Looking for Lanie

Looking for Lanie

A professor searches for a woman with Daddy issues

This story was inspired by Melanieatplay. She was a willing encourager, but a non-consenting collaborator. One way or the other, Mel contributed significantly to the content.

Chapter One

I’m a doctor. Not the kind of doctor who can do anybody any good. My degree is in academia. Simply reading the title of my doctoral thesis could put you to sleep. My classes won’t. I’ve been told I’m an engaging communicator. Prior to COVID, there was always a waiting list. I don’t say that with pride. It’s simply that I enjoy teaching, and it shows. Students prefer someone who is passionate about what they teach, and someone who wants others to share that passion.

It’s possible you won’t like me once this journey starts. I might come off as creepy at first. But I’m not. At least not the way it will seem. I promise you that when this story ends, even if you still think I’m creepy, it will be in a whole different way. I’m not the villain. I might even be the victim.

In addition to teaching, I also write. Actually, I’m required to write. Publish or perish is not just a saying. It’s a real threat. But the academic world is not high-paying. I am the department chair. I get a decent salary. My scholarly journal articles and handful of books have probably made me hundreds of dollars. So out of financial desperation, I started writing other things.

The first was a short story I submitted to a mystery magazine. Using the pseudonym Dow Drucker, I wrote “One Bird, Two Stones.” They bought it for tens of dollars. But it was the encouragement I needed to spend my free time writing in the mystery genre. One of my detectives clicked. Within a few years, I found modest success with the “Adam Knox, PhD” series.

Knox was a character loosely based on me. An academic who decided to use his intellect outside the academy. Number 1 sold well enough to get a contract for more. Numbers 2 and 3 were moderately successful. Number 4 is going to hit the digital shelves any day. Number 5 is giving me fits. Knox needs to go new places, but I am stuck.

Meanwhile, my savings account is the healthiest it has ever been. But I don’t spend lavishly. I still drive a 12-year-old Corolla. While dependable and good on gas, the biggest problem is inserting and extracting my 6’2″ frame. I’m not a car guy. And I see no need to draw attention by showing up on campus in a new vehicle. Professors can be jealous, suspicious, and petty. I have no desire to provide them with fodder for feuding.

Even in the remote chance that “Adam Knox, PhD” develops into some sort of mega hit, I want to keep teaching. I have tenure. At 53, I’ve easily got another decade in me. I play tennis twice a week. That keeps me in moderately good shape. I gave up full-court basketball when I turned 50. My vertical leap had turned into a horizontal lurch. So I’m enjoying good health and some wealth.

But there’s a problem. And I’m not talking about my Knox character development issues. I’m talking about Lanie. Technically, she’s not a problem. She doesn’t even know me. The real me anyway. There’s a lot of ground to cover before I get to Lanie. Bear with me. She’s worth the wait.

It’s about time to introduce myself. Jacob Visser. That’s my real name, not my pseudonym. Usually there’s Doctor in front of it. I never say, “My name is Dr. Jacob Visser.” That’s pretentious. With a PhD you can get a venti Americano at Starbucks…provided you also have about five dollars.

I’m single. That’s not what I wanted. Joy and I met in college, married when I was in grad school. We didn’t have children, but we did have a good life together, until I screwed up. That was years ago. I’ll tell you about the screwing part, even though my life didn’t actually explode until years later. My affair with a student was more than a decade in the past when Joy found out. There is no statute of limitations on infidelity. In Joy’s mind it might as well have happened yesterday. The marriage was over.

Her name was Samantha. She was in my medieval literature course. Bright, attentive, attractive. I was still in my 20s then, so the age difference was negligible. Okay, maybe I was 30. Regardless, I was the professor. At the time, the power differential never entered my mind. Looking back, I realize how wrong it was on every level. The biggest concern I had all those years ago was the fact I was married. Even though that did enter my mind, I didn’t see the wrecking ball headed in my direction. I’d never cheated before. Sadly, that was about to change.

Before I show you what I’m dealing with in the present, I have to take you back to that past. You need to know what I wish Joy had never discovered. But I guess the truth is, even if Joy hadn’t found out about my affair, the problem with Lanie would still be a reality. And before you can meet Lanie, you need to know about my affair with Samantha. Confused yet? Imagine living it. I’m still befuddled.

Samantha was tall, athletic, with long, light caramel brown hair that she would casually sweep behind her ear on one side, while the other side seductively covered just a bit of her beautiful face. That description alone will clue you in about how closely I watched her. She sat in the front row. In Medieval Lit, the front row usually filled last. But she always chose it. Samantha crossed and uncrossed her legs. I watched every movement. Some days she wore a skirt. Those were my favorite days.

Her papers were excellent. Clearly my top student. She taught me a thing or two. She had insight on Jacobus de Varagine’s the Golden Legend that was astounding. There was no need for tutoring, which I would have gladly supplied. So I settled for surreptitiously staring.

With a little innocent snooping, I found out she was on the volleyball team. For the first time ever, I went to a game or match or contest, or whatever the hell they call it. I don’t know volleyball. Still don’t. I watched her every move. Samantha’s backside was hypnotic. All these years later, I can still see her tight athletic shorts hugging her ass. My eyes were fixed on her every bend, every serve, every jump.

Once, after she spiked the ball to win a game, Samantha did a little happy dance. Her back was to me at the time. The side to side motion as she swayed from one foot to the other, defined each cheek in a way that will be emblazoned on my mind forever. It gives me an erection just to think about it now. After that one match, I realized I probably shouldn’t go again. I was feeding a fantasy. I needed to stop. But I couldn’t. I attended every home game with great enthusiasm.

The semester was almost over. When I ended my lecture one Friday, my class rushed out like it was an active shooter drill. Most were anxious to get started on the long weekend. A couple of the hard workers were headed for the library to get started on assignments. There were fewer of those students than I would have liked.

I bent down behind the lectern to unplug my laptop. When I stood up, Samantha was right there. Immediately I noticed her height. I’d never been this close to her when both of us were standing. I’m used to looking down at women. I don’t look down “on” them, except in the physical sense, since most are almost a foot shorter than me.

Samantha seemed eye-to-eye. It made me feel less in control. It also made me excited. My eyes skittered over her. She was wearing a sage green sleeveless top, tucked into high-waisted jeans. Her height was explained by her shoes. They were like platform tennis sneakers. I learned later that the term is stacked. A word which fit much more than her style of footwear. My visual scouting trip was brief, and my eyes made it back to her face. Her perfect mouth and dark eyes communicated a slight smirk at my expense. Her fingers reached up to curl her long hair behind one ear, leaving the other side partially hiding one eye.

In my classroom, I’m in charge. There’s an air of authority about me. I don’t abuse it. I’m not a jerk. I just like things to be respectful and orderly. I’m in command of most situations. Even when I don’t seek it. I’ve been selected for two jury trials. Both times I was made foreman. I didn’t try to make that happen, it just did. Most people want a leader. Not someone who is selfishly demanding or demeaning. They want someone who knows what to do, leads by example, and takes responsibility. My approach is to treat the students like adults. I expect the same in return. That’s the demeanor I have with Samantha, even though I’m enamored with her.

“Yes, um…Miss…ah…Taylor.”

Despite the size of some of my classes, and the number of students I teach, it’s always been my practice to know their names; especially by the end of the semester. Somehow, it seemed overly familiar to use Samantha’s first name, even though that’s what I would have done with every other student. Subconsciously I was trying not to betray how much I thought about this one particular student.

Her suppressed smirk or grin, broke into a full smile. As Elf said, “Smiling’s my favorite.” Her smile was the best of all. I could help but smile back. She shifted the bag she carried to her other hand, and curled her hair behind her other ear. Now I could see both her eyes. They sparkled. They drew me in. Her lips were moist and full and moving. That was when I realized she was actually speaking to me, and I should start listening instead of gazing like I was a tourist in a museum admiring a Monet.

“Well prof,” she said, “I wanted to ask about your course on Magical Realism next semester.”

“Sure,” I said, trying not to reveal how much more I would look forward to every class knowing she was in it. That would put some real magic in what was usually my least favorite class to teach.

“Any reason I shouldn’t take it?”

“None that I can think of.” Truthfully, I wasn’t trying very hard to think of any reasons. “It would fit you well.”

“Would it?” she asked with a bemused look. Even I could tell this was a rhetorical question. Was she being provocative, or was it just my imagination?

“I’m confident it would,” I said, trying to sound detached and professorial. “You are my best student, after all.”

“Am I?” It was really a statement. “Is that why you come to my volleyball matches?”

“I…uh…like to support school sports,” I said, making a mental note that it was a match not a game. I decided to regain control.

“I apologize if my presence made you uncomfortable in any way,” my tone turned formal, but I avoided any hint of self-justification, or blame-shifting. “I’ll stop attending…and if that’s the root of your concern about taking my Magical Realism course…”

“No need to be defensive…prof,” she said evenly. “I’m not complaining.”

Just like that, my last vestige of control evaporated. I was no longer the professor, but the student trying to get an extension on an overdue assignment. The way she said she wasn’t complaining made the blood rush to my head. I still tried to keep it together.

“Very good, so I’ll look forward to having you in class next semester…if you so choose.” I shut my laptop, and began to wind up the power cord, avoiding eye contact.

“Are you going away over the weekend?” Her tone made this an innocent question.

“Um…no…we’re not,” I said, regretting that I’d emphasized the ‘we’re’ too much. I rushed to provide an unnecessary explanation. “Joy, my wife, is an elementary teacher. She works harder than I do. That’s not her saying so, I know so.” Now I was blathering. But the snowball was already rolling down the hill. “It’s a ton of work teaching young kids. The amount of after-hours prep she has to do keeps her too busy to get away. And she spends her own money on all the extra supplies.”

I finally shut up and took a breath. Samantha just looked at me for a long second, and then continued the conversation without comment on my unnecessary verbal avalanche.

“That’s too bad. I’m not going anywhere either. In fact, I plan to be in the library a lot. Especially Sunday evening. I will definitely be there then.”

I nodded, wondering what exactly I should to do with that information. I finished storing my laptop, power cord, and assorted papers in my bag, and zipped it closed. When I grabbed the handle, she stepped closer and in something louder than a whisper said what no one had ever said to me before.

“I’ve always wanted to have your dick in my mouth.”

And then she was gone.

Chapter Two

To say that my mind was elsewhere on that Friday night and all day Saturday would be an understatement. Joy asked what was wrong. Did I feel okay? I tried to shake the fog out of my brain. I knew the cause of my mental stupor, but didn’t know how to explain it to my wife.

What could I say? “Yes, honey. The reason I’m a little unfocused is because my brightest, hottest student, a girl I’m obsessed with, mind you, yeah, well, I think she wants to suck my dick. I’m sure you can imagine why I can’t stop thinking about her. I’m actually wondering if fucking is a real possibility. What do you think? Should I go for it?”

What I said to her instead was something about an upcoming faculty meeting and a report I had to present. Joy seemed to accept that answer and went back to prepping her lesson plan for the next week. I continued my inner debate about whether a Sunday evening trip to the library was advisable. The pros and cons not only appeared to cancel each other out, they seemed to be one and the same.

Pro: I really did need to use the library this weekend.

Con: Ditto

Pro: Samantha might not even be there.

Con: Ditto

Pro: If she was there, she was probably kidding about the oral sex.

Con: Ditto

Pro: There might be a wild sexual encounter.

Con: Ditto

You get the idea. And it won’t surprise you that I ended up at the library on Sunday. Since it closed at 7 on the weekend, I got there at 3. The place was virtually deserted. Not a surprise, especially on a long weekend. I went to the spot I typically chose, a study carrel outside the antiquities study room. Since I hadn’t spotted Samantha on my way through, I got busy on the bit of research I needed to complete. I was so engrossed, that two hours went by before my rumbling stomach interrupted me. I considered walking over to the café for a sandwich. That break in concentration was all it took for thoughts of Samantha to flood my mind.

I stood up and stretched. Deciding to leave everything on the carrel, I left that wing of the library and headed toward the main entrance. That was when I saw her. She was sitting at a table piled high with books. She was busy writing and her head was down. She was wearing jean shorts, frayed at the hem. I could see her long legs under the table, crossed at the ankles. Nike running shoes with a blue swoosh. Her top was a light blue tank. The spaghetti straps showed off her toned arms, and tanned skin. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

Without much hesitation, I walked up to her table. I had zero idea of what to say, but that had never stopped me before.

“Fancy meeting you here,” I said in a low voice, suitable for library communication.

She looked up, and smiled. It was a pleasant smile. It said, ‘Nice to see you’ and not ‘Are you ready to fuck me?’ Just looking into her eyes made my stomach flip flop. Hunger was gone. At least the kind that would be cured by a cheeseburger.

“Yes, I’ve been here most of the weekend,” she replied, “other than breaks for meals, practice, and the like. How about you?”

“I’ve been here for a couple of hours. Thought it was time to grab a bite…can I bring you anything?”

“No thanks. You’re coming back then?”

“I’m set up outside the antiquities room. So I’ll be back to finish up.”

She smiled, and I didn’t know what else to say, so I left. How I felt was conflicted. Was I relieved? Disappointed? Hungry? Nauseated?

In the short walk to the café, hunger won out. I got a large bottle of smart water and a ham and cheese croissant. I took a swig of one and a bite of the other, and headed back to the library. I lingered outside the entrance in order to finish eating. I like to break as few rules as possible. I washed down the last bite with another swallow of water, tossed the wrapper into the garbage and re-entered. Samantha was in the same spot. She looked up as I walked by. I raised the water bottle in a sort of acknowledgment or toast, and kept walking like I had better things to do.

Getting back into my research was challenging. Thoughts of Samantha distracted me. I flipped through the pages of a journal without comprehending a thing. Then I saw her legs. Her approach had been noiseless, and caught me by surprise. But there she was, standing a few feet in front of me. I didn’t need to raise my view higher to know it was her, but of course I did. Those thighs, tantalizingly on display in the denim shorts. Her light blue tank. Everything so casual and yet so stylish. The same smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She stepped forward, placed both hands on my table, and leaned forward.

“Are you ignoring me, Prof?” she asked.

“How could I ever ignore you?” I wanted to sound nonchalant, but what came out had a ring of desperation.

“I told you what I wanted,” she continued. “You’ve got the time and place right.”

“I had work to do,” I said lamely.

“The way that you try not to look at me in class…it’s adorable. But I look at you too. I think you’re sexy as hell, so if you feel the same about me…”

“I did…I do. But, this isn’t supposed to…we shouldn’t…I’m your…”

“Well, Prof. I’m an adult. And the question is, do you want to just read about life in the past, or live it in the present?”

I swallowed hard. All the pros and cons had coalesced into one single decision. I stood up, reached for her hand. She took it. I led her around the table, while fishing in my pocket with my other hand. I came up with the key to the antiquities room by the time we reached the door. Clearly, I had formed a plan in my mind without effort. This wing was deserted. The library itself was almost empty. And only a few people had a key to the antiquities room. I was pretty certain no one else would be going in there tonight. In fact, I was betting my whole career on it. My marriage too.

Once the door was open, I led her inside. There was no pulling. My intentions were unmistakable. She had to be free to back out. I flipped the wall switch and florescent light blazed the room. Samantha immediately turned off the switch, and shut the door. That was all the consent I needed. I pulled her close. I looked into her beautiful eyes. Our lips were inches apart. My gaze went from her eyes to her mouth and back again. I licked my lips. Still holding her hand with my right, I curled my left arm around her waist. But even then, I didn’t close the gap between us. I let her make that final move.

Her lips were smooth and warm. Her breath, hot and sweet. I took in the scent of her hair. Her eyes were closed. Mine were wide open. I didn’t want to miss a thing. I tilted my head in the other direction, guiding her with my left hand. Our noses brushed against each other. I opened my mouth widely and pushed my tongue between her lips. She welcomed the intrusion. She closed her lips around my tongue and sucked on it.

This upped my level of passion. I shifted my head from one side to the other. I let go of her hand, so mine was free to explore her amazing backside. Cupping her firm ass cheeks, I pressed her body into mine. There was no mistaking my erection.

I reclaimed my tongue enough to use it for speaking.

“You are incredibly beautiful,” I told her. “I can’t help but stare at you. I’ve never seen someone so perfect.”

I didn’t wait for an answer. I just saw the smile in her eyes, and returned to kissing her mouth and caressing her body.

Despite the lack of overhead lighting, there was enough illumination for what we were doing. Between the EXIT signs and the light filtering underneath the door, I could see just fine. I felt great. She felt great. But a few moments later, she pushed away from me. It surprised me. Immediately, I let go of her and held both hands up like I was surrendering. What I was doing was wrong on multiple levels. And if she had reached the out-of-bounds line, then I had too. No matter how crazy I was for her, not even consent was good enough for me. I would only settle for her enthusiastic participation.

But I had seriously misjudged Samantha’s intentions. She hadn’t reached a boundary. She was ready to cross one. Simply dropping to her knees, she began unzipping my pants. I don’t always know what women are thinking, but I took that as a good sign. I unbuckled my belt as she wrangled the zipper down. She was attempting the reach into my underwear, when I took the initiative to unhook my own pants and let them drop. The bulge in my shorts was impressive. She fondled my hardness. I could feel her hot breath. It put even more strain on my entrapped erection.

She wrapped her fingers around the waistband of my shorts and said something that could have been funny, but wasn’t at that moment.

“Time to release the Kraken!”

Now I was worried. If she was expecting a monster, she wasn’t getting one. I’m a bigger than average guy in most areas. Size 13 shoes. Two inches over six feet. At that point, a still powerful body. But everything between my legs is at best average. Girth, length, whatever you measure, none of it is something to write home about. Not that I would write home about it anyway. Who would I be sending that letter to?

My anxiety didn’t have time to diminish my erection. Samantha pulled down my shorts and I popped into view. Swollen, pumped up, and ready for battle. She grasped me at the base, and slowly stroked up to the purplish head and back down. Her touch was soft and smooth.

“You have a gorgeous cock,” she said, as she looked up into my eyes. Hers were pools of liquid darkness that sucked me in and made my heart beat even faster. “It’s like the rest of you. Just what I imagined.”

And with that, she put me in her mouth. Her lips slid over my glans and stopped. The sensation made me want to declare my undying love.

Instead, I said, “Oh…my…God.”

She pulled off of me, and traced the ridge of my swollen head all the way around. My cock was coated with her saliva. I closed my eyes involuntarily. Immediately I opened them again, not wanting to miss the visual sensation. Her eyes were still on me. Samantha sucked my glans back between her lips. It slid into her obscenely. We were intimately connected, and yet the space between us was the length of the rest of my shaft. She held me there. I wanted to be immobilized that way forever. Only my bulbous head was in her mouth. She sucked on the tip as she explored with her tongue her tongue at the same time. It was a sensation I’d never felt. It was thrilling and scary all at once.

Her head bobbed down past the glans slightly, and then back up. On her next downward move, I tried to push more deeply into her mouth, but she resisted. She repeated this again and again. Her free hand found my testicles and fondled them. I was helpless.

Just when I felt overcome with sexual frustration, Samantha took more of me into her mouth. The slippery warmth made me gasp. With each bob of her head, her depth increased, until finally she reached the root of my manhood. I felt her nose touch my pubic hair. My shaft was so slick with her saliva the motion was almost frictionless. The pace of her sucking intensified. An irresistible combination of sound, sight, and sensation cascaded over me.

Samantha wordlessly, energetically, tenaciously assaulted my senses with her mouth. I wanted this to last forever. Of course, that would be impossible for countless reasons, several of them physiological. I carefully pulled myself away from her mouth. She gave me a puzzled look, like…Am I not doing this right? Firmly, but gently, I grasped both arms and raised her to her feet. I kissed the lips that had just wrapped themselves around my cock. Her mouth was sloppy wet and warm. My tongue explored hers again. I felt delirious, but in a controlled, powerful way.

A second later, I broke the kiss and issued a directive.

“Take off those shorts. I need to see your incredible body.”

She kept her eyes on me as she unbuttoned, then unzipped the shorts. Keeping my attention on her, I took the opportunity to step out of my own clothes. My cock was so hard it barely moved as I stripped away all encumbrances of shoes, pants, socks, and underwear.

Samantha stood up, still wearing panties. They were some shade of blue or green or maybe turquoise. She gave me a look that seemed almost demure. Without another word, I grabbed her around the waist, lifted her off her feet, and set her bottom on the edge of the study table. Putting my arms under her thighs, I spread her legs open, and knelt down.

Her panties were soaked through. I gazed at the darkened wet spot, and then looked up between her legs to her face. Samantha was biting her lower lip. The shy look was gone. Lust took its place.

I turned my head to the left and kissed the inside of her right leg. Then I turned to the other side, and kissed her left leg. Working my way up each leg, I finally got to her inner thigh. As my cheek brushed against her panties, I could feel the heat radiating from her vulva. I stared into her eyes, as I deliberately stuck out my tongue and gave one lick through the wet fabric. She moaned. I ran my tongue over her again and again from bottom to top.

Between my tongue and her juices, the panties were sodden. I pulled them aside to reveal what was the most beautiful display of intimate flesh I had even seen. There was a little tuft of dark pubic hair at the top, but the rest of her was bare. Peach-like was the most apt description.

“You are stunning everywhere,” I breathed. “I have never, ever wanted to taste a pussy as much as I want to taste yours right now.”

My initial thought was to kiss her vertical lips. Instead, I covered her entire pussy with my mouth. While enveloping her mound, I moaned into her. The vibrations rippled through her sex, and made her squirm. Not sure if she was enjoying that, I removed my mouth, and spread her pussy lips apart with my fingers.

“Are you ready for me to lick you? I asked facetiously, “or do you want me to stop?”

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, “You’re driving me…”

Using my tongue, I focused only on the lips. Licking one side and then the other, over and over. Juices oozed from her as my tongue touched everything accept her clit.

She began grinding her hips toward my mouth. She clearly wanted more. I held off. Teasing her. I continued to lick and kiss all around her pussy. I let her feel my hot breath in her most intimate place. Then suddenly, I thrust my tongue into her slick hole.

“Oh, fuck,” she gasped. “Yessss.”

I thrust in and out, feeling my saliva generously mixing with her secretions.

“You’re fucking me…with your tongue,” she groaned. “Your tongue feels so good in my pussy!”

I kept on plunging my tongue in and out of her as she writhed in front of me.

When I sensed she was ready, I sucked her clit between my lips. I rolled my tongue over the little nub, caressing it with my mouth. Samantha grabbed my head with both hands, smearing my face into her wetness. I held her legs firmly and gave all my attention to her clitoris. I nibbled and licked and sucked, as I drove her toward climax.

“Don’t stop,” she panted. “Never stop.”

There were more things I wanted to say that probably would have intensified her desire. I wanted to tell her that she was more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. I wanted to describe how wet she was. I wanted to tell her how good she tasted. I wanted to tell her this was the best night of my life. But any of that would have meant pausing the good work I was doing. So instead of speaking, I used my mouth more productively. Gripping her legs tightly, I pressed my face into her sopping pussy and continued eating her out. I had no intention of stopping until she went over the edge.

I felt her body go rigid as she reached orgasm. In my mind I urged her forward and I kept on making love to her with my mouth. The ecstasy hit her in waves. Her body convulsed. Her breaths ragged. She gasped for air. I held her close until the spasms subsided. Finally, she opened her eyes, and sighed. She ran her fingers through my hair and smiled.

“Dr. Visser, you made me cum.”

“Class isn’t over yet, Miss Taylor,” I replied, standing up. “Get ready for a few extra-credit assignments.”

Chapter Three

That’s how it all began. We fucked right there on the table that night in the library. Then we fucked on Monday in my empty classroom with the door locked. Then we fucked in a hotel room at noon on the following Friday. After that session we showered together, soaping and washing each other’s bodies like we’d been together forever. And then we talked for another hour, which made me late for class.

By the next week, we were making love. At least I was. It went beyond physical attraction. At the time, I didn’t think Joy noticed. But she did. There is no way a woman can miss the fact that her man is infatuated with, or in love with another woman. She knows something is different, even if she denies what the cause might be.

Our affair lasted for over a year. After graduation, Samantha even turned down good job offers elsewhere to stay near me. I felt guilt and elation over her decision. She never asked me to leave Joy. I guess she knew I couldn’t. It wasn’t about staying together for the children. We didn’t have any. We couldn’t. After we’d tried for a couple years, without success, we’d both been checked out. I was the problem. My sperm count was lower than my IQ.

No, I couldn’t leave because I loved Joy, and Samantha knew it. What I’ll never know is if Samantha knew how much I loved her. We connected on every level. It wasn’t just sex. Although it was great sex. I wish I had a tally of all the orgasms we shared. We did things together that I had never even tried with Joy, and never would. But as great as the physical part was, I actually loved her. And I could see in her eyes that Samantha loved me too. There was pain mingled with the happiness.

Then she was gone. There was no warning. It happened after we met at her apartment, late on Friday afternoon. It was our regularly scheduled tryst. I was supposedly in a faculty sub-committee meeting. In hindsight, our encounter that day was especially intense. Our foreplay was longer and more passionate then we had time for. Then Samantha lay back on the bed, and spread her long beautiful legs far apart.

She incited me with a look, as she reached between her legs, and spread her lips apart. Her invitation was a whispered longing. She simply said, “Please, fuck me.” And I obliged. Gladly. Forcefully. Copiously. Before I released into her, I made sure she orgasmed. At least I think she did. It was different. Quieter. And once I had emptied myself into her, she smiled, but her eyes glistened, like she was crying. I assumed they were happy tears. Then we lay entangled together, our bodies sweaty, satiated. After a bit, I brought her a bottle of water, took a shower, got dressed, kissed her goodbye, told her I loved her, and went home to Joy.

That was the last time I saw Samantha. The texts I sent over the next few days went unanswered. I called from my office phone and it went straight to voicemail. On Friday, I went to her apartment, and knocked long and hard without result. I kept at it so long that the woman next door poked her head out to see what was happening.

“I’m looking for my friend, Samantha,” I explained to this stranger, who was wearing a tattered bathrobe and smoking a cigarette. “She’s not responding to my calls. Have you seen her?”

The woman was about 50 or 60. The overpowering odor of tobacco, fresh and stale, reached me before she responded. Taking that into consideration, it was entirely possible the woman was younger than she appeared. A heavy nicotine habit over a few decades can really age the skin.

“She moved out,” the woman said, her voice cluttered with phlegm. “Last Saturday, it was.”

I was stunned. “Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure. I watched the movers carry out all her stuff. She said goodbye. She even gave me her plants.”

“Where’d she go?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “If she didn’t tell you, then she don’t want you to know.”

My head dropped. I realized that it was over. I felt like a part of me was missing.

In the silence, the woman started to close her door.

“Please,” I called out, “just one more question.”

She paused, probably out of curiosity.

“Did she go far?” I asked, and then added, “I mean…I loved her so much, and I just want to know if she’s alright.”

I could see the woman hesitate, debating on what to say.

“Well, I guess there’s no harm in telling you this much. You won’t be running into her around town. She’s not close. She went to Nevada.” And with that, the woman closed the door.

The next week was torture. My frustration level ran high. It was like Samantha had died in a car crash. The end was sudden, unexpected, and I didn’t get to say goodbye. In hindsight, I realized that our final time had been intense for a reason. Our last kiss had been long and not perfunctory. The hug had been tighter than normal. That was her farewell.

As the weeks passed, the fog cleared. I stopped snapping at Joy, and reengaged with her emotionally. That little scrap of information about Nevada helped more than hurt. My mind focused on that one state. It kept her alive in my thoughts, but without overwhelming me with a range of other possibilities. My life began to return to normal. Within months I recognized a lightness that came from not having a secret life. The affair was actually a heavy burden I had carried for far too long. The psychological baggage had weighed me down. I hadn’t recognized the emotional extra weight until it was gone. I was sadder, but lighter. I was eventually able to admit that Samantha had probably done the right thing.

Each year got better. Until it didn’t. All my physical attentions and emotional attachments returned to Joy. There was no one else. I was selected as department head, and it allowed me to change offices. The new office was a bit bigger, and in a better location. The switch happened over the summer. Since Joy was out of school, she helped me pack up books, files, and personal items. All of a sudden, I realized she had stopped working. I glanced over and saw she was reading a card. My blood went cold. I knew immediately what it was.

“You son of a bitch.”

There was nothing I could say. Joy was holding a file folder that I never could bring myself to destroy. It had a handful of notes, cards, and letters Samantha had sent to me over the course of our relationship. I never looked at them anymore, it was too painful. But I couldn’t part with them.

“You are the first partner I let cum inside me,” Joy read aloud, “that’s how much I love you.”

She shuffled to another card, and spat out each word. “No one has ever made me feel as special as you. You are no longer just Dr. Visser. You are my soul mate.”

Joy volume increased as she made her way through every sentence. I wanted to close the door to keep others from hearing, but I couldn’t move. My life was disintegrating, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

“Just thinking about you during the day makes my panties wet. I can’t wait for you to take them off of me on Friday,” Joy yelled.

“I’m so sorry,” I muttered, unable to look at her. “That was so long ago, and it’s over.”

“You’re sorry?” She mocked. “Sorry it’s over? Sorry you’re no longer fucking…Samantha?”

“I’m sorry I betrayed you…hurt you…cheated on you. It will never happen again.”

“You’re right it won’t happen again,” snorted Joy, “you won’t have the chance.”

She snapped the folder shut. “And I’ll be keeping these. It will help make our divorce go smoothly.”

I still hadn’t moved, and didn’t know what to say. Joy started for the door, and then stopped.

“Fucking a student will ruin your career,” she said in a low voice. “Tell me it’s not happening now, and tell me it won’t happen again.”

“It’s not happening now, and it won’t ever happen again,” I answered, meaning every word.

“Make sure it doesn’t,” she snapped, “if it doesn’t, no one else need to know. If it does, I promise you, the administration will get copies of every single thing in this folder.”

She kept her word. And I kept mine. The divorce was quicker than I thought possible, but not painless. Despite all appearances, I loved Joy. The fracture created by losing Samantha had mended, and now my heart was shattered all over again. It was what I deserved. While I still loved Joy, I had doused her love with gasoline and dropped a match on it. Nothing but ashes remained.

We split the marital assets. The house was sold so we could divide the equity. I got her Corolla. It was the newer vehicle at the time, but I knew she liked the Honda Pilot, and offered it to her. She accepted. I’m still squeezing myself into that little sedan today. Somehow, it still smells like her. In a good, but depressing way.

More than a decade has gone by. I heard Joy remarried. As sad as it made me, I was happy for her. She deserved happiness after what I did to her. I deserved loneliness, and I got it. Sure, I went out on the occasional date. Most were set up by friends. My dates included a faculty member from the art department, a neighbor, a woman I met at the gym, another one I met in the produce aisle at the grocery store, some internet matches. Seldom did I seek a second date. There didn’t seem to be a point to allowing a relationship to develop. While I needed and wanted physical intimacy, I couldn’t engage emotionally.

In all those years, there was never a word from Samantha. Once all the dust from my divorce had settled, I did everything I could think of to find her. Internet searches of her name produced pics and posts connected to women who looked nothing like her. Not even close. I tried every combination I could think of, even just “Samantha” and “Nevada.” This produced 28 million results, and I went through most of them.

Clearly, she had changed her name, gone off grid, gotten married, or been abducted by space aliens. She was untraceable. On the other hand, I was easy to find. If she wanted to reach out, she could. My picture and bio were still on the university website. My school email was the same. And although we had rarely used it when we were together, my cell number was the same. If she wanted to communicate, she could. Faced with that truth, the ache of my longing for Samantha began to fade through the years. Writing helped. Especially the “Adam Knox, PhD” series. I channeled my pain into this character, and it paid off. I had a career, and a growing net worth, but no wife, and no Samantha.

That brings me back to the present. All this messiness coalesced into my today…and Lanie.

Chapter Four

“I love Adam Knox, PhD. When will the next one arrive?” @brainylanie

The tweet comes to the account set up under my writing pseudonym. This helps separate my two worlds, and yet still enables me to get comments from fans and the occasional troll.

Dow Drucker @DDrucker

“Thanks @braineylanie Working on #5 now. What do you like best about Knox?”

As I wait for an answer, I look at her profile. The pic is a digital drawing of Wonder Woman with her tongue seductively poking out of her mouth. The profile reads:

Lanie Carpenter @braineylanie

critical thinker, cynical talker, classical reader, conceptual runner, carnal adventurer

Las Vegas Joined 2019

All of that sounds fascinating. As I’m feeling intrigued, a direct message pops up.

Lanie Carpenter @braineylanie

“Your writing sings. You make Knox smart. I’m a sucker for mental acuity.”

I direct message back.

Dow Drucker @DDrucker

“Thanks again, Lanie. You’re too kind. Do you write?”

The return message appears in a minute.

Lanie Carpenter @braineylanie

“Yes. But we’re talking about you. Where’s Dr. Knox going next? How about Las Vegas?”

I pause. Then I write:

Dow Drucker @DDrucker

“Interesting. I’ve kept him in Philadelphia so far. Taking him out of his element could be entertaining. Any plot ideas?”

Lanie doesn’t respond right away. I feel a little anxious about it for some reason. I start scrolling through my newsfeed. It’s a good ten minutes before a message arrives.

Lanie Carpenter @braineylanie

“I might. You don’t need any help from me though. It’s your wit, and your literary allusions that are the star of the show. The plot is just window dressing.”

I’m in the middle of my return message, when she beats me to it. Her message includes my profile pic and another promo shot. They are the only direct connection to my real life. But neither pic will bring search results to anything connected to Jacob Visser. I’ve tested it.

Lanie Carpenter @braineylanie

“Is this really you? Or is this a pseudo-photo to match your pseudonym?”

I’m curious and intrigued. @braineylanie could be a 300-pound dude, living in his mother’s basement, but the aura of mystery is powerful. I delete my unfinished response and start again.

Dow Drucker @DDrucker

“That’s the real me. Nothing pseudo about the pic. Why?”

Lanie Carpenter @braineylanie

“I have a thing for distinguished gentlemen. It comes out in my writing. I guess that’s how I work through my Daddy issues.”

I swallow hard. I can’t separate the words I’m reading from the digital drawing of Wonder Woman and her seductive tongue. What is wrong with me? How can something that’s basically a cartoon, stir up something in me? I struggle over what to write next. I go for it.

Dow Drucker @DDrucker

“Now I really want to read your stuff. I might have to insist. Are you really Wonder Woman?”

Lanie Carpenter @braineylanie

“I might have to send you something. In case you Wonder, I am a Woman.”

Dow Drucker @DDrucker

“I like witty. By all means, send me a writing sample if you can. I won’t even ask you to prove your gender.”

Lanie Carpenter @braineylanie

“I’ll think about it. Not sure you can handle it.”

Dow Drucker @DDrucker

“When you say you’re not sure I can handle it, I hope you’re not referring to your gender. Only one way to find out. Email me when you’re ready. [email protected] You can also let me know your definition of distinguished.”

Closing Twitter, I’m about to see if I can find something about anyone named Lanie in Vegas. Then I see it’s after midnight. The tiredness hits me all at once. Feeling dehydrated, I chug a bottle of water. I shower, brush my teeth, and get in bed. I dream like a distinguished gentleman.

I wake up at 5 a.m., like I do seven days a week. No alarm needed. On days I don’t play tennis, I do some cardio or weight training. Today is one of those days. I decide on the treadmill. It’s a beast of a machine. My bedroom is big enough, so I choose keep it there. If I had to go to another room to get on it, the treadmill would be too easy to ignore. That’s why gyms never work for me.

The machine is in front of windows overlooking the pool. It’s a good view for when I’m not watching the news. The base of the treadmill folds up and locks. I keep it raised so I don’t trip over it on my way to the bathroom in the middle of the night. After 45 minutes of walking, jogging, and running, I decide that’s enough. I’m sweaty, hungry, and feel more tired than energized.

I always need to cool down before showering, otherwise, the shower doesn’t “take.” With a towel in hand, I head for the kitchen as I dry off, still feeling the gliding effect from the treadmill. The next step is coffee. I open up a new bag of medium roasted beans from Yemen. I fill the grinder, check that it’s still set on 4 cups, and hit the button. While it’s grinding, I set my coffee decanter under the refrigerator water dispenser. My routine is that by the time I put in a coffee filter and pour the ground coffee into the filter basket, the decanter has enough water for four cups. Sometimes I mess up.

While the coffee brews, I decide whether I want to make oatmeal, or fry a couple of eggs, or just grab a protein bar. I feel tired enough that the protein bar seems the best option. I pour a cup of coffee. Black and scalding hot. I sit at the kitchen bar, sip my coffee and chew my chocolate peanut butter protein.

I check Twitter. No messages. I check all three email accounts. Work, 37 emails. Personal, 14 emails. Alias, 0 emails. Seeing that none of the emails contain life-altering information, I drain my coffee and start the shower.

By 7:30, I’m in my classroom, finishing the last of the home brew from my travel mug. Although students hate morning classes, I love them. I enjoy this one in particular. Introduction to the New Testament. Most people don’t really know anything about the Bible, including those who identify as Christians. Although koine Greek isn’t required, there are usually a couple of students who want to study it once this course is over. The historical, grammatical, social, political, and cultural context of these texts are eye-opening to most. Today, I can’t wait to deal with the apocalypses.

By the time I’ve got my media presentation set up, and my notes ready, two students drift in. I greet them and note their lack of eagerness to talk first thing in the morning. I open my Greek text to the Apocalypse of John, 17. I smile as I think about the discussion that will be prompted by the meaning of pornias. I anticipate angry objections from the religious and the feminists. I don’t take sides. I just find lively debate to be healthy. Unfortunately, many people find it difficult to have reasonable, civil dialogue. With 15 minutes to kill, I check my messages. Dow Drucker has an email from Laniecar. I don’t need Adam Knox PhD to deduce that this is probably from braineylanie Carpenter. I glance around and then open it.

Dear Dow:

Glad we connected. After a good night’s sleep, I decided to send you one of my writing efforts. It’s attached. I wouldn’t do this for just anybody. Probably not what you expected. Hope you can handle it. Be kind regardless.

Best,

Lanie

The title of the pdf is “Disciplined by Daddy.” It really doesn’t sound like something I should open now. So I don’t, and then get so wrapped up in teaching, I almost forget about Lanie’s contribution. Almost. As soon as I get home, I open the pdf and start reading.

Lanie’s main character is Jillian, a 20-something, with long, shapely legs and a lot of attitude. Tough times have forced her to move in with her dad, James. Mom was out of the picture. She left James for his best friend and business partner. Understandably, that left James bitter and cynical. For some reason, that left Jillian bitchy and horny. Sounds promising so far.

Lanie writes well. And the content keeps me engaged, even though it seems like the plot is headed into taboo territory. I’m hooked. I read how James lays down the rules for Jillian to stay under his roof. She has to do the cooking and cleaning to earn her keep. Read along with me and see for yourself.

*****

“That’s the deal. I expect you to contribute,” James warned. “If you don’t hold up your end of the bargain, you will be punished. You can’t leave a mess like you left in your room when you were in high school.”

Jillian wanted to call him out for this stupid bullshit. What am I? 12? Why would he think he could punish me? But she bit her tongue. She couldn’t afford to lose a roof over her head. Especially one this nice. Clearly, Daddy was doing well financially. The place was huge, well-decorated, and she could see there was a pool. Strangely, Jillian also felt a little shiver down her spine when James threatened to discipline her. She’d play his game. For now.

Once Jillian got settled in her room, she explored the house. She counted four bedrooms, including an owner’s suite that was larger than her last apartment. Daddy slept on a king-sized bed, and he had made it this morning. There were three full baths and a powder room. She found a home office, and a room he was using as a gym.

The kitchen was immaculate. James was fixing lunch. Cooking was something Jillian wasn’t asked to do. Daddy was a good cook, and Jillian couldn’t even make a decent sandwich.

“Have a seat,” he said, pointing at the table in front of the window overlooking the pool. “It’ll be ready in a minute.”

Jillian sat. She watched her father plate their food, and bring it to her.

“Thank you, Daddy,” she said as she gazed at the cranberry walnut salad, and flatbread with cheese and pesto. “It looks delicious.”

It tasted as good as it looked. Jillian wolfed it down like she hadn’t eaten in days.

“Daddy?” using the word that always seemed to provide a more positive response. “Can I get in the pool after lunch, or are there chores you need me to do first?”

“I appreciate you asking, baby. But everything’s in order right now. You can just go swimming if you want.”

“Thanks, Daddy,” she smiled at him as she put the last bite of flatbread in her mouth.

Minutes after putting her dishes in the dishwasher, Jillian was in her room changing. She picked a micro-bikini in technicolor pink that showed off every curve of her body. Jillian’s nipples and areolas were barely covered by the tiny triangles. She eyed her body in the bathroom mirror with appreciation.

Snagging a beach towel from a rack by the sliding door, she walked out on the pool deck. The water was crystal clear and inviting. The lawn was perfectly manicured. There were flowers in bloom and bushes that were nicely trimmed. It was obvious that a professional was taking care of the yard. She dangled her feet in the pool for a bit, but decided not to swim just yet.

Spotting a chaise lounge, Jillian draped her towel over the chair and laid down. Time to let the sun chase away all the troubles of finances and futures. She stretched, and felt the warm day envelop her. This was a far different life than she’d been living for the past two years. She could get used to it.

“Mind if I join you?”

Jillian opened her eyes to see James in blue swim trunks with a towel over his shoulder. His chest hair had a touch of gray. His skin had the glow of a nice tan. He was a good-looking man, for a father.

She gave him a little smile. “Of course not. It is your pool after all.”

“Glad to have you share it with me,” he responded, while his eyes not-so-subtly roamed over her body.

Knowing that her generous breasts were spilling out the sides of her tiny bikini, she wondered if it made her father uncomfortable to look at her. Maybe it even made him horny. Mom had been gone so long. He must be getting some action somewhere. He was handsome, distinguished-looking, in good shape, plus he had money. No reason he couldn’t have his pick of women. She wanted to ask about that when the time was right.

She watched her father’s eyes travel over her body again. She didn’t look away. Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses.

“Guess I’ll go in and cool off,” he said, turning toward the pool.

Jillian watched him closely as he turned. Was there a bit of a bulge in his swim suit? He dove in quickly and started doing laps. His long, muscular arms scythed through the water. At each end, he did a flip turn. She couldn’t help but eye his ass as it briefly emerged from the water, and then submerged as he pushed off again.

After a few laps, her eyes involuntarily closed. She was in that dream-like state of knowing she was napping. She turned over on her stomach and let sleep overtake her. For the first time in a long time she felt safe and happy.

“Honey, you’re getting burned.”

Her father’s voice jolted her awake. She raised up on her elbows and found her father standing beside her, dripping wet.

“Let me put some lotion on your back.”

“Sure. How long have I been out?” she asked.

“Long enough to get a little red. I’ve been doing laps in the pool and didn’t realize you were asleep.”

Jillian made room on the chaise lounge for him to sit next to her. He moved her long blonde hair to the side, squirted some lotion into the palm of his hand, and began to massage it into her skin. His touch felt so good. The slippery lotion soothed her skin. Her father moved up and down from the top of her shoulders to the strap of her bikini top. She had been so out of it, she’d never thought to undo the clasp to avoid tan lines. He moved below the strap to her lower back.

“It’s not so bad here,” James reported. “You’re reddest on your shoulders and the backs of your legs. Can you reach your legs, or do you want me to lotion there too?”

“Yes, please,” Jillian said before adding, “Daddy.”

He poured more lotion onto the back of her thighs and calves. As his strong hands rubbed it in, she groaned in appreciation. She could feel the wetness between her legs. Just having someone so confident and mature touch her like that was arousing, even if it was her father.

“All done,” he said in a husky voice.

“Okay, Daddy, thank you.”

This time Jillian was sure of what she saw. After he stood up, and before he could turn away, she could tell her father had an erection. She smiled to herself. It had always made her feel powerful knowing that she could have such an effect on men. This was no exception, even if it was her own dad. After he went in the house, she touched herself and an involuntary moan escaped her lips.

Jillian looked around. The pool area was completely private. Her father was in the house, probably taking a shower. She lay back in the chair and raised her knees. The tiny piece of fabric covering her pussy was soaked through. She savored the slow and careful movement, as her fingers explored the wetness.

After a few minutes, her languid motions became more energetic. She slid her hand under the bikini bottoms. Her clit felt like it was throbbing. She inserted two fingers into her sopping pussy. The memory of Daddy rubbing lotion on her long, tanned legs was foremost on her mind. She imagined his fingers inside her. His tongue on her clit. Her body trembled. Her fingers thrummed furiously. Then wave after wave of orgasm washed over her.

Gasping, her chest heaving, she suddenly felt self-conscious. She glanced back at the house and caught a glimpse of a figure in the upstairs window. Then it was gone. It had to be her father. Jillian wondered how much, if anything, he had seen.

*****

Lanie sent me something alright. I don’t even feel embarrassed to say that I want more. At least I think I do. I message her quickly.

Dow Drucker @DDrucker

“Fantastic chapter, Lanie. You have a gift. Don’t leave me hanging. Are you going to add more to the story?”

The answer is almost immediate.

Lanie Carpenter @braineylanie

“How touching. Not what you expected, I’m sure.”

Dow Drucker @DDrucker

“It wasn’t. I’ve not really read anything like that before. But I must admit, I thought about touching myself.”

Lanie Carpenter @braineylanie

“Seriously!?! WTF?”

Dow Drucker @DDrucker

“That was TMI, and creepy. Apologies”

Lanie Carpenter @braineylanie

“lol. You’re fine. I guess I’m honored that I motivated a distinguished gentleman to touch himself. Hope it was good for you.”

Dow Drucker @DDrucker

“Now’s the time to give me your definition of that phrase, unless you just mean old dude.”

Lanie Carpenter @braineylanie

“It’s not so much about age. I have 10 characteristics.”

Dow Drucker @DDrucker

“Really? You must share.”

Lanie Carpenter @braineylanie

“1-A little grey at the temples. 2-Confident. 3-Intelligent. 4-Experienced. 5-Well-groomed. 6-Well-read. 7-Well-spoken. 8-Home owner. 9-Nice car. 10-Disposable income”

Dow Drucker @DDrucker

“Quite a list. So close. I’m only like 1 out of 10. Sorry to disappoint.”

Lanie Carpenter @braineylanie

“Ha! You can’t fool me. Just from your pic and profile I count at least 6 out of 10. And these aren’t the only things I care about. This is just how I define distinguished.”

Dow Drucker @DDrucker

“Glad I’m in the ballpark.”

Lanie Carpenter @braineylanie

“You are indeed, good sir”

Dow Drucker @ DDrucker

“So do I get more of your story?”

Lanie Carpenter @braineylanie

“If you think you can handle it, I’ll send something eventually. You’ll have to wait. I’m still writing it and don’t have much spare time.”

Dow Drucker @DDrucker

“I’ll leave you to it then. Time for me to get some other things done. Good night!”

Lanie Carpenter @braineylanie

“Thanks Dow. Hope you have a good night too.”

Chapter Five

It’s been two weeks since then. I got tired of the DMs and just asked Lanie if I could call her. She didn’t really hesitate. Just about every day since, I’ve texted or called. I like her voice. She sounds young, but not like she’s underage. She definitely doesn’t sound like a 300-pound dude. The only image I have is Wonder Woman with her tongue sticking out. But I haven’t asked for more. I’m good with things as they are. The Lanie I talk to, share ideas with, confide in, is enough. My fantasy friend.

Gosha, the art teacher I went out with twice, texted me today. It was a clear hint that she wanted to get together again. She’s good looking, and an appealing person, but I’m even less interested now. My virtual attachment to Lanie has captured some emotional space in my life. That’s enough for me at present. I send a return text that seems to naively ignore Gosha’s veiled proposition. Then I text Lanie to see if she can talk tonight. She can. At 8:00 pm her time. There’s a three-hour time difference between us. Getting to know her has left me sleep deprived.

“Hi Dow.” I like to hear her say that.

“I like to hear you say that,” I say. No reason she can’t know exactly how I feel.

“You are easy to please.” I hear the smile in her voice. “And you’re up late…for a distinguished gentleman.”

“I am. I’ve been getting less than 5 hours of sleep most nights recently. It’s all your fault.”

“I’d apologize, but I understand that the older you get, the less sleep you need. You’ll be fine.”

“True. But we need to keep this short. I have an AARP meeting in the morning.”

She laughs. The sound makes me smile and ties my stomach into knots at the same time. Again, I just say what I’m thinking.

“I love to hear you laugh. I should record it, so I can play your laugh whenever I need it.”

“I just assumed you were recording all our conversations,” Lanie says, “I thought this was all intel for your next Adam Knox book.”

“Not a bad idea,” I say, “I’m going to miss a deadline. Just not spending enough time writing. I’m more invested in my day job, and in talking to you.”

“That’s sweet. Not that I know what your day job is, but you ought to quit and go all in as a writer.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, but it’s probably not a good bet for my financial future. And to be fair, I still don’t know what you do for a living either.”

“Well, I told you all your guesses were wrong. So you already do know that I’m not a professional gambler, dancer, school teacher, thoracic surgeon, or cocktail server. That should narrow it down.”

“Those guesses were just for fun,” I explain. “Your profession doesn’t matter to me. I just like connecting with you, hearing your voice.”

“That’s nice. I enjoy talking with you as well. But I don’t want to keep you from writing. Missing deadlines is the worst.”

“What about you,” I ask. “Have you put any time into Jillian and James?”

“I have…I’m not sure you should see it.”

“Why not? I loved the first chapter.”

“So you said…but this one might be too much.”

“Try me. Once you send it, I’ll be able to focus on my own work. You left me hanging, and it’s screwing with my concentration.”

“Remember, Mr. Big-Shot Writer, I’m just an unassuming Vegas girl. I’m not sure if you’re flattering me or making fun of me.”

“Neither one,” I protest quickly, “our conversations have left me completely enamored with you. Honest! And, I must admit that reading ‘Disciplined by Daddy’ added an unexpected element of sexual heat and tension.”

“You don’t even know what I look like.”

“True. But I love what you say and how you sound saying it. That’s enough to make me stay up past my bedtime night after night.”

“Speaking of which, I should let you go. You need to look fresh for that AARP meeting.”

I chuckle and then say, “I won’t hang up until you email me more of your story. Deal?”

After a pause, Lanie quietly says, “Here it comes.”

Seconds later, I hear it hit my inbox.

“You’re a woman of your word, so I’ll keep mine. I’ll read this next chance I get, and talk to you soon.”

“Ok, good night Dow.”

It wasn’t midnight yet. No time like the present. I opened the file and read:

*****

Jillian dove into the cool water. Now her entire bikini was wet, not just the patch between her legs. She swam for a bit, and enjoyed the water caressing her body. When she finally emerged, she toweled off and went back inside. Not wanting to track water everywhere, she made sure her father wasn’t around, then stripped off her bikini. She dried her naked body, then wrapped her wet bikini in the towel, and left it in a heap on the floor. Giggling like a little girl, she ran to her bedroom and closed the door.

Twenty minutes later, she stepped out of the shower. Feeling thirsty, she didn’t bother drying her hair completely. She pulled on a pair of short shorts and a tank top with no bra and headed for the kitchen. In the fridge, she found a bottle of sparkling water. Twisting off the cap, she took a swig just as her father entered the kitchen.

“Jillian, I was serious about you picking up after yourself,” he said with irritation, and pointed to the heap of wet bikini and towel left on the floor.

“Sorry, Daddy, I just forgot to take them with me. It wasn’t intentional.”

“Perhaps,” he said with an edge in his voice, “but I warned you there are consequences for forgetting.”

“Please, Daddy, I won’t forget again, I promise,” Jillian pleaded. She wasn’t sure if he was serious, or trying to cover for his ogling her from the window.

“I’m sorry, Jillian, but if I don’t enforce the rules you won’t obey them. Come into the living room.”

She followed him into the next room and stood in front of him, arms crossed defiantly as he sat on the couch.

“Pull down your shorts,” he ordered.

“Why?”

“I’m going to do what I should have done when you were younger. You’re going to get a spanking for misbehaving.”

“What do you think I am,” Jillian spouted, “a 10-year-old?”

“You act like one enough. If you were more disciplined, you wouldn’t have had to move back in her with me. It’s time you felt the penalty for your decisions.”

Jillian doubted he’d go through with this nonsense. She decided to call his bluff and wiggled out of her shorts. She was thankful that she’d put something on underneath, even though it was just a thong. Calling his bluff didn’t mean exposing her private parts to her father.

With her shorts at her feet, Jillian looked defiantly at James.

But his features didn’t soften. In fact, he snarled another order.

“Bend over my knee and let’s get this over with.”

She was shocked. In a daze, she did as he demanded. She bent over with her crotch resting on his thigh and her head on the couch beside him. Jillian could feel the thong in the crack of her ass, and knew her cheeks were entirely exposed. All of that combined to produce the unexpected feeling of heat and wetness beginning to build between her legs. She glanced back up at him, and his look seemed more lascivious than parental.

“Do you like the view, Daddy?” she taunted.

In response, James sharply smacked her bottom.

“Ouch,” Jillian screeched. “That hurt.”

“It’s supposed to hurt,” he retorted. “Maybe this will help you remember how to pick up after yourself like an adult.”

He swatted her again. This time on the other cheek, and then continued, alternating sides, for about a dozen strikes. She could feel her butt getting hotter with each strike. It was probably redder than her sunburned skin. But what actually bothered her the most was feeling herself get even wetter. It was shameful, humiliating, perverse.

Then he stopped. Jillian didn’t move. She didn’t want to. After several awkward seconds, she broke the silence.

“Are you through…punishing me?”

He didn’t respond immediately. When he did, he voice was soft, probing.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you Jillian.”

She felt her face flush red.

“Of course not…don’t be ridiculous…I…”

“I can feel your wetness through my pants. You’ve stained them. You’re excited enough to soak both of us.”

“I… I’m…sorry, Daddy. I’ll clean them for you.”

His hand returned to her ass. This time it was to soothe and stroke her inflamed cheeks. He followed the contours of her bottom. His fingers glided down her thighs and back again. The more he touched her, the more her pussy throbbed for attention.

“I watched you masturbate.” he said, matter-of-factly. “You can’t even keep your hands off of your own gorgeous body, can you.”

“Please, Daddy,” Jillian whimpered, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“I… I… I can’t help it. I don’t have anyone. I need…”

His hands persistently massaged her bottom and legs. Her erect nipples poked into his other thigh, and her juices flowed copiously, increasing the stain.

“Tell me what you want, Jillian,” he demanded, “tell me what you need from me.”

She couldn’t stop herself now. “I need to be used… I need to be…fucked.”

There. She’d said it out loud. To her own father. What would he think of her? What did he want from her?

“Get up,” he said gruffly.

Jillian slid off of him, and onto the couch.

He stood up. She raised her eyes to his, uncertain of what would happen next.

“Get on your knees,” he commanded.

She obeyed. She was now almost eye-level to her father’s crotch. She wanted to reach out and touch the bulge in front of her. Before she even had to fight that impulse, he unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his pants, unzipped his fly, and slid them down his legs, along with his underwear. His erect cock sprang into view, just inches from her face. It was long, thick, and veiny, with pre-cum dripping from the big mushroom tip.

Jillian stared at her father’s cock. It was bigger than she could have imagined. Maybe eight inches, but thick enough to scare her. She knew her mouth would be stretched to the limit to fit him in, never mind getting him down her throat. Her desire overcame her fear. She wanted this so much, that nothing else mattered.

She leaned forward and took him into her mouth. She looked up to witness his eyes roll into the back of his head. She took him deeper into her mouth and throat.

“Oh, God,” he moaned as her saliva dripped out of the corners of her mouth and onto his balls.

He ran his hands through her long, still damp hair, holding her in place on his stiffness. This only increased Jillian’s lust. With one hand gripping her father’s ass, she used the other hand to pull aside her little thong and slide two fingers into her pussy while rubbing her clit with her thumb.

After a minute or so, James took charge. It changed from him receiving a blow job, to him fucking her mouth. His hips began to buck, which sent his cock deeper. But when his fat cock-head hit the gag point at the top of Jillian’s throat, she pulled back to take a breath.

“What’s the matter, Jillian? Am I hurting you?”

“Daddy, you’re so thick… I’ve never had one this…” her voice trailed off as she looked into his lustful eyes.

“I want you, baby girl. I want all of you.”

“Daddy,” Jillian whispered, “my nipples are aching to be touched, my pussy is dripping wet, and I need to be fucked. I want to spend the rest of the night with you. I’m yours now, and the sooner we go to your room the sooner that can happen.”

He took pulled her to her feet, and toward his bedroom. Then he commanded, “Get the rest of those clothes off and get on the bed.”

Wordlessly, Jillian shed what remained of her outfit, and slid to the center of the bed. Slowly, she opened her legs, exposing the most intimate part of her body to her own father, and looked up into his lust-filled eyes.

“You’re as beautiful as your mother, you’re a younger version of her, but better than she ever was.” His words assaulted her senses with the forbidden and an uncontrollable craving. Then he said, “I wonder if you taste like her.”

Shocked by the response that came from her own mouth, Jillian said, “Come here and find out.”

He swiftly moved between her legs and began licking her pussy lips. As his mouth connected with her outer lips, she guided his head to where she wanted it most. But he was stronger, and he resisted her direction, leaving no doubt who was in charge.

James worked his tongue deep into his daughter’s sopping-wet slit. He worked it in and around, sucking her lips and licking the walls of her vagina. His hands cupped the cheeks of her ass, gripping them, molding them, squeezing them. After he’d covered every inch, one hand moved to her asshole and his finger began to slowly caress it.

“Yesss,” she hissed.

In response to her moans, he dipped that finger into her pussy. Then he returned to her rosebud, and used the slickness to work the finger into her tight hole. At the same time, he moved his other hand to the entrance of her pussy and placed two fingers inside, reaching for her g-spot as he moved his mouth to her clit. Instantly, her body began to climb.

“Oh, God… oh, God… don’t stop!” Jillian quivered, arching her back and thrusting her hips to grind her pussy into his mouth. No one had ever given her this much pleasure through oral sex. Not even her limited experience with other women had been this good.

Her father’s finger probed deep in her asshole and he began to insert another; the fingers of his other hand were pressed up inside the top of her pussy, stroking her sensitive g-spot, and his tongue was dancing on her clit. Every single thing he did was like an electric current shocking her body into submission.

At that moment, Jillian’s muscles clenched and both holes tightened. Then her orgasm exploded and she let loose a wail of ecstasy. Suddenly her pussy gushed a rush of liquid, and she felt delirious as his tongue and fingers continued their assault. She finally had to push his head away as she gasped for breath.

“Oh, Daddy,” she gasped, “that was one of the most intense orgasms I’ve ever had.”

He sat back on his heels, kneeling with his erect cock poking skywards, as he looked at his daughter. She was a lubricious mess. Her hair was tangled, her eyes were glazed, and her own secretions oozed out of her body.

“Did I make you happy?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye and a knowing smile.

Her only answer was, “I need to feel you inside of me.”

Without a word, he lifted her long legs, and placed her calves on his shoulders. Leaning forward, he moved the head of his cock to her aperture and then rubbed himself up and down the length of her lips. He slowly worked the head between the outer lips, then between the inner lips and into the entrance. She gasped and he paused.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jillian moaned, “do anything you want to me… I’m yours.”

Applying gentle pressure, he eased himself into her, working deeper and deeper, stretching her, filling her.

“Let me know when you’re ready for me to go deeper.”

“Now… I want all of you right now,” she demanded.

With a thrust of his hips, he pushed inside her, farther than anyone had ever been before. His cock was like a flame, burning the core of her being. She moaned and thrashed her head from side to side, as she realized Daddy was fully inside her.

Jillian felt so good and so full. She couldn’t wait a moment longer.

“I need you to fuck me hard and deep, use me, make me yours.”

He slowly withdrew until just the head was left inside, then in one stroke drove himself all the way back in. He began to repeat the motion, pulling back and then thrusting forward. Soon he was pulling out and slamming back in like a jackhammer.

She tried to meet his thrusts with her own. Reaching between them, she rubbed her clit, keeping time with the pounding of his cock. He used one hand to pinch her nipples hard, first one, then the other.

Jillian knew that the building orgasm was different than the one before. That was clitoral. This sensation was coming from deep within. They locked eyes. He kept pounding away, and the waves began to crash, one after the other.

Her screams of pleasure were so loud, the sounds pushed him over the edge. She felt his body stiffen, his breathing changed, and then with a groan he released his sperm, and heavy spurts pulsed into her womb.

He collapsed on top of her. Neither of them spoke at first. Then he kissed her and held her close.

“From now on, you’re sleeping here with me.”

“Okay, Daddy,” Jillian said.

And then they fell asleep.

******

I scroll down to make sure that’s the end. It is. I close the doc. I don’t go to sleep for a while.

Chapter Six

I am up at 5. I don’t feel rested, but I don’t feel tired. I’m on autopilot through my class. I’ve taught Boccaccio’s Amorosa Visione so many times, I assume everything I’m saying makes sense.

It’s a day I play tennis instead of eat lunch. I play with ferocity. My serve and volley have never been better. I win both sets in about 45 minutes. I sit in the locker room to cool down. I text Lanie.

“Can we talk tonight?”

I shower and am halfway dressed when she replies.

“Sure. 4 my time?

“Yes!”

I zombie walk through my afternoon class too. On the way out, I see Gosha in the parking lot. I wave, but I don’t go to her. I just get in my car and leave. As I drive, I realize I haven’t eaten all day. I stop at the grocery store and pick out a prepared meal. Salmon with broccoli. I’m looking for ways to kill time, so I go searching for a bottle of wine. This is a bad idea because I prefer bold reds, and those don’t pair with fish. I choose a Sauvignon Blanc. Better than a sharp stick in the eye.

My townhouse feels empty. It’s odd, because no one has ever lived here with me. Maybe I’m just a little empty. I pre-heat the oven. Realizing that I still have two hours to kill, I power up my laptop and open my latest Adam Knox draft. I re-read what I have, editing as I go. I hate pretty much everything. Just I’m about to start deleting, I get an idea. My typing tries to keep up with my thinking.

The oven buzzer reminds me that it’s up to temperature. I quickly slide my dinner onto the top shelf to heat, set the timer, and go back to my laptop. When the timer goes off, I pause long enough to get everything ready. I bring my plate and glass of wine over to my work and keep writing between bites. Ravenous, I finish most of the food before even sipping the wine. By the time I’m ready for a second glass, it’s time to call Lanie.

“Hello Dow.”

“I’ve been waiting to hear that all day. Nobody says it better.”

“I wonder if anyone says it at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s your nom de plume.”

“You’re not wrong. Damn, you’re smart.”

“Should I be offended that you’re not being completely honest with me?”

“No. You know me better than most. Besides, it’s not a complete fabrication. Dow was a relative of mine. A New Jersey state senator. He died before I was born. I anglicized the surname a tad. All that to say, it is a family name.”

“So what do I call you?”

“Dow is good…handsome also works.”

“Funny. Does this mean you’re married too?”

“No! The story I told you is the truth. I screwed up and my wife divorced me.”

“You’ve never asked me that question.”

“What? Your name isn’t Lanie?”

“Not that. You haven’t asked about my relationship status.”

“Lanie, you are a fantasy, a phantasm, a fabulous fiction. You are what you choose to reveal to me. The rest I fill in with my imagination.”

“What if I have a husband…or a wife for that matter?”

“Do you?”

I listen to the silence. I can hear her breathe.

“Yes…a husband, not a wife.”

Now I listen to myself breathe. I debate what to say, and make the wrong decision.

“I would have preferred wife. That’s only kind of threesome I would consider.”

Lanie makes a noise I can’t decipher, but it doesn’t sound positive. I follow up quickly.

“What does your husband think of you chatting with another man almost every day?”

“He doesn’t know. We’ve been separated for months.”

“I’d like to say I’m sorry, but…”

“The reality is I had to become an adult at a young age, and he still isn’t one. That sounds mean, but that’s what it is. I love him, but he’s a boy. We never even talked about having kids, because not long after we got married, I realized I was already raising one.”

“Does he recognize that?”

“On some level. But not enough to change. When we dated, he was a dreamer. I loved that. But he had no goals, no plan to make those dreams reality. He plays video games every chance he gets. And for all I know, he has a crippling porn addiction. We both got tired of fighting about it. Instead of making any changes, he just moved back in with his parents.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of new information for me to process, but I’m glad you told me. It fills in some of those blanks I was talking about. Helps me understand you.”

“Do you? Because I’m not sure I understand me…Mr. Whatever your name is.”

“Ouch. I do have a confession though…”

“What? Are you a 300-pound dude living in your mother’s basement?”

“No. I read your story last night.”

“And…?”

“Well, it’s very good. And extremely arousing, if you know what I mean.”

“Thank you?”

“Mind the sarcasm. You can’t deny that you want readers to be turned on by what you write.”

“No. I guess I do want that…or what’s the point?”

“Exactly. You want to evoke intense emotions. And since I’ve had very little sex for the past few years, I had some intense emotions.”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

“Anatomically speaking, I don’t think butts can do that. But I’m not a proctologist.”

“Idiot. You know what I mean.”

“You are perceptive. It’s not a comment or a criticism. It’s just a question. Why do you write in the erotic genre, and on a taboo subject besides?”

“Why not?”

“You could write anything. I’m just curious about why that genre in particular?”

“It’s not real life. It’s fiction. It’s not like I’ve ever committed incest. And I don’t have any traumatic sexual experience in my past, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that you wanted to have sex with your dad. I was just curious about what might have prompted this. I know you mentioned daddy issues. Can you tell me what they are?”

I hear her sigh and wonder if she’s going to hang up. She doesn’t.

“I never knew my biological dad. And my step-dad hasn’t been in my life since I was little.”

I sense more is coming, so I wait. I feel like I’ve opened up a wound.

“I haven’t really thought about it. I’ve always been attracted to older men, but I never put that together with why I would write about daddy/daughter sex…it kinda feels like I’m in therapy right now.”

“I’m not going to charge you,” I quip. Fortunately, she laughs.

“That’s really part of what broke my marriage. I needed a father and got a son. I wanted a man and got a boy.”

“Is that why you’re talking to me?” I ask, knowing the answer already.

It sounds like she is sniffling, just a bit. I don’t want to hurt her, but I have to ask. The pause becomes an awkward silence. When she breaks it, her voice is strong and clear.

“I’m talking to you because you’re a grown-ass, successful, distinguished-looking man, with a fake-ass name.”

Now I respond with a sarcastic, “Thank you?”

“So, what now, Dr. Phil?” Lanie asks. “You’ve read the smutty inner-workings of my heart. I’ve aired my dirty laundry. Are we through here?” I detect a self-protective tone.

“Depends.”

“Are you wearing those now, Dow?”

“You’ve still got your sense of humor. I love it.”

“Depends on what, Mr. Hot-Shot Writer?”

“It depends on whether or not you’re willing to have dinner with me when I come to Vegas.”

Silence.

“Lanie. I’m taking your suggestion and sending Adam Knox to Las Vegas. I’m coming for the weekend to do some firsthand research. Are you in?”

“That’s what she said.”

This time I laugh, and then she joins me, and we make each other laugh until I can feel tears rolling down my cheeks. When I catch my breath, I tell her.

“It’s a 10-hour flight from Boston to Las Vegas. I’m leaving here on this Thursday morning. Early. I can connect with you that night, or Friday, or Saturday, or all three. Your choice. I fly out Sunday morning.”

“You don’t even know what I look like.”

“You mentioned that earlier. Send me a pic tonight, preferably of you. But what you look like isn’t going to change wanting to meet you.”

Another pause. I can almost hear her deciding.

“Ok,” she finally replies, “I’ll send something. You have my permission to back out. No hard feelings.”

“No worries. Listen, I’ll send you info on where I’m staying, and where we’ll have dinner. The only choice you have to make is whether or not to show up…and what to wear when you do.”

“Sounds like you’ve got this all planned out.”

“I do. And when you send me a pic, I’ll count that as you signing on.”

I pour myself another glass of wine. I need to finalize my plans for Vegas. I need to do a lot of things. I’m in the middle of doing them when I get a text. It’s Lanie.

“Like it or not, here I am.”

Below are three pics.

All three are of Samantha.

Chapter Seven

I stare at each picture.

It’s Samantha, but it’s not Samantha. How could it be? This woman…Lanie…looks about the age Samantha was when I last saw her. Lanie has long blonde hair, not the light caramel brown color that tantalized me all those years ago.

I scroll through the pictures again. Lanie at a table in a restaurant. Lanie hiking by a lake. Lanie posing with another woman. In each one she’s smiling. Not unusual. But it’s Samantha’s smile.

The more I study the pictures, the less certain I feel. Yes, it’s a smiling, attractive young woman. Yes, she has a resemblance to Samantha…but she can’t possibly be.

Suddenly, I realize a couple of things. First, my hands are freezing and I feel a little dizzy, like I’m in shock. Second, I’ve lingered so long on these pictures Lanie texted, that she’s probably wondering if I’m ghosting her. I shake the numbness out of my hand so I can respond.

“You’re beautiful, Lanie. I wasn’t prepared for that.”

“Beautiful is a little over the top, but thanks. You were expecting a gargoyle?”

“No. But it didn’t matter, because you’re an attractive person, however you look.”

“Thanks again. So are you still planning this trip?”

“Nothing’s changed,” I say, even though everything has.

*****

I fly United out of Logan at 8:15 Thursday morning. There’s a stop in San Francisco. I get into LAS at 3:00. I decide to upgrade my rental and take a Mercedes S class. It’s a far cry from a 12-year-old Corolla. But with no nosey colleagues around, I’m going to enjoy my money a little. I’ve booked a room at the Bellagio. It’s a Fountain view king. A little over 2 grand for three nights. I figure with dinner, entertainment, and incidentals, I might spend $5,000 for this trip. The only way it wouldn’t be worth it is if I don’t meet Lanie. She’s hedging.

The room is nice. I text Lanie.

“I’m here. Am I going to see you? How about dinner at Picasso?”

Too impatient to wait for a reply, I keep going.

“Business casual. It opens at 5:30. Just dinner.”

Finally, she responds.

“Welcome to LV. Sorry. Not tonight.”

“Tomorrow? Breakfast? Lunch? Cocktails? Dinner? All of the above?”

“I have to work. Maybe dinner. Text me.”

“Count on it.”

She sends a smiley face emoji. I’m in closer proximity to Lanie than I’ve ever been, and I’ve never felt farther away. She’s afraid to meet me for some reason. Or she doesn’t feel safe.

I leave the room and go on a walking tour of the Bellagio property. Gambling doesn’t interest me, but I walk around the casino anyway. I stay longer than I want to, watching people lose money. Roaming outside, I spend a couple of hours passing shops and restaurants, pools and cafes, theaters and lounges, guests and staff. I’m tired, hungry, and slightly disappointed. I don’t want to sit alone at a table.

Back in my room, I order from Bellagio Express. A Chicken Caesar salad, Chicken Cordon Blue, and two bottles of Corona. They promise to leave it outside my door in about 30 minutes. It takes 45, but I’m okay with that.

Unpacking the food, I sit in front of the windows and watch the fountains. They go off every 30 minutes until 8 pm, when it happens every 15. It was pretty impressive when I walked around it, but it’s spectacular from my room. I eat slowly and wait for the darkness to fall.

My mind wanders to tomorrow’s agenda. Since Lanie only left dinner as a possibility, I have a lot of time to fill. Especially since I’ll probably be up early. I want to scout out some locations for Adam Knox. Nothing like seeing places first hand. Hopefully, Lanie will show me around too, but I’ll get started by myself.

The fountains are lulling me to sleep. My eyes are heavy. I don’t want to go to bed too early. I take a shower. Then I look for something on TV. I get invested in an old movie, but eventually realize that I’m dozing. I give up and get in bed.

When I wake up, I don’t know where I am. Then I remember Lanie, my heart leaps, and immediately get a sick feeling in my stomach. It’s 4 am, so I get out of bed, take another shower, and make some in-room coffee.

Leaving my room at 5:15, I make my way to the parking garage, and find my rented Mercedes. I spend the next few hours driving all over Las Vegas, and then to Hoover Dam. I just want to time the trip. I’m not going on the tour. At least not today. On the way back, I take the scenic route along Lakeshore Drive.

I stop for something to eat. I feel it’s time to connect with Lanie. I text her between bites.

“Happy Friday! How’s it looking for dinner tonight?”

“Hi Dow! I think dinner tonight will work.”

This sounds more like the Lanie I’ve been talking to for a few weeks. It makes me jittery and I have to delete and retype several times to fix all the typos.

“Great! Is Picasso’s ok? I have other options to suggest.”

“I appreciate it. I’d love to go there. But not tonight. Let’s take it down about 50 notches.”

“What do you mean? Your wish is my command.”

“I’m not ready for fancy. Let’s do casual.”

“Ok. What do you have in mind?”

“There’s a Texas Roadhouse that not too far from my place. You’d have to leave your ivory tower, but I could meet you there at 7.”

I puzzle over these for a few precious seconds. This makes no sense to me, but maybe it’s about feeling safer in familiar territory. I’m just happy she’s willing.

“I don’t believe that particular establishment has made it into the Michelin scoring system. But if it works for you, I love it.”

“It’s a date. I’m texting you the address now. See you later.”

“I’ll make the reservation, if they take them. I can’t wait.”

Of course I have to wait. I finish lunch, return to the Bellagio, park the car, and take another walking tour of the property. As someone once sang, ‘This killing time is killing me.’ By late afternoon, I get back to my room. After a long shower, and a clean shave, I put on a pair of jeans, and a light blue oxford shirt that I leave untucked. I check mapquest again. The “restaurant” is still about 12 miles away, just like the previous ten times I checked. It still takes less than half an hour to get there, just like all those other times. I brush my teeth, use some mouthwash, and start for the parking garage.

I drive slowly, but I’m still 25 minutes early. Not surprisingly, I’m the only Mercedes in the lot. The place is hopping. I look for a spot that will be somewhat protected from door dings, but not so distant that my rental might get stolen. After I lock the car, I resist running to the front door and force myself into a leisurely stroll. I stand outside the entrance, politely nodding to those who enter.

After a few minutes, I step inside, just to make sure Lanie isn’t in the waiting area. She isn’t. I return to my post as unofficial outside door greeter. No Lanie. At 6:51, I go back inside to make sure I will have a table when and if she arrives.

I wait my turn, and then flash a smile to the girl at the desk.

“Reservation for two at 7. Drucker.”

“Yes,” She says checking her tablet, “your party is waiting for you at the bar. You can follow your server.”

Five steps in, I spot Lanie. She sees me and stands up. Her hair is a sandy blonde. It cascades over both shoulders. Her top has a blue, gray, and black design. Her jeans are tucked into cowboy boots. She’s holding a drink in her hand. I feel my face smile so hard it hurts. I keep walking toward her. She smiles, not widely, but enough to make me feel welcome. The server pauses in front of the bar. Wordlessly, I step in and give her a side hug. Lanie, I mean, not the server. That would be weird. Lanie’s tall. Maybe 5′ 8″. With my arm gently touching her waist, I guide her in front of me toward the table. I pull out her chair and receive curious stares from nearby patrons. Apparently this sort of thing just isn’t done at a Texas Roadhouse.

“What can I get you to drink?” asks our server.

I force my eyes away from Lanie, and with a smile say, “Give us just a minute to look at the drink menu.”

Turning my attention back to where it belongs, I realize I’m not thinking about Samantha. I mean, now I am, but that wasn’t who I thought of when I first looked at Lanie.

“Hi beautiful,” I say with conviction.

“Hi yourself, Mr. Big-shot Writer.”

“I’m so glad you showed up. I had my doubts.”

“As you can see, I was here early.”

“I had to stop myself from showing up two hours ago. What are you drinking?” I ask, pointing at her glass, “it looks fruity.”

“Something called a Jamaican Cowboy. It’s good.”

I glance at the menu and settle on a Southern Whiskey L.I.T. for when our server returns.

“I couldn’t tell what color your eyes are from your pictures,” I say, as I lean forward for a closer look. “They’re kind of blue and gray with spots of brown. Forgive me if I stare at them all night.”

“I think you’ve got the color about right. Sweet of you to notice.”

My eyes drift down a little and notice that her top reveals some cleavage. I don’t find that disappointing in the least. She sees where I’m looking and makes a face.

“So much for my eyes. You need to know I wasn’t ready to meet you. It’s too fast.”

“Sorry for the short notice. But I’m eager. Why wait?”

“You gave me no time to diet. I’m fat.”

“Then you have no idea what the word ‘fat’ even means. Any pounds you have are in all the right places and need to stay there. It wouldn’t hurt to add some more just in case.”

“These are my fat jeans, and I almost had to call the neighbors over to help get them on.”

“Well…if you need help getting them off…”

The server returns. Lanie declines another drink, but I select mine. We keep talking, while deciding what to order. By the time my drink arrives, we’re ready. She gets the 6 ounce Dallas filet, medium rare, with vegetables and sautéed mushrooms. I order the bone-in ribeye, also medium rare, with vegetables and Caesar salad.

I try to sound mildly curious, and not like a I’m cross-examining a witness.

“You said you never knew your biological father. What happened?”

“I don’t know for sure. He and my mom weren’t married. I guess when she got pregnant, he just left, so she moved back in with her parents. I was about six months old when she met my step-father.”

“And you said he left too?”

“That’s right. He didn’t adopt me. So not long after my mother died, he left me with my grandparents. They raised me.”

I pretend to act like I’m just interested in hearing Lanie’s story, not hanging on every word. But learning that her mother was dead takes my breath away. Fortunately, the server comes by and I order another drink for both of us. I clear my throat.

“I’m so sorry that you lost your mother too. I can’t imagine growing up without a mom or dad in your life. What was her name?”

“Cheryl. Cheryl Carpenter. And I won’t lie. It was tough. But my grandparents filled the void. They were great.”

“Do you have a picture of her?”

“Who?”

“Your mother.”

Lanie gave me a strange look, and shook her head. “I don’t carry her picture around. She’s been gone for twenty years.”

“Sorry again. I was just wondering if the two of you looked alike.”

“I guess so. I don’t know. Let’s talk about something else.”

And we do. We talk about writing and plot ideas and travel and pets and art and food and favorite bands. Dinner arrives. We eat without focusing on it. When we’re done, I order dessert for both of us, mostly so we can just keep talking. We are almost into the third hour before I realize it. I want to make sure to nail down tomorrow.

“I was hoping we could spend more time together tomorrow. It’s my last day.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I’d like you to come over to the Bellagio. We could go through the art gallery or the botanical gardens or the casino. I don’t know if any of that interests you, but I just want to be with you. Then we can go out to dinner at the fancy place.”

“It’s a cliché, but I definitely don’t have anything to wear.”

“It’s just business casual.”

“Anything I would feel comfortable in doesn’t fit right now. That’s the price you pay for rushing me.”

“Tell you what. If you come tomorrow, I’ll take you shopping, and buy you something you’ll love.”

“Where? At the Bellagio?”

“Certainly.”

“Even if there was something I liked, it would cost more than my mortgage.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got something in mind, and I’m paying for it. Deal?”

“What do you mean you’ve got something in mind? You’re picking out clothes for me?”

“It’s just a classic little black dress. Do you have some black heels?”

“Yes…but this is crazy.”

“Bring along the heels, and you can try on the dress. If you don’t like it, and if we can’t find something you do like, you can back out of dinner. Or at least we can go somewhere less upscale… I know…Cracker Barrel!”

She shakes her head, and doesn’t quite crack a smile. Then asks, “Do you often shop for women’s clothes for yourself or others?”

“Never for myself. I’m comfortable with my ‘he, him’ pronouns. And honestly, I haven’t often gone clothes shopping with a woman. Once, I did make the mistake of picking out something for a woman all on my own years ago. That won’t happen again. We’ll do this together. Is it a date?”

“Alright…I can’t get there until mid-afternoon. Maybe 2?”

“Can I pick you up?”

“Better not. I’ll drive.”

“Can I pay for your parking?”

“Again, no. But thanks. And I won’t meet you in your room.”

“I understand. How about the lobby?”

“I think that’ll work,” she says, checking her Apple watch. “It’s time to go.”

“I hate to see tonight end, but I’m excited that it can continue tomorrow. Let me pay the bill and then I can walk you to your car.”

I notice for the first time that the check presenter is already on the table. I slip my credit card inside and signal the server.

“Listen,” Lanie says, “I don’t want to sound distrustful, but I would like to watch you drive away before I leave.”

“Oh. You wanna check out my car’s backside? Kinda kinky, but that’s okay by me.”

“Not quite,” she snickers, “I want to make sure you don’t follow me home.”

“Right. That would be really creepy for me to do. And it would never have crossed my mind…but I understand. Better safe than sorry. However, I want to make sure you get safely to your car. How can we both be happy?”

The server returns with my card and the receipt. I tack on a 40% tip because we’ve been here so long.

“I’ll wait at the entrance while you get your car. I’m parked in front, facing Craig road. Once you pull up to where I’m standing, you can watch me get in the car, and then I’ll watch you drive away. Sound paranoid enough?”

“Sounds fine. Hopefully my car is still there. I parked pretty far back. Ready?”

I give her help she doesn’t need to get out of her seat. I resist trying to hold her hand as we make our way through the restaurant. I leave her inside the front doors, and walk briskly in the direction of my rental. It’s intact. Two minutes later I roll to a stop in front of the doors and buzz down the passenger window. Lanie steps outside.

“Nice car,” she says, bending slightly to see me through the open window.

“I rented something upscale, because I was hoping to drive you around.”

“I’m right there,” she says, pointing at a dark colored sedan, “once I get it started, you can head out.”

“Please take your time getting there, if you know what I mean…and walk in front of my car so I can easily see you.”

Lanie’s only answer is to roll her eyes. But she does walk around the front of the car. I appreciate the view. As she opens her car door, she glances back. I smile and wave, even though I know she probably can’t see me through tinted windows in the dark. Once I see her lights come on, I roll out of the parking lot and head back to the Bellagio.

Chapter Eight

I spend the morning figuring out what to wear for our pre-dinner excursion. It’s not like I packed a big wardrobe. Last night’s jeans are about the only fitting option. I pair it with a dress shirt that has checks of rust, gray, and black. Then I lay out my clothes for the evening. I haven’t prepared in advance like this for a night out in decades. A black sport jacket, gray dress pants, white shirt with black stripes, black dress shoes.

With nothing else to do, I head for the lobby. It’s 12:45. I have over an hour to wait. The lobby doesn’t appear designed to accommodate people hanging around. I perch on an uncomfortable bench that surrounds a pillar. I have a good view of the front door. I stand up and pace. I check my phone. I sit back down. I repeat that cycle over and over. Finally, I force myself to sit still and make an outline of my newest ideas for Adam Knox in Las Vegas. It manages to distract me enough for time to pass.

“Anxious much?”

Lanie startles me. She snuck up behind me somehow. I shoot to my feet. My eyes take her in. A burgundy blouse, gray slacks, a carry-on sized bag in her hand.

“So glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad too,” she says with uncertainty.

“First things first,” I say, a little too loudly for the Bellagio lobby, “dress shopping.”

I reach for her bag, and she lets me take it. Then I reach for her hand, and she lets me take that too. I try not to walk too fast. But I know where I’m going and I am anxious to get there.

“So, may I ask where we’re headed?”

“You may. We’re going to Fendi.”

“Never been there. Don’t know anything about it.”

“Timeless style with endless possibilities,” I quote. “I checked it out my first day. It was the one shop that had something I thought you might like.”

“We’ll see about that,” Lanie says skeptically. “Any dress a man thinks is a good idea is likely a micro mini, or has a see-thru top.”

“This has both,” I say with a grin. “Seriously, it’s ready-to-wear. So I’ll let you pick your size. I don’t want you to show it to me. If you want it, I buy it. If you don’t, we try something else.”

We reach the store, and the look on Lanie’s face is more apprehension than anything else. The salesperson can barely manage to greet us as I usher Lanie directly to the display I have in mind. It’s a sleeveless close-fitting short black dress. The salesperson, an attractive brunette, holds it up delicately.

“Ah, an excellent choice. This is black wool and cashmere yarn. It has an embossed FF Karligraphy motif on herringbone-effect background. Made in Italy of course,” she says with a trace of what could pass for an Italian accent.

Lanie’s expression doesn’t fill me with confidence. But I won’t let her back out now.

“I’m going to wait over here,” I say, gesturing to a chair near the front door. “You do whatever you need to do, and let me know how it goes.”

I sit down and try not to watch what is happening. The two of them talk and talk. About what I can’t imagine. Finally, the salesperson leads Lanie away, I assume to the dressing room. Within a few minutes, the salesperson approaches me. Alone.

“May I interest you in an espresso, cappuccino, or sparkling water?”

I’m about to say no. If I was trying on something, it would take no time at all. This process might be different. I decide to make every effort to give Lanie a sense of freedom, not pressure.

“Yes, thank you. I would love a cappuccino.”

“Very good sir. Solo momento per favore.”

My cappuccino took longer than I expected. It might have been ordered from a café in Salerno. But by the time my drink arrives Lanie still hasn’t appeared. I sip slowly. It’s delicious, and scalding hot, just the way I like it. I also wonder how many dresses Lanie took in there with her. Or maybe she snuck out the back door. I sip some more, trying to savor it. As I take my last swallow, the salesperson magically appears and takes the cup and saucer. I refuse seconds. I am starting to worry, when Lanie emerges, empty handed. I can’t tell much from her expression. I walk toward her with my eyebrows raised.

“Not quite right?” I ask.

“I think it’s perfect,” she beams. “I actually love it.”

I can’t believe how happy it makes me feel to hear this. Still smiling, I turn to the salesperson.

“Would you please box that up and have it sent to my room at the Bellagio?”

“Certamente signore.”

“Can you make sure it happens within the next two hours? The lady is wearing it this evening.”

“Si, signore. This way please.”

We follow her to the counter. She rings up $1,980.00, plus $135.63 in tax. I hear Lanie gasp. I produce my credit card. All I can think about is how glad I am that she didn’t protest the dress being sent to my room. She must feel comfortable enough to go there with me.

The two of us spend the next two hours walking around. We go into the fine art gallery, but neither one of us is too impressed with the current exhibition. We end up in the casino, and play the slots. It’s just fun being there together. I carry her bag the whole time.

“I made our reservation for 6:30. Let’s go up and get changed.”

Lanie doesn’t hesitate to take my arm. When we get to my room, I open the door and usher her inside. An empty dress box is on the table, and the black dress is laid out on the bed next to my clothes. I hand her the bag I’ve been carrying.

“Would you like to change in the bathroom or the bedroom? Your choice.”

“The bathroom, please. And it’ll take me some time. Don’t drop off to sleep.”

“I’ve never been more wide-awake.”

She collects the dress, goes into the bathroom and closes the door. I wonder if she locks it. I give her a minute to get settled before I undress. My complete outfit change is over in a couple minutes. I sit down and stare out the window at the fountains. At 6:15, I hear the door open. I turn and watch her step into view. I breathe in sharply. First, I notice her long blonde hair. It’s different somehow. I can’t put my finger on exactly what it is. Then I notice the black high heels, and that she’s carrying a black clutch purse with a gold chain. The dress fits her perfectly.

“You look stunningly beautiful,” I stammer. “Exquisite, in fact.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” she whispers, “you look pretty handsome yourself.”

I just stand there facing her, six feet away. I don’t want to stop looking.

“Aren’t you hungry?” she asks slyly.

“Never been hungrier,” I answer, “but let’s go to the restaurant anyway.”

She shakes her head again, but gives me a knowing smile.

With my eyes locked on hers, I step forward. My arm circles her waist and pulls her close. She doesn’t resist. In her heels, Lanie is only slightly shorter than I am. I move my other hand underneath her blonde hair and cradle the back of her neck. I lick my lips. Slowly. I move my face closer to hers. I feel the intake of her breath. She doesn’t breathe out. I close the gap between our lips. I savor the soft, moist warmth of her mouth. She kisses me back. It doesn’t feel like anything I’ve felt before. It’s like the first time I have ever kissed. Freshly familiar, awkwardly intimate. I pull back after a moment. My hand moves from her neck to her cheek, and then under her chin. I lift her head slightly and gaze into her eyes. The pale blue and flecks of brown. I smile and then I kiss her again. This time I open my mouth and push my tongue into hers. She welcomes it. The hardness grows between my legs. I neither press into her nor pull away from her. I break the kiss again and take a breath.

“I hope you don’t mind. I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.”

“That actually wasn’t very long at all,” she smiles. “But I’d call that quality over quantity.”

“I would like to offer more of both.”

“We’ll see how it goes.”

“Shall we?” I say, offering my arm. She takes it, and then I stop. “Let me get your bag first.”

Lanie has a puzzled look as I step into the bathroom and pick up her bag after making sure it is closed.

“I’ll leave it with the maître d’,” I explain. “This way you won’t feel pressured to come back up here.”

“How very…overly thoughtful of you,” she says, raising her eyebrows.

It’s a little bit of a walk, especially in heels. For her not me. We pass Harry Winston, and then take the escalator down toward Terrazza di Sogno. Picasso’s is there on the left.

Our table is on the patio overlooking the romantic artistry of the Fountains. I’ve never felt so good about who I was with, and cared so little about where I was. I sense that Lanie might feel the same way. So without asking her to make decisions, I simply order each course for both of us. The first choice, Poached Oysters garnished with osetra caviar and sauce vermouth. This is followed by Terrine Foie Gras with stone fruit panache, and blueberry gastrique. For the main course, Butter Poached Maine Lobster. The sommelier brings premium wine pairings. Dinner is a blur as we build on the connection first established weeks ago.

“You didn’t have to wine and dine me this way,” she says, savoring a bite of lobster. “My affections can’t be bought. Besides, I already like you.”

“I already like you too,” I reply, “and you know I’m not trying to buy anything. Besides, we couldn’t go to Cracker Barrel, they’re out of biscuits.”

She smiles, “Good, I would have felt out of place there in this dress anyway.”

“Baby, you would look great anywhere, in or out of that dress.”

“Careful, Dow. Between all this buttery food, and your narrowing arteries, if you get too excited you might have a stroke. Remind me to get you one of those Life Alerts for your birthday.”

“Ah, jokes about my age. Bring it on. The truth is, I’m only just now mature enough to handle a woman like you.”

Lanie reddens slightly. “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment. What does it take to handle a woman like me in your estimation?”

“Someone who knows what he wants, who knows what you want, and can give it to you.”

“And that’s you?”

“I’m pretty confident it is. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a man, not a boy. And this man wants you in his life, whatever it takes.”

“What does it mean for me to be in your life?”

“What I mean is that whatever the relationship turns out to be, I choose that relationship, just so we can be together.”

“I’m flattered, and a little confused, since that’s a very odd way to put things.”

“Maybe so, but don’t forget that I’m still old enough to be your father.”

She drops her head slightly, and stares at her plate. “You know that doesn’t bother me, does it bother you?”

“That depends…”

I hold up a finger and stop her from responding. “Let’s call a truce on the adult diaper jokes.”

She smiles and asks, “Depends on what?”

“Why are we together? What is it that allows a beautiful young woman, meaning you, to spend time with a…distinguished gentleman, meaning me?”

She purses her lips. “My free will. We connect on so many levels.”

“What about the physical level? Could you pursue a sexual relationship with me, or is it something else?”

“We seemed to take a step in that direction when we were alone in your room.”

“Yes, and how did that feel to you?”

“What do you mean, how did it feel? It felt like we were kissing. It felt good. It felt like you were glad we were doing it too.”

“Very perceptive of you. That’s involuntary by the way. And so far it still happens without benefit of any little pills.”

“Good to know. Did anybody ever mention that you’re kind of an over-sharer?”

“So it’s safe to say that the idea of being with me doesn’t make your skin crawl?”

“Not so far. Are you trying to tell me you’re into some type of kink that might turn me off?”

“The only kink I’m aware of is the overwhelming compulsion to look at Lanie.”

“That sounds harmless enough.”

“Let me tell you more.”

She leans forward and says, “Bring it on.”

I lean forward as well. No one is near enough to hear us, but I keep my voice low and even.

“I want to finish that kiss we started. First, in the elevator as we head back to my room. I want to press you up against the wall as I kiss your neck and explore your mouth until the elevator door opens. Then I want to lead you into my room and lock out the rest of the world so I can have you all to myself.”

I pause and watch her expression. She bites her lower lip slightly and waits for me to go on.

“I hold you close and let my hands roam over your body. I cup your firm ass, and mold you into me as we kiss, standing next to the king-sized bed. Then I fondle your breasts through that lovely dress. I can see the outline of your nipples now. You’re not wearing a bra are you?”

She shakes her head.

“Playing with your nipples excites me even more. I toy with them, and drive you crazy with desire. Your nipples are erect and poking into the fabric of your dress. So now it’s time for me to tease them with my tongue. I know how to get that dress off of you. With a little effort, I do that, and set your breasts free. They are beautiful. I’m going to lick and suck them, but first I just want to gaze at your whole body. I don’t let you take off your heels, and you stand almost naked in front of me. You’re wearing the skimpiest black panties. It just a thong. No wonder I could feel your incredible ass when we were hugging. The bulge in my pants is just one of the ways I express my appreciation. I wrap my arms around your naked back. Your lips are hot and engorged as I return to kiss them. I move my kisses downward from your mouth, to your neck, to your shoulders, and then your breasts. My kisses are soft but not too gentle, as I surround the swell of each globe. Employing both hands, I lift your left breast, and begin to circle the areola with my tongue. In moments, you are slick with my saliva, and I turn my attention to your nipple. I lick its stiffness and suck it into my mouth. Then I concentrate my efforts to your right breast, repeating all my movements. I lavish your tits with my tongue and lips. I suck and nuzzle until you moan. I bury my face between your breasts and hug you close.”

I stop again. Lanie is breathing heavily. She seems to be paying attention. “Should I go on?” I ask. She nods in the affirmative.

“I pick you up and set you on the bed. I slip my hands under you and raise your ass a couple of inches off of the mattress. Your pussy is on full display. It is dripping wet. Your skimpy panties do nothing to stop the flow of wetness. I lower my face between your legs. You strain your hips toward me. The thin strip of fabric is pushed aside. I use my tongue, but not to touch your pussy. Instead, I move lower and slide the tip of my tongue over your asshole. ‘That feels so good,’ you moan. While my tongue pushes into your tight orifice, you reach down to caress your clit. I go deeper and deeper, and your finger glides up and down over the hard little bud. I can feel you begin to climb toward climax.”

I stop again. I fix my gaze on Lanie’s eyes. Her face is flushed. It’s time for a question.

“Lanie, if I was to get to that point, how would you feel? Honestly?”

She seems a little puzzled. Then she answers, “Horny as hell.”

“You don’t feel icky, like that’s not something you should be doing?”

“Dow, that sounds exactly like something we should be doing.”

“I feel that way too. Convince me.”

“How?”

“In a sentence or two, tell me what you would do to me.”

She thought for a moment. “I want your cock in my mouth, Dow. I want to feel it in the back of my throat, and then I want to feel it squirt into my stomach.”

I smile. “That sounds nice. How does it feel to say that out loud?”

“These are weird questions…It feels like something I want to do.”

“Here’s what I want you to do next.”

She raises her eyebrows quizzically.

“Lanie, take off your panties, right here, right now, and hand them to me.”

Her mouth falls open slightly. She squints at me in disbelief or apprehension or confusion. I can’t tell which. Then she looks around the patio. There are other people here. She shrugs. Then her hands disappear under the table. I can see her shift to one side. After seconds of almost imperceptible fumbling, she shifts to the other side. Moments later, I feel her panties being pressed into my hand under the table. Gathering the material, I can feel the sopping wetness. I look down and see what is now balled up in my right hand. It looks like a black, lacey thong. My guess was almost exactly right. I’m tempted to raise it to my nose, and breathe in the aroma of her sex. Instead, I simply catch Lanie’s eye, slip the panties into my jacket pocket, and smile. Mission accomplished. Now comes the hard part.

“I have a proposition.”

“I’ll bet you do,” she smirks. “Now that I’m not wearing any underwear, you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Thinking about you having nothing on under that dress is driving me wild. That’s what makes my proposition so difficult.”

Lanie has a look of curiosity. I charge forward with my plan.

“I want to come back next weekend, and see you again.”

Her smile brightens, and she seems to be okay with the news.

“I can’t promise what we’ll do or not do. I just want to know if you are willing to spend time with me.”

“Of course, I’m willing. And you don’t need to spend lavishly to entice me into it either. But what’s so difficult about this proposition, as you call it?”

I squirm in my seat, knowing how weird this will sound, and how I won’t be able to explain it. At least not to her satisfaction.

“The thing is…I want you,” my voice husky with emotion. “I really, really want you.”

“Okay,” she frowns, “that doesn’t surprise me, or upset me. But…”

“But I can’t. At least I can’t tonight.”

Her smile disappears. It’s replaced, not with indignation, just confusion. I keep talking.

“That’s why I’m coming back. It’ll be clearer then. But tonight, I’m going to pick up your bag, escort you to your car, and kiss you goodnight.”

“If I let you.”

I smile. “Fair enough. You can carry your own bag if you want.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t try to be funny.”

“I can’t help trying. Will you trust me?”

“I just don’t get it.”

“That’s right, but I’m hoping you will. If you know what I mean.”

“I’m tempted to jab my fork into your arm.”

“I’m tempted to jab…never mind.”

The walk to her car is slow. I carry her bag, and we are arm in arm, but I can feel some uncertainty. When we reach her car, she pops the trunk and I set the bag inside and close the lid. I stop her from opening the car door, and pull her to me. She doesn’t quite resist, but isn’t completely compliant either. She doesn’t look away when I stare into her eyes. I kiss her. I take my time. The warmth of her body is intoxicating. I feel her relax and return some of my passion. I continue until I feel a point of no return fast approaching. I stop, and open her car door.

“That’s all I can take,” I admit. “I plan to pick this up next weekend.”

“We’ll see,” she says.

“I’ll send you the details of when and where.”

I help her into the car. I can see the flash of her inner thigh as she sits. I fight the urge to ravage her (consensually) right here in the parking garage. I step back. She starts the car. I watch her backup and drive away. I return to my room. Alone. My flight leaves early.

Chapter Nine

The next few days are anxiety-inducing. Getting back to work isn’t a problem. It is the rushing to use next-day delivery service on Monday, and then impatiently awaiting a response that raises my stress level. Meanwhile, I cancel my Friday classes, so I can book my flight for early Friday morning, with a Sunday return. I decide to book a suite at the Four Seasons. It’s a bit pricier than the Bellagio, but I’m willing to take the chance it will be worth it.

I check my phone constantly. Partly it’s to keep in touch with Lanie, and make sure she’s going to meet me. If she decides to back out, this is all for nothing. But equally important is the information I’m waiting for. It’s promised in 1 or 2 business days, which puts me on a nearly impossibly tight time-line. I keep logging in to check the status of my report. I still don’t know by the time I have to put my phone in airplane mode for take-off Friday morning.

I rent a Mercedes again. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s the same one. I get into my room and freshen up. Every two minutes I check to see if the report has come through. I’m supposed to meet Lanie at 5 in the lobby bar. I plan to follow that with dinner at PRESS. I’ve got to do what I’m worst at…waiting. I see a notification on my phone. My stomach churns. I log in for the umpteenth time. The report is ready. I click the link and wait for the file to open. I scan, and rescan. My heart tries to beat out of my chest. The report is exactly what I hoped. It’s the information I paid for, and determines everything that happens next in my life. I take a deep breath and try to clear my head.

I decide that freshening up isn’t good enough. I take a shower. I towel dry. Then I open up the report again and reread it to make sure it still says what I think it says. It does. I put on deodorant, clean underwear, and brush my teeth like I’m a dental hygienist. I re-dress in what I was wearing pre-shower. Black cowboy boots, jeans, light blue oxford dress shirt, black sports coat.