Message-ID: <4347eli$9709241014@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/Year97/4347.txt>
From: zanna@whoever.com (Joyce Melton & Morgan Preece)
Subject: Repost: Mercedes 1: The Conch {Morgan Preece} /C*R* 10/10/10/
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.tg
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-ID: <343ae767.19423677@news.gte.net>


If you like this story --or any story on the net-- tell the author.

This story is intended for the entertainment of adults only. 
If you are under 18 or if reading this would involve anyone in an
illegal act, please stop reading immediately. If you are offended by
strong adult-oriented themes, explicit sex, erotic fantasy or vulgar
language, what are you doing here?

Copyright (C) 1997 by Morgan Preece. All rights reserved. Permission
is hereby granted for non-commercial use of this complete and
unaltered text (including disclaimer paragraph above and this
paragraph and the next two) in electronic form such as posting to
EBBS's or Newsgroups or free access Electronic Archives. Electronic
storage of unaltered copies for personal use is also permitted. Any
other use of this text is a violation of copyright. No permission is
given hereby for any sort of distribution to minors or other persons
to whom such distribution would be illegal in the jurisdiction of
distributor, recipient or intermediary. No hardcopies may be made
without written permission from the author. 

If you want to put this story in a CD-ROM archive for distribution at
nominal cost, E-Mail the author at the address below for a copy with a
different copyright notice. Inquiries about other commercial use
should also be E-mailed. Do not come to my house, you don't know where
I live and you will get lost. 

Comments are welcome, fanmail being the only feedback a newsgroup
author gets. Email may be addressed to the author at
ZANNA@WHOEVER.COM. Enjoy.

===========================================================


Mercedes


by Morgan Preece


Chapter I




	I had quit college a few years before, short 
of my degree because of a lack of drive, I guess. Smart but 
lazy, with less-than-rugged good looks that attracted more 
than my fair share of women. I found it easy to meet an 
older woman who wanted the company, not even necessarily in 
bed, of a virile young man. Many of them were willing or 
even eager to help with "tuition" or "rent money," allowing 
me to lead an easy life that seemed to have no end and I 
never had to think about morality.

	I kept myself neat and presentable, even stylish, my 
dark blond hair long or short as fashion dictated, usually 
boyishly clean-shaven, and my gray-green eyes always 
smiling. Those who didn't want to bed me often wanted to 
mother me or play other games. Always the willing playmate, 
at twenty-two, I thought I had done a little bit of 
everything. 

	Then I met Sylvia in an upscale bar in Newport Beach. 
The Conch had always been a sort of happy-hunting ground for 
me. Dim enough to hide the imperfections my chosen prey felt 
they suffered. Close to country clubs, yacht clubs and toney 
beach houses, it offered full-strength drinks, an easy-
listening soundtrack, deep booths and a discreet meeting 
place for rich ex-wives on the make.

	The woman I spotted, Sylvia, really didn't look the 
type to want what I could offer. Tall, dark-haired, full-
lipped with clear skin and green eyes, she looked younger 
than my usual sugarmamas and frankly, prettier, but she gave 
me the eye and I moved in. 

	When I got close I discovered her beauty and made a 
guess as to her wealth.	

	Her body fit the strapless green cocktail dress like it 
had grown there with her large titties supported by some 
unseen nether garment or possibly sheer willpower. Her waist 
seemed improbably slender to flare so into hips 
unfashionably full. Her thighs tapered artistically to 
sculpted calves, trim ankles crossed above high-heeled 
strappy sandals. 

	She enjoyed being admired and I played it up with 
smiles and eye signals. The low-cut deep green cocktail 
gown, diamond choker and other jewelry she wore probably 
cost a year's "tuition". I felt my interest rise. Her shoes 
alone must have cost $600.

	She offered to buy me a drink and I asked for mineral 
water but she said no, I should order white wine. She put 
her hand on mine as she said this, her bracelets flashing 
emeralds. I nodded to the waitress to bring the wine. 

	Sylvia smiled, her teeth expensively white and 
straight. "I'll have single-malt, up, with iced mineral 
water on the side," she ordered in a throaty voice that 
seemed as deep as my own. Her long, tapering nails scratched 
the back of my hand when she spoke and the thrill of it 
surprised me. Greed, and something else, stirred in my 
mercenary heart.

	She drank her Scotch quickly and sipped her mineral 
water while we talked. I played with my wine glass. Her 
husband, she told me, lived on the East Coast most of the 
year where he worked in investments. Here, she lived alone 
in a big house in Laguna with just a maid and an old college 
friend who occasionally came down from Malibu to keep her 
company. 

	She laughed when I pried and she admitted that the 
college friend was female. "It's a big house, even when 
there are three of us, it's lonely. Where do you live?" she 
asked.

	I told her I had a studio near Fifth Street on the 
peninsula. "I'll bet it's cute," she said, "let's go see 
it." When she stood up, I realized her height without heels 
probably matched my own. Since I am only five-seven this has 
happened before. Some women are put off by men who are not 
taller than them but she didn't seem to mind. With her heels 
on, she towered over me by three or more inches.

	She grasped my elbow in a strong grip and steered me 
through the crowded bar out to the valet parking. They 
brought her a red Mercedes hardtop convertible, gleaming 
like blood in the harsh parking lot flourescents. "Get in," 
she said, "I'll drive." I was used to acting as chauffeur 
and I really wanted to drive that car but I got in on the 
passenger side. The inside was rose and black leather and 
smelled deliciously feminine, like the car's owner.

	I watched her while she drove the short distance to my 
apartment, her confidence and her competence intrigued me. 
An elegant, beautiful -- rich -- woman who seemed to have 
everything in life that I wanted. 

	She saw me admiring her and smiled, slowly, with a 
promise of things to come. I wondered what I could do to 
make this a long-lasting relationship and I felt the 
stirrings of my own easily aroused lust. Sylvia licked her 
lower lip, flared her nostrils and adjusted the position of 
her beautifully broad ass on the seat as if preparing to 
make love to the gorgeous car. My bone forced me to squirm 
in my seat, too. I didn't want to waste any ammunition 
before the war began.

	Certainly an advantage in my line of work, I had never 
had much problem getting up for the job and I could delay my 
own climax almost indefinitely while manipulating my clients 
to one shuddering satisfaction after another. Sex is all in 
the mind anyway and I approached each woman as an 
intellectual puzzle subject to physical manipulation, like 
one of those multicolored cubes. All women seemed to respond 
to my concentration on their desires rather than my own. 
When I made love I never hurried because I had nothing I 
would rather be doing at that moment than pleasing my lady.

	Sylvia differed from all other women I had met, right 
from the start. With every other woman I had always the 
sense that I could respond to the challenge of reaching her 
emotions, that I could ride her pleasure to my goal. Sylvia 
pleased herself, always, I sensed. I felt like a passenger 
in the vehicle of her passions much as she had relegated me 
to the right-hand seat in her Mercedes. 

	Watching her drive was more arousing than watching a 
Las Vegas stripper peel off layers of erotic clothing. Her 
arm movements caused her heavy breasts to jiggle. Her softly 
curled hair swung when she turned her head to check a 
mirror. I could hear the whisper her stockings made as she 
worked the clutch in her high heels.

	Her expressions changed from moment to moment as she 
maneuvered the sleek car through the still heavy late-night 
traffic of the penninsula. She frowned as an inconsiderate 
driver tried to cut her off. She smiled as she passed the 
poky old limo cruising slowly down Balboa Avenue. She pouted 
at every stoplight and sighed in satisfaction when she again 
had her foot on the gas. When we stopped, her perfume 
surrounded me with musky intensity. I hardly noticed the g-
forces she induced as she drove the little red car too fast 
and almost too well.

	I noted the skin texture of her neck, guessing her age 
at forty-plus, allowing for the readily available miracles 
of the Gilded Coast. Her hands still looked young enough to 
do dishwashing commercials so she couldn't be more than 
forty-five. 

	The importance of knowing your lover's real age had 
occurred to me early in my scandalous career. Grunge rock 
would likely mean little to her and she probably remembered 
laughing at Saturday Night Live when Chevy & Co. were bright 
new comics and not endless reruns on the Comedy Channel. She 
may have screamed ecstatically at the Beatles or the Stones, 
saw Bill Cosby perform at her college. She most likely 
remembered where she had been when JFK died and Neil 
Armstrong walked on the moon. 

	All of these things could be important in finding ways 
to turn her on, bring her to climax, acquire some of her 
money and let her down gently when it came time for me to 
move on. Not that I thought about it that way, I just 
collected the information and used it when I needed it. Like 
the interesting correlation I had seen before between women 
who liked to drive hard and ones that liked to fuck hard.

	She found my address with no problem, even finding a 
parking space in front. I leaped out of the car but she was 
too fast for me, she had already opened her door. I made it 
around the car just in time to catch a glimpse of her thigh 
as she allowed her skirt to ride up high enough to show that 
she wore stockings with garters, not panty-hose. I knew 
then, for sure, that she intended to have sex tonight.

	We tripped up the steps to my third-floor studio and as 
soon as I had fumbled the door open, she slipped her hand 
into the top of my pants and pressed her lips to mine. She 
had my meat in her hand and her tongue in my throat before 
we well inside the room. Those on-display breasts pressing 
against my chest felt softer than pillows. Her other hand 
tangled in my hair pull-pushing me into her deep kiss. 
	
	She tasted of whisky and smelled of expensive musk as I 
drove my own tongue into her mouth in rapid, rhythmic 
thrusts. I cupped one hand on her plush ass to pull her into 
me while I reached for a nipple with the other. I bumped the 
door closed with the side of my own hip and we both started 
a little when it slammed but it hardly disturbed our fierce 
rhythms.

	She unzipped my fly and brought my cock out into her 
hand where she played with it while we kissed. Her thumb 
against the underside of the tip, her fingers working the 
barrel in a now soft, now hard, pizzicato. I had her nipple 
in my hand but she pulled away, dropping smoothly to her 
knees, caressing me as she went down. I tried to follow her 
but she had pushed me against the wall forcing me to stay 
upright. Quickly, she pulled my pants down to my knees. This 
was not going according to my usual plan.

	Her lips touched the end of my dick, several velvety 
kisses, each one shivered me to the base of my skull. Then 
her mouth closed over my entire prick. The tip worked 
against the back of her palate, her toungue quickly stroked 
me nearly to climax.  The curly hair of my crotch scrubbed 
away at her indelible lipstick. I thought of money and 
refused to cum.

	She watched me from under her dark brown curls, smiling 
with her eyes, teasing with a wink. One of her hands played 
with my asshole while the other caught my wrist, digging 
savage red fingernails into the pulse-point, her thumb 
trapped my own against the palm of my hand, pulsing. 

	I played with a much-beringed ear with my free hand. 
Surprisingly for a woman of her generation, she wore six 
earrings in the left ear; three rings in the top of the ear 
with a stud, a large hoop and a teardrop dangle all in 
separate holes in the lobe. I wondered if she went in for 
piercings in other places, I yearned to find out. I yearned 
to cum but still I held back.

	She changed tactics, working her head like a movable 
cylinder on the piston of my rigid cock. Her tongue, lips, 
palate, even teeth providing excruciatingly delicious 
sensation while she worked a finger into my asshole, probing 
for the cum lever. Her thumbnail teased the root of my 
prick, counterpointing the driving rhythm of her head and 
mouth and finger. I had never had a "client" who knew so 
much about cocksucking.

	My body wanted the release this beautiful woman offered 
but my intentions were in conflict. My back arched, the 
cords in my neck stood out. I trembled with a determination 
not to give her an excuse to end this encounter early, but 
my one cardinal rule had always been, give them what they 
want. I had just decided to let myself cum, regardless of 
how unprofessional it seemed when she pulled her head away 
from my cock.

(to be continued)



-- 
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |
| Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
\ <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/>    .../assm/faq.html> /