Chapter One:

 

The Manhattan cabbie pulled up to the No Parking zone in front of the Bank of America tower and deposited Bradley Yewing onto the curb. Brad tipped generously, hurried across the sidewalk and shouldered his way through the double, plate-glass doors.

He stepped into the peaceful hush of the building's lobby and nodded to the girl with the phone-set nestled into her chestnut curls. Brad noted how her suit jacket gaped to allow the protrusion of rocket launcher boobs and secretly thanked the Personnel Department. But then realized, once again, he didn't know the girl's name and vowed, on the spot, to change that.

But not today.

The elevator whisked him to the 55^th Floor but not as fast, he discovered, as the phone call warning his Executive Assistant of his impending arrival. Eliza Rikkard was standing at the elevator door like a cat hovering over a mouse hole.

"Don't you ever do that to me again," she shot, squaring impressive shoulders and blocking his way into the reception area.

"What? Go on a ten-day holiday?"

"No. Leave me without the key to your executive washroom."

"I did that?"

"You know damn well..."

Brad momentarily held an image of Eliza, standing in his private john and rolling her pantyhose down over generous hips, but the image froze-over when he eyed the raft of papers she held in the crook of her left arm. "All those are for me?" Brad sighed.

Eliza finally stepped aside to let him pass. "This is just the morning delivery. There's a pile more on your desk."

"Oh Lord... Okay, we'll sort out the easy stuff first. Get that out of the way and then get to the meat of it." He stepped through his office door and slung his jacket over the rack.

"You get an elephant?" she finally asked.

"I didn't even see a fucking elephant."

Eliza smiled, showing off a mouthful of perfectly even, pearly teeth. "Score one for the elephants," she sounded rejoiceful, her eyes flashing happily, "I'm so glad."

"You and my wife, both. Trisha wasn't so keen on giving up wall space to an elephant's head..." Brad humped his shoulders. "Geez, forty-thousand bucks I spent... travel expenses across the Atlantic and then in Africa: licenses, outfitting a hunting party, securing a guide and a tracker. If I'd been targeting sand-flies, I'd have got my money's worth. I just spent a week under a fucking mosquito net. Between the impending doom of hepatitis from the shit food and dengue fever from the insect bites, you're lucky to have me back."

"I suppose... The Board of Directors were hopeful, until I told them I didn't want your job."

Brad gave her a soured look. "C'mon. Let's get to work on this crap."

Eliza dumped more papers on top of the stacks already weighing down his desk. "And don't forget, you have a Directors meeting at ten."

"Oh Lord," Brad repeated, looking at his watch. "Well at least we can make a start."

"And Busby screwed with your chair."

"What? You let him use my desk?"

"Hey. He's a Director. I'm a lowly Assistant..."

"And why in hell did he mess with my chair?"

"His feet wouldn't touch the floor."

 

Seated at his desk with his knees hunched, Brad watched Eliza bend over to sort the paperwork into manageable piles. His anus bunched.

She was a very attractive woman- blond, with hair cut fashionably short, ponderous tits and meaty thighs tightly swaddled in a short business skirt. She was married to some squirrely accountant-guy named Ron Rikkard, and the match was viewed by the men of the Department as one of life's most egregious injustices. Brad agreed with the general consensus... that it was a terrible waste of a hunk of Prime-A feminine flesh.

His thoughts of righting that injustice were disturbed by the buzz of his desk phone. Eliza reached across and plucked the receiver from the cradle. "Bradley Yewing's office." She listened a moment then cushioned the mouth piece into a boob. "A private call, Mr Yewing. A Mr Edwards. You want it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll speak with him." Eliza passed the phone across and went back to stacking papers. Brad spoke into the mouth piece: "Randy, ol' buddy. How's it?"

"Bradley... You got a head in your freezer?"

Brad had to fess up. "Naw. Not this time... but there was plenty to choose from."

"Bummer. You off your game?"

"No. Just got fussy, I guess. I was looking for the ultimate bull and refused to shoot anything with tusks under eight feet. Drove the Guide nuts." Brad chuckled under his breath.

"So the whole expedition was a wasted effort?"

"No, not entirely." Brad glanced across at Eliza, turned his back and lowered his voice. "The women on the Zimbabwe Plain are tall and fuckin' gorgeous, Randy. And they don't wear anything on top."

An uninterested tch echoed in Brad's ear. "They got nice tits, huh?"

"Fabulous tits. And they like white guys..."

"Sure. But more importantly, they like Yankee green backs," Randy snickered.

"Well, let's say it eased the burden somewhat."

"Sure. The burden on your nuts... Okay, okay. Look, I have a more important reason for calling, other than listening to you drool. Dutch just got delivery of his brand new, custom-made, four-sixty Weatherby Magnum, and by all accounts, it's a beautiful rifle. A real collector's piece."

"Geez, finally. How many months has it been? Four?"

"Closer to six. Anyway, the gun arrived from Wyoming two days ago and Dutch is hosting a small, private gathering at the Gun Club. A gun christening. He has invited his closest friends to help him sight-in the rifle and run a few rounds of ammo through the chamber at the range. After, there'll be good booze and a buffet table. I called to let you know you're invited. You good?"

"For a chance at firing a Weatherby? Damned right I'm good. And I'll help myself to Dutch's booze any day. He buys the good stuff. How many are going?"

"Just a dozen or so of us guys. But we are trying to round things out a little, with a couple of the ladies, just to soften the ambiance and to keep everyone on their best behavior and the language within the bounds of good taste. You think Trisha could be persuaded?"

"Well I can try later, when I get home, but I don't fancy my chances. Watching a bunch of clowns firing off a gun and guzzling free booze isn't exactly her idea of a night at the opera."

"Mmm, I hear yuh. Most of the wives feel the same way. I'm striking out big time."

"You thought of contracting talent?"

"Sure. But Dutch won't hear of it. If word ever got back to Rachel that we paid for hookers, his marriage would be toast."

"They wouldn't have to be hookers, necessarily," Brad offered. "They call the expensive ones escorts..."

"Look. Same diff. You know Dutch works for his friggin' father-in-law. A double whammy. At the very idea of nefarious women hanging about, Dutch would lose his job and the family fortune."

Brad shrugged. "Not to mention losing Rachel. That'd be tough."

"Well his wife would be of no great loss in my books... I mean Rachel's a nice looking women, if you like the frigid, high-end attorney type, but she has Dutch's balls firmly clenched between her fingers..." Randy thought a moment. "Hey, you got anyone else, maybe?"

"Anyone else?"

"Well, you know... someone else who could be persuaded to attend the gun christening. How about that leggy blonde you work with. She like guns?"

Brad turned in his chair and caught the icy impatient glint from beneath a sweep of blond that hung softly in Eliza's eyes giving her a I just got rolled look. It made his cock move but the feeling was quickly lost when he saw the stack of papers she was tapping. She was ready to work- not to get rolled. "Geez, I don't know, Randy. She's never mentioned anything..."

"Well do me a favor, old buddy. Give her a try, will yuh? I've got to find someone good."

Brad waved a hand, a conciliatory gesture tossed in Eliza's direction and he turned away again. "Look, she's kinda busy right now but I'll hit her up later this morning, after the Directors meeting, then call you back. Okay?"

"Okay, buddy. And thanks. She'd be great at the party and I know Dutch would appreciate it. I'll talk to yuh..." And Randy disconnected.

Brad placed the phone down and reached for the first stack of papers.

Eliza passed him a pen. "This bunch is easy. Just requires a signature. I've read them and everything is in order. Just sign."

"I could be signing away the family jewels," Brad quipped.

"Your flippin' jewels are of no interest to anyone but you. Just keep signing..."

Brad flipped through pages, applying his signature as he went. If nothing more, he trusted Eliza's judgment and there wasn't a dishonest bone in that great body of hers. If there had been, he would have ignored her bonds of matrimony and hit on her years ago.

 

Brad had worked through the first stack of papers and was well into the second when he paused to give his fingers a rest. "I know you side with the elephants, Eliza. But you're not really an anti-gun nut, are you?"

Eliza glanced up from the page she was reading, a twinge of surprise bracketing her mouth. "Strange question..."

Brad shrugged. "I was just kinda wondering. I mean, you've never said..."

"That's because I've never really thought about it, one way or the other. I grew up on a farm and dad had a rifle, a couple of them I think. Animals got sick and had to be dealt with, put out of their suffering. And there was always a fox interested in the hen-house. I grew up with that. Now my husband? He's afraid of guns. Wouldn't have one in the house, which is fine. His decision. But me? I've never shot one but I'm not uncomfortable with having them around, either. Okay, so spill..."

"Spill?"

"Yes. Why suddenly, are you so interested? I'm sure, personally, you could care less about my position on gun control. So where'd the question come from?"

Brad tried his best at a disarming laugh. "Well I'm asking you out, on a date actually. There's a small, informal reception at the Gun Club and Trisha can't make it. A friend, a gun collector, has just taken delivery of a very expensive, custom-made rifle and this is his opportunity to show it off to his friends. I though maybe you'd like to accompany me. Not many people are afforded the opportunity of shooting a Weatherby."

"A Weatherby?"

Brad frowned. "You've heard the name before?"

Eliza was intrigued. "You know, I think I have. Maybe on television, or something. It's a big-game rifle, isn't it?"

"The finest big-game rifle in all the world. And the most expensive. Weatherbys are legendary and you'll have an opportunity to fire one."

Eliza's face tightened. "How many other women will be there, at the Club?"

Brad tried the laugh again, with limited effect. "Oh a few of the wives will be coming. I'm guessing about half a dozen or so. Some will be interested in the buffet, some will want to fire the gun. But all in all, an interesting group. And the reception is sure to break up early. These things always do."

Eliza's shoulders relaxed a little. "I've never shot any kind of gun before but I have to admit, it sounds intriguing. I've heard the recoil from a big gun can be quite painful..."

Brad couldn't believe it but he seemed on the verge of winning her over. "The old saying is they kick like a mule. But Dutch will be using light loads so he can shoot repeatedly to get the sights set to his liking. The gun won't hurt you."

Eliza glanced at her wrist. "Damn. You've got five minutes to get down to the boardroom. Brad was instantly on his feet and headed toward the door. The Directors were sticklers for punctuality. "Your jacket," Eliza cried. "Grab your jacket."

Brad swiped his jacket from the rack and shouldered it on. "And the Gun Club?"

Eliza was pushing him out the office door. "Sure, sure. Will a black cocktail dress do, or should I wear green camo?"

 

 

Chapter Two:

 

It didn't settle in his mind straight away but as the Directors meeting wound down into a meaningless discussion about the color of the female model's hair in the new television advertisement the ad agency had presented, it suddenly hit him. He had a date- with Eliza. The blond bombshell for whom every guy in the office held a dirty fantasy- not to mention a hard-on. But the realization, as mind-blowing as it was, did come with strings attached. First and foremost, how was he going to explain choosing to take Eliza to the Gun Club over his wife? Trisha wasn't the most flexible women on earth and allowing him to spend time with another woman, no matter how innocent the encounter, was not about to happen.

He could lie, he decided, but Trisha was acquainted with some of the other wives at the Gun Club. If it got back that he'd turned up at a cocktail party with his Executive Assistant on his arm, the fallout would be felt all the way to the Canadian border.

And Eliza was also married- to Ron Rikkard, the weeny accountant-guy. At least he didn't carry a gun but Brad had to wonder how Eliza was going to explain away her absence that coming Friday evening. Maybe he should discuss it with Eliza and coordinate a plan. But that would have her searching between the lines for some clandestine motive attached to his invitation to Dutch's gun christening- something beyond shooting a Weatherby and sloshing free booze. God, what were his chances of getting a hand down her pants?

The sound of chairs being pushed back brought him into the here and now. "Where the hell are we going to find a financially sensible redhead," someone was joking. "Every redhead I ever knew was a freakin' scatterbrained firecracker." Someone else joined the chorus of laughter. Brad shrugged it off. He'd get back to the privacy of his office, phone Angelo, and worry about the tactical maneuvering with his wife later.

 

"Yes, it's me, Angelo. Is that you, Mr Yewing?"

Brad swiveled back in his chair to relieve the pressure on his knees. "Yes, Angelo." There was a ripping sound in the background, like a dentist's drill. "You in the shop."

"Good guess. One of the bozo-jocks dinged a fire hydrant. It's gonna take some filler and a couple of coats of paint."

"Ah-h, sorry to hear that. Look Angelo, I need a car for Friday night..."

"Friday? Sure, I got the Caddy stretch available. That suit you?"

"Perfect. There's a reception at the Gun Club and I'm taking... " Brad hesitated, weighing options. "Hey Angelo, you got something else, ah- something less pretentious?" He was thinking about Eliza again, thought about her reading something into his invitation. What would she think if he showed up at her doorstep in a stretch Cadillac, complete with a uniformed driver?

"Well sure, Mr Yewing. If you want, there's the Continental."

The answer to his problem jumped into his head: Watching a bunch of guys firing off a gun and guzzling free booze isn't exactly a night at the opera.

Damn it... "Look Angelo, I'll take both cars!"

There was a pause on the other end of the line followed by Angelo clearing his throat. "I'm sorry, did yuh say both?"

"Yes. Both cars. I want the Cadillac at my door at seven, for Mrs Yewing. And the Continental a half-hour later, at seven-thirty- that's for me. Got it?"

"You're taking separate cars?"

"Mmm. A scheduling conflict. You good?"

"Well sure, I guess. You're the boss. That's two cars, Friday night, seven and seven-thirty."

"Great. Put it on my card."

Brad hung the phone up and immediately punched in the number that connected him with the Marketing Director at the New York City Opera Center. "Hey, Mitchell. What's on stage- Friday of this week?"

Brad listened closely, then nodded. "Faust? Perfect. Mrs Yewing will be attending the performance with a friend. Can you arrange a pair of tickets, to be left at the Box Office?"

Mitchell was more than helpful. He had a couple of press seats leftover.

"Great," Brad continued. "And a reception after the performance? Mrs Yewing would love to attend."

"We'd be honored," Mitchell confirmed. "I'll escort Mrs Yewing, personally."

The arrangements set, Brad sat back and smugly wondered about the accountant-guy. Had Eliza out maneuvered her husband as smartly as he had just out maneuvered his wife? And if Eliza had gone to all the trouble- why? Was it the allure of a Weatherby rifle? Or maybe, just maybe, she wanted to be away from the office and alone with him for once. After years of the accountant-guy, maybe she was in search of a spark. And had decided he was the one who could reignite the flame. God, he thought, please let it be so. Eliza was a virtual powder keg.

 

"Your wife okay with this?"

Eliza was tastefully attired in the little black cocktail dress and at the sight of her, Brad's heart started to thrum like a sixteen-year-old's. Eliza's dress, holding tight about those superb thighs, exposed a curvy length of leg. She wore black pantyhose and patent leather heels. Her hair was parted on the side, gelled, and swept across, trimmed even with her ear lob on the opposite side. Strands hung seductively in her eyes.

But it was the draped neckline that held his eye- three sweeps of silk that hung low enough to expose the tops of her breasts. Brad hungered for those breasts and was aware of the moisture pooling under his tongue. He saw the flesh waddle like bowls of jello as she ducked into the Continental's rear seat.

Her breasts were large, large enough to attract a man's attention from across the street but not so large as to be considered sloppy. And Brad knew there was more to a nice set of tits than just bulk. He had often wondered about the size, shape, and color of her nipples but in his heart of darkness, he knew Eliza would not disappoint and he fought the urge to push his face between those jiggly tits and lick up whatever salty moisture he might find lurking in the lusty cleavage- lick Eliza neat and clean.

He himself had decided to forgo his formal dinner jacket in favor of a casual gray suit with an open shirt collar. Anything more, he sensed, and Eliza would suspect a trap.

"Oh sure," he lied. "Trisha hates the Gun Club and besides, tonight is opera night. She subscribes to the program at the Opera Center."

The driver put the car into gear and they sped toward the Lincoln Tunnel.

"Oh really. That's something I could never develop a liking for: Opera."

"You and me, both," Brad chuckled. "I guess it's an acquired taste. And your husband?" Brad couldn't help but ask. "Hope he doesn't mind the boss spiriting you away for the evening."

"Oh gosh, not a problem." Eliza settled comfortably into the leather upholstery. "He's out of town, actually. Been gone the whole week. His firm flew him down to Washington to do an audit for some big aerospace company. He'll be gone for most of the month."

Brad's heart wrenched.

Okay, he had secretly hoped that Eliza was game for stepping out with him and the realization that she was just bored and looking for a distraction, was disappointing. But then again, the thought of the blond cow alone in her bed, rubbing her aching thighs together during the coming weeks, made him want to renounce his wedding vows. If he played his cards right, did he have any chance at all of getting between the thunderous thighs that, slightly parted, were perched on the seat next to him?

 

The Gun Club was situated on an industrial tract of land where the crack of high-powered weaponry wouldn't disturb the local populace. The building was squat and decidedly masculine in form and function: concrete and gravel sufficed for grass and flowerbeds.

The Continental pulled to the curb and the driver hopped out to get Eliza's door, and to opportunely position himself to take advantage of the view of the tall blonde unfolding her legs from the rear seat. Brad was also there, to watch and to offer a helping hand. Eliza spurned the male attention and expertly extracted herself from the car without any undue show of thigh muscle.

She rose to her full height, took a breath and glanced about at her surroundings. The sun had drifted below the horizon and from beyond the lighted panels of glass, the sound of men's laughter, muted music and the tinkle of glassware drifted on the damp air. If she had her first pangs of dread, it didn't show.

Brad walked beside her, listening to the click of her heels on the sidewalk and fought an overwhelming desire to take her by the arm- to take possession of her before they made their entrance. He knew the men- knew there would be looks of envy, maybe even some resentment when his buddies got an eye-full of Eliza's body bound in the skimpy dress and he had a primeval need to stake out his claim on the woman before anyone got any ideas of cutting in.

They entered the brightly lit room where a table was draped in blue velvet and displayed a very heavy-looking piece of artillery sporting a blond wood stalk. A dozen men stood in small groups, smoking and sucking back alcohol, but turned together, drinks forgotten, at the sight of Eliza tottering nervously in the doorway.

"I thought you said there'd be women," she hissed under her breath.