenly, she didn’t feel any desire to stop him. She was laying sprawled out wet
and naked under the sun, arms and legs wide, as he performed oral sex on her. And it
seemed – right somehow. She decided not to fight him, to let him do with her as he wished,
to let him ravish her if he desired. She would simply let him do whatever he wanted.
Which was pretty much all she knew how to do anyway.
The sensations from his licking tongue were growing more and more powerful, more and
more intense, and her hands and arms jerked on the ground beside her, her chest arching,
head rolling from side to side as she moaned and gasped. Her hips rolled up, her breathing
growing more and more ragged. She’d never had oral sex performed on her before, and found
the sensations wondrous and amazing.
“Oh! Oh God! Oh my God! Oh! Oh! Unggghh! Oh! Ungggh!” she gasped, head rolling from side
to side as his fingers penetrated her and slid deep.
They pumped in and out as he licked and sucked at her clitoris, and Samantha was wrapped
up in the most exotic and exciting sexual sensations she’d ever experienced.
The second orgasm hit her even harder than the first, and she stiffened and then arched
back violently, hips bucking up against him as he pumped his fingers much faster and
licked much harder. She twisted and thrashed on the ground, hands grasping at his hair to
try to jam his face down harder against her sex as the orgasm tore through her like a
hurricane.
So this was what she’d been missing, she thought dazedly, as the orgasm faded. He
continued licking, rousing her yet again, and then was pulling himself out of the water,
turning her around, and she gasped at the size of his cock as he pushed it against her.
Despite how wet and ready she was it was a tight fit, and Sam groaned as he pushed it in
slowly and firmly. She was not a virgin, and had experimented in using dildos to satisfy
herself at one point in her life – to no avail. Now she felt the slickness of his hard,
warm cock pushing into her and a sense of rightness spread through her mind as his body
settled atop her own.
It was the most vanilla of positions, on her back with her legs spread wide, but Sam
felt like a wanton slut as he pushed himself deep into her belly and settled atop her.
Yet, shockingly, she felt a sense of delight, not shame, a sense of smug pleasure at being
so slutty, so wanton, so wicked and nasty as to spread her legs naked for a man like this
and just let him – let him have her!
His cock plunged deep, pulled back, and thrust into her again. It hurt a little, but it
hurt so deliciously that she welcomed the ache. She grunted and moaned and caressed his
back and shoulders as he pumped, her tongue thrusting into his mouth as their lips mashed
together.
She felt wildly slutty, deliciously slutty as he fucked her, as she let herself be
fucked, right there on the concrete and grass, legs spread, sun beating down. She moaned
and gasped and jerked like a whore as he worked his hips up and down, and then,
incredibly, she came again, as his cock fucked even faster and harder.
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