The Last Chance free porn video

Mature Gentleman seeks travel companion. Requires younger cultured woman as a travel companion for a trip to Europe and beyond. NSA. Applicants will be judged on personality and culture. All expenses paid and an end of trip bonus of $10,000 per month will be offered. Apply by Email to WethersfieldR@ Wethersfieldassocs.com giving a brief apercu of yourself. Only candidates judged suitable will be contacted.

I insert the ad in the Globe Classified section to run for a period of a weekend and sit back reflecting on what I’ve just committed myself to. However, my decision is made, and I will not be turning back.

I need a change of pace. Boston has become abhorrent to me as have the people I associate with. I need a change of pace and a change of scene.

Since Marjorie passed away five years ago, I realize that my life has gone downhill. I no longer have any joie de vivre.

After Marjorie’s passing, the vultures started to gather around me. I shudder at the thought of these harpies trying to pass themselves off as twenty-year-olds when well past their sixties. They are crass and greedy. Dyed hair in colours that are ridiculously inappropriate, skin that has been lifted and tucked so often that their navel could now well be their oral orifices. The smell of Chanel overlaying an odour of decay. Most of all the inane conversation they spout trying to find out what I am planning to do with the rest of my life and the implication that they could accompany me through that journey.

Gold-diggers all, bringing their baggage from their divorces and widowhoods to my table.

I seek youth and joy. A smile that will brighten my days, someone whose eyes will permit me to see life from a different standpoint. Pretty would be a bonus but not essential. At my time of life, the hormones are not dead but the itch is not what it had been, and I could easily satisfy my needs by myself.

The replies come pouring in as a result of my posting. I fill countless wastebaskets with misspelled ungrammatical responses. They are stereotyped, and I believe some of them come from professional escorts. Some have the gall to include a link to pornographic websites featuring pictures and videos of themselves. Granted, some of those can lead me to masturbatory fantasies; however, that is not what I seek.

This morning Joan, my executive assistant brings in today’s crop. “Sir, the usual except this time there is one that seems to be several cuts above the rest.”

“Give me that one and use the rest as garbage bin liner.” Joan has been with me for years and is well aware of my plans. She would have made an ideal traveling companion; however, she has decided to take a golden parachute retirement and become a full-time grandmother.

“Mr. Wethersfield, my name is Janice Johnson. I am a single twenty-eight-year-old who is seeking to expand my horizons. I have no remarkable achievements to signal to your attention. My lifelong dream has been to travel, experience different cultures and sights. I am considered to be a good conversationalist and to have a pleasant personality and a warm smile. In truth, I am slowly withering on the vine in my present position which is as a waitress. I never expected to end up in this situation which fate has dictated to me. I would be delighted in meeting with you to advance my candidacy for this position. Please let me know if you deem me potentially appropriate at [email protected]. I would be available at your convenience should you decide we should meet.”

A waitress! Now there’s one who is not trying to astound me with her culture and sophistication, hmm… I wonder. “Joan, please come in,” I bellow, “Please send her an email inquiring if she would be available on Friday for supper at the Brahmin Rand at seven thirty. ”

Joan raises her eyebrows at me. “Really?” she asks. “Why her?”

“She has no pretensions and makes no spelling mistakes. For that alone she deserves a chance. I also love the thought of showing the world and its treasures and beauty to someone who is not going to try and dazzle me with bullshit.”

“Ah! The fact that she is twenty-eight and single has nothing to do with it, you dirty old man.”

“Joan, you disappoint me. I thought you knew me better than that.”

“Robert, over the years I have seen you ogle my legs, ass, and bosom. I am infinitely grateful that it was done discreetly. It helped me to keep to my marriage vows. Now a young woman nearly half your age... that might be harder to resist than this scrawny quintagenarian.”

“Now Joan, you mean that if I hadn’t been discreet, I might have tumbled you? Damn the lost opportunities. Get out of here and send that email before I change my mind and ravish you on the spot. Oh! Please include our phone number this time and sign your name to it.”

“Right away, boss.”

Later that afternoon Joan comes into my office and confirms what she facetiously terms ‘our date.’

The die is cast, I think to myself.

oooOooo

Perfectly timed with my emergence from the subway stairs, a skyscraper-funneled gale shrieks down State Street. As one hand keeps my purse and billowing skirt in check, I fight a path through the headwind and pedestrians, avoiding the grate's lecherous exhale and a potential Seven-Year-Itch moment before a posse of Brooks Brothers neckties.

Unfortunately, the detour causes another awkward moment. A tall, thin man dressed more like a lumberjack than Gordon Gekko grabs my free hand and shakes it in his own. Startled, I stare up into a rusty beard and its friendly, color-coordinated grin.

"Hi, I just want to say you're much too beautiful to be spending the evening alone," the lumberjack booms.

My jaw hardens. This man has no idea who he's dealing with. Two weeks ago, I stood up to Married Asshole Jake. I can handle a random street masher.

"I'm meeting someone," I reply as pleasantly as possible, hoping he'll let go.

It works. The man releases my hand and shrugs good-naturedly. "Well, it was worth a try. Enjoy.“

I double-time my stride. It's true; I am meeting someone and thanks to all the Green Line slowdowns I'm also running late. Mr. Wethersfield had offered a car and driver to collect me, but I insisted on making my own way into Boston even though I barely have the T fare, let alone next month's share of the rent, which I'd rather not think about right now.

Stubborn. Proud. And broke. Yep. Me, in a nutshell.

Out of breath, I struggle to compose myself in front of the smoked-glass facade of my destination: The Brahmin Rand, an upscale bar popular with the financial district crowd. Perhaps Mr. Wethersfield works nearby, and this is where he dines. It's an agreeable first meeting place for both of us.

I'm jostled by another passing horde and my hand shields the flap of my flea-market purse. In it, I've tucked the torn-out advert spotted while browsing an abandoned Globe Classified section on the train last week.

At first, I'd dismissed it as too good to be true. But what if it was real? An opportunity to travel the world, all expenses paid as a companion to an older gentleman? Who in my situation--single, no nearby family and no commitments other than an ill-paying job--wouldn't jump at the chance? And what did I stand to lose by merely inquiring?

A trio of power suits files out the Brahmin's ornately carved door. I take the opportunity to slip inside, eyes adjusting to the dim but lavishly appointed lobby, feeling like a gray-market Barbie plopped into Bendel's window. As discreetly as possible, I scan for a restroom. My hair must be a windblown wreck.

From behind his solid oak podium, an impeccably coifed host rakes me up and down with an imperious glance that accurately tries and convicts my only good dress for the felony of coming off a thrift-store rack.

"May I help you?" The frozen, Beacon Hill nasality implies anything but helpfulness.

I invoke Married Asshole Jake, square my shoulders and adopt the host's patrician tone. "You may. I believe Mr. Wethersfield is expecting me."

Whoever this Mr. Wethersfield is, he must be one hell of a tipper because Mr. Couture Judge's mask softens to a genuine smile as he nods and utters, "Right this way, please."

Trailing in the wake of Eau 4711, I also breathe in the subdued elegance of the decor and clientele alike: the glint of real silverware soundlessly transporting culinary delicacies from porcelain to palate, the string-quartet resonance of half-filled Waterford vessels, the hush of polite conversation accented with Rolexed gestures.

It's an entirely different world from the hellhole pub in which I’ve toiled the five-to-midnight shift for three years. I knew its grease pit of a menu in my sleep. Through constant evasion of its horny patrons' pinches and gropes, I'd developed reflexes to rival those of a Red Sox shortstop. It was there I first met Married Asshole Jake... and where I'd finally finished with him.

ooOOoo

”Miss Johnson?" a gentle voice serenades. "Are you all right?"

I snap to attention. The Couture Judge has retreated to his podium, and a kind-faced, expensively dressed man in his late fifties has risen from the table and pulled out a chair for me.

"I'm so sorry," I blubber. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wethersfield."

He takes my hand to kiss it, Old World-style. I suddenly remember the lumberjack and yank it back.

"Before you do that," I murmur apologetically, "I'd like to wash my hands...the subway...you know..."

The smile broadens. "Behind you, first door on the left."

A fresh-cut floral arrangement in the center of the vanity exudes the minty scent of stargazer lilies. The soap dispenser is brass, not plastic; its luxurious contents lather richly and rinse promptly. Holy cow--they even soften the water, and there are vintage hot-and-cold taps instead of those cheap-ass infrared sensors. I'm agog at the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and embroidered divan with matching armchairs.

I realize I'm hoping Mr. Wethersfield will like what he sees, and earnestly set about to comb, blot and fluff the disheveled reflection into a semblance of neatness. My future could very well depend on it.

oooOooo

I watch as she glides towards the ladies with a delightful sway of her derriere and smile to myself. Joan was right; I will have to watch myself. Very appealing I think, and that her smile would undoubtedly brighten my days.

She returns and with a mischievous glint in her eye offers me her hand to be kissed. I lightly appose my lips to her soft flesh as she says, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wethersfield.”

“As am I, Miss Johnson. However, if we are going to communicate further, you will have to call me Robert. Robert, please, not Bob. Bob always makes me think of either a woman’s hairdo or what you attach to a fishing line.”

“Well, Robert, we have a deal as long as you call me Janice or Jan.”

“Certainly. Please sit, Jan.”

I really don’t know how to start this conversation, I think to myself. Hundreds of job interviews over the years and here I am, tongue-tied like a high school freshman trying to get a first date.

Fortunately, I am saved by the sommelier asking if we would like to start with a drink.

“Janice, what would you like to have as an aperitif?”

“Robert, I seldom drink. Why don’t you order for us?”

“Charles, why don’t you bring us a bottle of Prosecco frizzante demi-sec, while we study the menu.”

“Now what is that you just ordered?” she asks as she smiles at me.

“It’s a sparkling white wine from the Venetian region of Italy. It’s semi-sweet and a little bit fizzy. It makes for an excellent aperitif and can accompany appetizers and fish to perfection.”

I am enchanted that she has no complexes about her lack of knowledge. It is refreshing to me.

“Why don’t we look at the menu and decide what we’ll have?”

I watch as she studies the menu. A smile forms on her face and I ask, “What’s funny?”

“I guess they don’t serve burgers here.”

“No, the closest you can get to burgers is steak tartare, raw filet mignon which is usually served with onions, capers, pepper and Worcestershire sauce, and other seasonings.”

“Well, Robert, that is certainly a far cry from what’s served at Big Knockers Burgers.”

“Big Knockers Burgers?”

“It’s where I used to work as a waitress.”

My gaze falls to her chest. Her cleavage is indeed not small but falls short of the appellation ‘Big Knockers.’ I don’t think that breastworks resembling Daisy, the Cow are particularly attractive so I am relieved. Again that charming candor and lack of pretension on her part seduce me.

“Robert, why don’t you choose for both of us? I defer to your expertise. I am omnivorous, so anything that is not raw.”

“Fine! What would you say for starters we order some pate de foie gras with truffles followed by filet mignon with baked potato and a Caesar salad.”

“Sounds right up my alley. I’ve always wanted to try pate but never had the means nor the occasion.”

“How do you like your meat grilled?”

“Medium, please.”

Placing the order, I come back to thinking, how do I start? She is certainly attractive and is not abashed by being in an unfamiliar environment. She comes to my rescue by opening up the conversation.

“Robert, tell me more about this assignment I am being considered for?”

“The short version, Jan, is that I have retired and I am looking to travel the world for a few months before deciding what I will do when I grow up. I am looking for a woman to accompany me as a companion who will enjoy my company and who would love the opportunity to experience new vistas.

“I am thinking that I will start by going to Venice then visiting Greece. Doing that alone seems to be a sin so if I can share this with a friend it would be much more pleasant.”

“Excuse me; I don’t want to seem as if I am prying, but you are wearing a wedding ring so what about your wife?”

“I’m a widower, Jan. Marjorie passed away five years ago. We had planned to do this together, but somehow we ran out of time. In essence, I am looking for someone who will take her place and who reminds me of her. Of course, without the physical side of the relationship.”

“Oh, Robert, I am so sorry for your loss.”

The food is served, and I keep looking for flaws. Does she know how to handle the silverware, does she pick her teeth, does she chew with her mouth open, etc.…?

“Jan, tell me more about yourself. How did you end up as a waitress? Please, there is no shame to any gainful employment. However, it does seem to me that you have much more potential than that.”

“I’m not ashamed of what I do, Robert. I might be a waitress, but I am the best waitress I can be. My parents were exceptional in that they doted on me and gave me all the opportunities within their means. My father was a concert musician, and my mother was an artist and author. They were fun and loving, but not well-to-do. We had a good life, and after high school, I went to the School of the Museum of Fine Arts at Tufts University on a scholarship.

“The first-year review of my work was well received both by my peers as well as my teachers. To help ends meet I worked part-time and during the summer as a waitress. Two months into my second year, my parents died in a car accident. I was heartbroken. My father had not left a will, and though I was the sole beneficiary when the assets were tallied for probate, I discovered that all that was left after all debts were paid was a few thousand dollars. I had to drop out of school, and my skill set was sufficient to get a job as a waitress but little else. I still paint and sell an occasional piece.”

“I see that we all have our tsuris.”

“Tsuris? What’s that?”

“Our woes in life. Tell me, how come a lovely woman like you is unattached?”

“Confession time,” she says with a wistful smile. “Robert, I am not proud of this, but I was involved with a married man for the past years. He swore he would leave his wife and we would get married. He finally revealed his true colors: not only was he not leaving his wife but he had a third woman on the side.”

“My God, you certainly have not had it easy,” I take her hand in mine.

“All that is in the past. I am now only looking forward.”

“Looking forward, would you accept to accompany me on my peregrinations?”

“Robert, are you offering me the position?”

“Yes.”

I see that she is almost in shock. She is white as a ghost and tears are streaming down her face.

“Really, Robert? Cross your heart?”

“Really, Jan.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Might I suggest, ‘I’d be delighted to accept, thank you.’”

“Oh, Robert, I must look a mess with these tears. Let me go freshen up.”

I stand as she returns, but instead of sitting down she takes me in her arms and gives me a kiss on the cheek. Just a chaste demure peck of her lips. My heart melts, and I hold her against me for an instant.

“Sit down, Jan. Now that you have accepted let me tell you my plan. I want to leave by next weekend. In the meantime I want you to get outfitted suitably for the trip. You will need to have both casual wear and more dressy attire as well as all that a woman needs to travel. I realize that you probably can’t afford that so tomorrow you will come to my office and I will send you out with my PA, Joan to do what you need to do. Is that acceptable to you?”

“You would do that for me?”

“Yes, Jan, I would. Understand that I am obscenely well-to-do. I had planned to do this with my wife. I want you to feel comfortable accompanying me and not feel that you are the poor relative tagging along.”

oooOooo

Poor Joan. She has her hands full getting this wardrobe-challenged Cinderella organized on such short notice. At Robert's insistence, there are excursions to Newbury Street's poshest salons. An esthetician's herb-scented implements buff years of neglect from my complexion while a manicurist coddles shredded cuticles into sleek French tips. Unruly locks are shaped and bestowed with subtle highlights.

In between fittings at the venerable Cabot-Blenheim, I pepper the patient Joan with questions about my would-be travel companion's likes and dislikes. I'm determined to make up for that gaffe at the Brahmin when I cross-examined Robert on his wedding ring. Had the sordid experience with Jake left me so uncouth? I felt like crawling under the Delorme tablecloth.

Robert's wife must have been exceptional for his finger to retain her tribute after five years. I pinch the bridge of my nose to ward off sudden tears as another new outfit is draped into place.

"Please deliver these to the Adams Suite at the Copley," Joan briskly instructs the senior sales associate, pointing to a glimmering array of evening dresses and an assortment of casual separates in Impressionist hues. "And Miss Johnson will wear the Tasha Strutt ensemble."

The mauve-and-jade-dappled silk shell is high-necked with an open back, and its matching skirt swirls six inches above the knee. A gleaming pair of Gucci slingbacks makes the waitressing-toned legs look even longer. The stylist adds platinum pearl earrings and bracelets. I shudder at what they must cost, let alone the whole outfit.

With deft strokes, makeup artist Cora shades my lids, cheeks, and lips, then spins me around to face the mirror.

I scarcely recognize the reflection. Gone is gray-market Barbie. In her place shines... a chestnut-tressed, high-fashion Shakira. She's a confident woman who will accompany an eminent man like Robert with style through Boston, Venice, Athens... anywhere in the world.

“Come now, Janice; we have two more stops to make.”

“What more do I need, Joan?” I plead with a tinge of worry. I am starting to feel guilty about what seems to be a gazillion dollars that we have spent so far.

We grab a cab and shoot over to the North End and finally stop in front of Injeanius.

“You aren’t going to spend your time dressed like a fashion plate and tramp around town in your Louboutins or Jimmy Choos. You will need jeans and shorts as well as some t-shirts and casual tops and a couple of bathing suits. Knowing Robert, preferably bikinis.”

I blush at the thought. “Joan, can I bring up something with you?”

“Sure, what would you like to know?”

“Joan, I’m no virgin; however, neither am I a whore. Will Robert have any sexual expectations of me after dishing out all this money?”

“Oh dear. Come, let’s sit down in that café across the street and have an espresso.”

Once the waiter brings our order of two espressos--another first for me--Joan leans forward and speaks in a confidential tone.

“Jan, I have worked for Robert since right after high school. Once I started, I really had the hots for him. Never once in all these years has Robert made the slightest inappropriate gesture towards me. Yes, he has ogled from time to time as I still, to this day as you can see, am rather well-endowed and I keep fit, so my legs, belly, and ass are still relatively attractive for a woman my age.”

“Joan, what do you mean ‘your age’? You can’t be older than in your mid to late thirties?”

“Bless you, my sweet girl. My daughter is in her thirties, and I have three grandchildren.”

“Wow, that’s amazing. Really?”

“Yes, really. But back to Robert, Jan. He will never make an advance nor raise a finger on you. He is a consummate gentleman, and if something should happen between you, it will be of your doing. I realized when you were trying on your outfits earlier why Robert offered you the position.”

“Why?”

“He couldn’t help it. You could have been the younger twin of his wife. Same smile, looks, and effervescent personality. I am sure he would like something to happen between you and him, but as I said, if it does it will be your doing.”

My heart wells up in my throat, and I feel...almost giddy.

“Come now, let’s finish up,” Joan directs, saving me further embarrassment.

Three pairs of jeans, all of which look as if they’ve been tailored to my figure, along with sundry tops and sneakers later, we’re out and back into another hack.

“Where to now?” I ask. Surely we’ve covered everything?

“Rigby and Peller, Jan.”

“Oh wow,” I gasp at the extravagance. “But I have my own bra and panty sets. I don’t need to have that kind of money spent on what only I will see.”

“Trust Grandma Joan,” she assures. “Sexy and pretty lingerie makes you feel sexy and pretty. And… you never know who might get a peek at it,” she giggles.

There is much to be said for the difference between cotton briefs and silk panties. Lace and silk on a bra change it from an under-the-shoulder boulder-holder into a serving dish for your tits which you are eager to present for a lover’s delectation.

We are finally back at the hotel where I will be spending the night. Joan helps me pack all the goodies into two leather suitcases before giving me a huge hug and wishing me luck.

After a long shower, I snuggle into bed with a Guide to Venice.

ooOOoo

Logan is a madhouse. But then when is it not? I scan the crowd looking for Jan, don’t see her and go to the Air France lounge of which I am a member. We are supposed to meet here at the Lounge in terminal E. I am as nervous as a freshman waiting for his date to arrive and each time the doors open I look with anticipation expecting it to be Jan.

The door swings open and I note a striking woman enter and my mind puts her aside and returns to my novel when something clicks. I look again, and she is standing at the reception desk. My jaw drops and I do a double take. It’s Jan, but a Jan who has been transformed.

I rush to the reception desk and tell the snooty woman with whom Jan has been conversing that Jan is with me. “Jan, you look stunning. Come, let’s have a seat; we will be paged when our flight is ready. You had no problems with checking in and going through security? I had reserved your boarding pass so we would be sitting together.” I am blathering; my tongue seems to have been dislocated from my mind.

“Robert, catch your breath. Everything went fine and now relax.”

“I can’t believe how great you look,” I enthuse, scanning her from head to foot. She is wearing skinny jeans which mold her legs and derriere to perfection with a pair of black loafers and a zip leather jacket over a white button-down blouse. Her auburn curls cascade over her shoulders, and if she is wearing makeup, it is not noticeable except for a faint sheen on her lips.

She blushes, and a frown appears. “Robert, I feel like a fraud. Never in my life have I been able to dress like this. I feel like a creation of Pygmalion. Your very able Joan/Pygmalion created this look. Look at the woman standing over there. You can see that she was born that way, I was not.”

I take her hand. “Jan, that woman was born the same way you were--naked and screeching. Let me tell you a little secret about her. Before she married Sam, she was a masseuse at the Copley Plaza. She is a delightful person and what you have to remember is that she was a delightful person before her marriage or Sam would not have married her.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. That’s our call I just heard. Let’s saunter over to Air Italia and get on our way.”

I take Jan’s arm, and we walk over to the gate. I feel her presence deep in my gut. I think I have made the perfect choice of a travel companion.

She pauses to look around in wonder. “Robert, this is First Class! I was dreading the flight as the last time I flew I was in economy and squeezed between a bratty kid on one side and a man who smelled foul on the other. Here, there are just the two of us. AND you do smell wonderful. What are you wearing?”

“It’s Creed Virgin Island Water Cologne. My wife fell in love with it when we were in the Caribbean, bought me my first bottle, and I have worn it ever since. Now would you like a glass of champagne to celebrate our departure?”

“Thank you, but just a glass of white wine will do. After the Prosecco you introduced me to at supper the other night, I don't think I will ever drink champagne again.”

ooOOoo

Settling into Air Italia first-class--Robert chivalrously insists I take the window seat--I watch with amusement as a shapely blonde hostess dances attendance on us. Well, on Robert, really. Her scarlet talons tarry a little too long when she 'helps' him with the seat belt, and feline flashes of agate eyes communicate her availability for a great deal more than a blanket and a beverage. My seatmate is courteous and appreciative, nothing more. Joan is right; he is a consummate gentleman.

The mechanical whine inside the cabin is joined by a deep rumble as the turbines fire and accelerate us along the runway. My heart is racing equally hard. I stare excitedly out the window at picket fences of runway lamps and East Boston tenements ghosted with halogen streetlights. Landing gear chatters over tarmac; the 747 gains momentum, full-speed toward the Atlantic.

Involuntarily I reach for Robert's hand. It folds mine and patiently tolerates its squeeze of anxiety.

With a sudden upward thrust, all is smooth again. Tears of euphoria sting the corners of my eyes as we're airborne and the midnight harbor lurches into view. The glare of its industrial collar becomes more like rhinestones on black velvet with each gain in altitude before disappearing behind us for good. The next waterfront we'll see will be a much older, far different one.

I relax my grip but don't let go until the blonde hostess returns with our glasses.

oooOooo

Twelve and a half hours later, a water taxi ferries us through a world I've only seen in pictures which haven't done it justice. The Queen of the Adriatic, crowned with sunset's rubicund diadem, flaunts the last gold of her daylight robes. My head whips from side to side like a weather vane in a nor'easter as we glide between the Venetian Gothic facades lining the Grand Canal.

"It's like the Gardner Museum multiplied by a million!" I blurt like a schoolgirl on a field trip. "Complete with real gondolas. But the drivers aren't singing."

"According to local ordinance, they can't sing after 5:00 pm," Robert deadpans.

"You're making that up!"

"You're right. The tourists haven't tipped them enough."

My giggle blooms to a laugh. In his casual travel clothes, Robert looks younger, more relaxed. It's not just the light of Venice; I noticed it back in the Air France lounge when he rescued me from the snooty receptionist.

"There it is, Janice... on the left." He points to a brick building from which several different flags fly. Compared to the splendor of the Santa Maria basilica rising across the canal, it appears almost plain at first.

"The Palazzo Pisani Gritti. This is where the Doge of Venice lived in the 16th century. It was turned into a hotel over a hundred years ago. Don't be fooled by the exterior," Robert adds. "Wait till you see the rest."

"Oh, the arched windows are gorgeous. Imagine standing out on one of those balconies in the evening, with that view." I gesture toward the basilica.

The taxi has reached the jetty, and we disembark. Robert takes my arm, leading us into a marble-pillared reception room. Each piece of framed artwork gracing its walls is expertly illuminated with individual lamps.

"Signor Wethersfield, Signorina Johnson. Welcome." The concierge directs us to our rooms - adjoining but separate, as Joan had reassured me during our North End espresso break. It boggles my mind to think our luggage has already been delivered and unpacked.

"If there's anything you need, I'll call the desk," Robert offers. "Meet me in the Bar Longhi in an hour?"

"Sounds perfect!"

I open the door and gasp. The room! I'm afraid to touch anything, such is the opulence of the furniture and finishes, so I rush to the window and take in the intoxicating cityscape. Only when I'm aware of how thirsty I am, do I tear myself away. There's an ice bucket cradling cobalt bottles of sparkling mineral water. Once slaked, I shower and opt for the Tasha Strutt dress. I hope it will make the same first impression on Robert as it did on Cabot-Blenheim's mirror.

Blue hour mists the sky above our open-air table in the Riva Lounge. Robert orders for us in a convincing local parlance; the waiter pours our Prosecco and withdraws.

I beam in genuine admiration. "Robert, this is probably not the time to tell you that my Italian begins and ends with 'ciao' and 'grazie.' How did you learn to speak it so well?"

"Marjorie was fluent in French and Italian, so you could say some of it rubbed off. Mostly for menu items, I confess." He seems to be talking a little too fast. I hope I haven't asked the wrong thing.

"Well, I didn't hear you say 'calamari' just now, so you remembered my dislike for anything raw. I'm impressed." I want to put him at ease.

It seems to work, so I continue to keep it light. Though the temptation is great to ask an eligible man like Robert why he has never remarried, it doesn't seem an appropriate first-night sort of question. I'm constantly drawn back to his hands and the quiet confidence they express in their grasp of fine stemware and the way they unfold his napkin, their animated emphasis with the right words, their virility even in repose.

Then I notice something, or rather, the absence of something. Robert’s wedding ring has vanished. The gold one that is. The slight indentation at the base of the finger remains.

Inexplicably aroused, I press my thighs together and look away, seeking distraction in a water taxi's running lights mirrored like stars in a ripple of ink.

Get a grip, Janice, I scold myself. It makes perfect sense that he's not wearing it. He wants to avoid giving the impression that I'm his wife, while we are traveling together. It's that simple. No need to inquire about that, either.

Instead, we talk about travel and art, a natural extension of our easy conversations throughout the trip thus far. Around us, darkness deepens, and a more subtle light sculpts legendary architecture into a breathtaking Ilford negative.

Dinner is served, unpronounceable but delicious. Robert makes a face of mock horror when I ask for a ginger ale but nonetheless obliges. Both of us decline dessert. The ambiance of Venice by night has been all the sweetness we've needed.

"You didn't sleep a wink on the plane," Robert gently admonishes. "We should turn in."

"It's been an unforgettable day... and evening,” I tell Robert as we reach my door. “Thank you."

"It's just the beginning, Jan." He takes my hand and kisses it. "Come for me when you're ready for breakfast - any time after seven. Good night, Bella."

The graze of his lips sparks a pleasant shiver. "Good night, Signore," I smile in return.

Twenty minutes later, when my cheek nestles into the pillow's plush embrace for the night, the smile is still there.

oooOooo

I awaken with a violent jolt to unfamiliar darkness. My pulse is racing with dread. It takes a moment to sink in that I've been having the nightmare again, the same one I've had since just after my parents were killed.

My vision acclimatizes to remind me of where I am. Without turning on a light, I splash the tears from my face in the bathroom sink, sip some mineral water, then wander back to bed. The clock reads 2:17 am. I try to fall back to sleep, but the numbers make an ever-advancing mockery of my efforts.

It's no use. I get up and move toward the connecting door to Robert's room, still clad in the short jade silk nightgown. Not wanting to wake him, I turn the knob to avoid clicking the latch and creep softly through.

He's facing away from me on the far side of the king bed, breathing almost soundlessly. I hold my breath and sit on the near edge. Once I'm sure the mattress won't betray my presence, I stretch out and turn onto my side.

I remember the peace I felt when watching Robert doze during the flight. Too excited to sleep, I'd studied the planes of his face and the way his hands rested in his lap.

It's all I want to do right now. Just for a few minutes. Then I can go back to my room and settle down, and it will be all right...

The bed is soft and welcoming. I close my eyes. Just for a minute.

oooOooo

I hear the door open and the movement of someone approaching the bed. I feign sleep while readying myself to confront the invader of my privacy when I smell the faint aroma of her perfume. Dolce & Gabbana, I think.

I decide to not move and see what’s going to take place.

She slithers under the sheets and just lies there. On her side with her hand resting lightly on my arm. I don’t react, and then I smile to myself as she starts to produce a purring sound. I realize that she is now snoring. I find the sound enchanting, and I close my eyes, savoring the heat of her body which is spreading under the sheets as I drift off to sleep.

When I come back to life, the dawn is already lighting the sky, and I feel Jan spooned against my back with her arm wrapped around my chest. Her breath is against my neck, and I think for the first time in what seems to be eons my penis in full rampant erection. Her nipples are against my bare skin and I long to fondle and toy with them. I feel the heat of her sex against my butt which does nothing to quell my desire.

Shit! What do I do? I don’t want to betray my desire for her nubile body. I carefully extricate myself from her unconscious embrace and getting out of bed I don my boxers and go to the bathroom to relieve myself hoping that my erection will subside. After brushing my teeth, I use the phone in the bathroom to call room service and order breakfast.

I eschew the continental breakfast as today will be very busy. I order croissants, Parma ham with melon and eggs Benedict with some fresh fruit and cappuccinos for two. I open the door to the bedroom and see Jan tiptoeing back to her room.

“And where do you think you’re going?” I growl at her.

She freezes in her tracks like a deer caught in the headlights, and I see her face melt into tears.

“Stop that immediately,” I say in a softer tone and walk up to her and wrap her in my arms.

“Robert, I’m so sorry.”

“What, sorry that sleeping with me was such a disappointment? I know I am not as great a lover as I used to be, but was I that bad? Well, you’ll have to give me a second chance and maybe a third to see if I can improve my performance.”

She suddenly realizes that I am kidding her and starts to giggle.

“Get back in bed, wench. I’ve ordered us breakfast in bed. While we are eating, we can discuss what your punishment should be for this act of Lèse-majesté. I don’t think beheading, that’s too severe. However, maybe a spanking would fit the crime.”

“Oh, Robert, stop teasing me. I feel so ashamed of what I did. I was feeling disoriented and just wanted to have a few minutes to get myself back on track, but I fell asleep.”

“Jan, do you know you snore?”

“I do?”

“You certainly do. You snore, and it sounds like the purr of a happy… cat. I was going to say pussycat but in consideration of your tender years and ears let’s just say a cat.”

I watch as she climbs back into bed revealing her long legs and the cute ass cheeks which peek from under her short negligee before she scoots under the sheets. I join her, ensuring that the effect that sight has on me is not noticed by her. I hope.

As I settle myself next to her there is a knock on the door, and I bellow, “Entrare!”

“Buongiorno, Signore e Signora, your breakfasts. Where do you want them set up?” beams the room service waiter. His eyes glance toward the adjoining door and a knowing smile flashes across his face.

“Do you have breakfast trays?” I ask.

“Certamente,” he says reaching under the rolling cart and pulling out two breakfast trays.

“Oh, Robert, that coffee smells to die for and what a sumptuous feast you’ve ordered.”

“It beats Rice Krispies, that’s for sure,” I say watching her eat. My eyes are drawn to her tits that are teasing me from behind their silken curtains. I could nibble on those all day I think as I fight a losing battle to control my involuntary response to them.

“Robert, may I speak freely?” she asks.

“Always.”

“Robert, I am no virgin as I think you know. I am very attracted to you and believe that you are too much of a gentleman to ever attempt anything sexual towards me. For the duration of our time together I am more than willing to change the terms of our agreement with no hidden motives except to pleasure each other.”

“Which terms are those?”

“Two of them mentioned in your ad: The NSA term and the ten thousand dollars. You did a magnificent job of hiding your erection, and in truth, my lady parts are so wet right now you cannot imagine.”

“Jan, I’d love to forgo the NSA part. The ten thousand dollars are not negotiable. That you will get whatever happens between you and me.”

With that, I reach over and caress her cheek as she leans towards me and her mouth reaches mine. I feel her tongue against my lips as she kisses me. Our tongues entwine, and the raw passion between us is palpable.

As we break from that first kiss, I look at her and ask, “Are you sure about this, Jan?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything, Robert.” Her eyes confirm her quiet words.

I reach over and pull her towards me, so she is lying across my legs with her ass exposed.

“Robert, what are you doing?” she yelps.

“Punishment time,” I reply caressing her tender ass cheeks.

oooOooo

With surprising strength and quickness, Robert pulls me across his lap causing the chemise to ride up toward my waist. Still spinning from our kiss, I flinch, needled with the recall of cruelly driven blows whenever Jake had grabbed me like this. But Robert's firm caresses over my exposed backside purge all trepidation. His touch is both soothing and thrilling; the velvety slide of his palm is giving me goosebumps.

"I am at your mercy, Robert," I say softly, willing him not to lift his warmth from my vulnerable skin. I'm riding Robert's solid thighs, it's true, but also a brand new crest on the roller coaster of these past few hours: the after-dinner giddiness, the intrusive setback of a bad dream, the comfort of Robert's presence afterward, the shame at being caught in my trespass, and now the exhilarating freedom not just to admit my attraction to him but to act on it.

He shifts his legs slightly upward to rebalance my frame, causing his hardness to wedge deeper into my hip.

"You'll find out that I can be merciful." His fingertips travel downward to explore the silky rift just south of where beads of welling moisture descend in erotic tears from their hiding place.

In an attempt to return the blissful favor, I reach back toward his still-clothed erection only to feel his grip suddenly intercept my wrist before I can make contact. The erstwhile gentle palm smites my cheeks with a sharp slap, evoking a whoop of more surprise than discomfort.

"And merciless," Robert amends, then after squeezing a firm handful, resumes the sensual rubbing. My wrist is still immobilized in his other hand and pinned over the ruched-up chemise. Forbidden urges ripple through my lower belly. Only a thin drape of Egyptian cotton cushions the subtle grind of my mons against his flexed quadricep.

A second slap reverberates all the way to the lofty, gilded ceiling. I can almost picture the scandalized expressions on Bellini's pious nymphs. Or would they be envious, wishing they were in my place?

Robert gives a low growl. "Oh, Janice, you are a very naughty girl. We're going to have to do something about that."

Chastened, I halt the furtive movement and drop my head. "You've no idea what a bad girl I've been, Robert. Do with me what you must." My nub, fully roused from its post-Jake comatose state, is silently screaming for attention.

Another slap, another squeeze. Skilled fingers coax their way under the front of my gown in a feathered route to my right breast, turning my nipples hard as push-pins, then descend to my inner thigh again and firmly ease it outward as if tugging on a wishbone. My loins flex furtively, seeking friction.

Slap! The stinging palm swats again. It cups my curve and slithers to push the other thigh in the opposite direction until I'm splayed like a lascivious, prone Venus.

"You realize..." Slap! "...that your insubordinate tendencies..." Slap! "...are earning you extra strokes..." Slap! "...don't you?"

"Yes," I husk through parched lips.

Bellini's gobsmacked goddesses watch the globes of the impenitent girl's backside shiver and blush under a flurry of smacks. They gape in fascination as strong fingers wander to trace the insides of her thighs, then probe and insinuate themselves between the swollen, honeyed folds. They eavesdrop on throaty wails of acquiescence as the fingers plunge, withdraw and tease, then repeat their methodical invasion.

Free from the punishing hand and confident in its enthusiastic conversion to delivering penetrating pleasure, I'm panting like a marathoner storming Heartbreak Hill and the churn of my hips escalates to an exotic dancer's abandon. I'm torn, wanting badly to be joined with Robert yet craving the release toward which he goads me.

Then he guides my hand from its satin nest until it rests on the rock-hard ridge straining his shorts. My fingers sprawl to cover as much as they can and begin to rub it greedily.

The sound of his appreciative gasp hurls me toward the tipping point.

"Robert!" His name is a half-shriek, half-groan as it tumbles from me and crashes headlong into the soundproof 16th-century walls. "I'm going to--"

Just as the delicious tingling is about to ignite its sweetest fire, the warm wriggling fullness inside me abruptly pulls away.

"You're going to what, Janice?"

I bite my lip to keep from whimpering aloud in frustration, gaining a new understanding of what Robert means by 'merciless.'

A deep breath restores some of my equilibrium. "I'm... going to put your legs to sleep, aren't I?"

"Nice try, woman. Keeping your cheeks rosy is doing wonders for my circulation." Slap! "And who knows what mischief you might cause if I were to let you up?"

My heart pounds recklessly as my fingers stroke up and down the tented cotton. "Aren't you the least bit curious?"

He lets go of my wrist, and I take shameless advantage of its liberation to tug at his shorts. Before he can react, my lips are half-kissing, half-nibbling up and down the proud, surprisingly thick shaft.

"Janice..." His voice falters when the tip of his spear is engulfed and brushed with delicate laps.

I suck in another few inches of rigid manhood, run my fingers lightly under his balls, and look up at him with wide-eyed, can't-talk-with-my-mouth-full innocence. He's much bigger than I expected.

By now, the Venetian muses in every portrait in the room are surely reaching under their robes at the sight of Robert's girth sliding toward my throat. I wonder how long it's been since he's been taken into the heat of a woman's mouth. His answer is a mighty throb against the snug slip of my tongue.

Once I sense the encouraging pressure of his hands on my temples, I draw my lips upward until he's untouched and quivering in the open air. He grunts in protest. Payback is sweet.

"What would you say if I told you I wanted to climb under the table and have you for dessert?" I flush. "But being our first night...it might have been...a bit much?"

I kneel astride his hips and let him lift the chemise over my head, then giggle watching him toss it impatiently onto the sheets.

"You mean, while we were discussing Duccio and Donatello and Saturday mornings at the Museum of Fine Arts? How inappropriate, Miss Johnson."

He sweeps the tousled hair back over my shoulder to afford him an unobstructed view of the small firm breasts and their star-point nipples. While his approving stare lingers on them, I reach down, clasp and steer his stout column into my glazed depths until I'm fully impaled.

"Most inappropriate," he breathes.

"I think you like it that way," I lean in for a kiss.

Newly locked, we pause in disbelief and delight. The moment thickens until I'm submerged and breathless under Robert’s gaze. I shake it off and swim toward lightness.

"Do you think management would evict us if I admired the view without remembering to put something on," I half-nod toward the majestic span of windows, "and you were to do to me what comes naturally..." I run my hands over the coarse masculine coat of his chest until they alight on his shoulders, "...in front of every passing craft on the Grand Canal?"

Robert cups my breasts and I can feel his fierce reaction swell within my core.

"What's so funny?" I address the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

"I'll explain...later," he promises. "But do go on."

"I intend to." And bracing myself, I rock and squeeze the imprisoned but formidable force in ways I hope will make him beg for more.

"They're watching us, you know," I whisper, hips rising and falling like Brenton Point rollers, sucking his board in my undertow.

"Who?"

"The women in the murals. Can you feel their eyes on you? And how horny we must be making them?"

He says nothing but clutches harder at my breasts and thrusts beneath me like a living Sybian. It must have been a very long time since he's had this.

When his touches explore the simmering path to our nexus, he doesn't stop. Not when I cry out once, or even twice.

The third time, his release joins and intensifies mine. With a sharply held breath, he spills copiously into my searing clenches. Spent, I collapse onto his chest, not wanting to move.

As the canal's reflected light dances erratically through the room and plays over the driftwood of exhausted limbs, we hear a gondolier's sonorous bellow. In unison, our laughter revives us.

Reluctantly I rise and fetch the jade pool of my nightgown. Conditioned by Jake's hasty exits, I prepare to make one of my own.

"And where do you think you're going?" I hear Robert boom for the second time that morning.

The question makes my heart skip with relief. Does he miss me already?

"My room. I'd like to grab a shower and some more of those fabulous clothes to which you've treated me."

Robert glances about the portrait-studded walls where the voyeuristic muses have reassumed demure stillness. "This is your room," he corrects.

"Really?" I manage coolly, in case he's playing with me.

He bounds from the bed, takes my hand and leads me into the marble opulence of the bathroom. A switch is clicked, and multiple jets spring forth, crisscrossing the shower enclosure.

"You won't be needing those clothes for a while," Robert grins. "I'll instruct the concierge to move your things...after we try this out."

oooOooo

The bathroom is the antithesis of the rest of the suite. Gone is the rococo décor. White glowing Carrera marble and ultramodern stainless steel except for the bath--a porcelain monster supported with gilded lion paws.

I start the shower sprays and go to fill the bath so it will be ready after we shower.

“Come here, little girl. It’s time for me to scrub you down.”

“Ooh, so I’m a little girl now?” Jan giggles.

“Well, not so little,” I respond reaching for her mouth-watering breasts and giving them a loving squeeze. “Now get into the shower before you tempt me to take you over my knee again.”

With a provocative wriggle of her derriere, she enters the crisscross spray of the showerheads with a mischievous glance at me over her shoulder.

I stand mesmerized as I watch the water cascade over her body clothing it in a sheen of bubbles. Under the effect of the overhead light, she is Aphrodite emerging from the sea. A body worthy of a sculptor’s chisel.

My heart is throbbing as I gaze at her.

“Robert, I thought you were going to wash me,” she pouts.

“From head to toe and several points in between,” I say giving her a mock evil leer.

She chuckles, opens her arms and enfolds me in her embrace. “Wash away, Lothario. I’m all yours to do with as you please.”

My hands revel in the feel of her soft silky skin as they glide across her shoulders and back before caressing her luscious behind. She arches back sensuously to my touch. I wrap my arms around her holding her tight to me as I soap her breasts delighting in the feel of her hard nipples against the palm of my hand.

“Sit,” I order, indicating a built-in marble shelf.

“Why? We were just starting to have fun.”

“Just do as you’re told,” I growl.

Assuming a penitent little-girl look, she sits and watches as I pour into my hands and on her scalp some Salvatore Ferragamo Tuscan shampoo. I lather her hair running my fingers through her chestnut tresses and massage her scalp as she sits with eyes closed and emits soft sounds of appreciation.

Once I rinse her hair, I ask her to stand and place her hands against the wall of the shower enclosure.

“Spread your legs and don’t move,” I order.

I massage her back again and run my hand down to her cute tush. I spread her ass cheeks and let my fingers slide up and down that delightful valley allowing my fingers to titillate her little-puckered hole. The reaction is electric as she rises to her toes and pushes back against my exploring finger.

“Robert…” she moans.

”Is that good for you?” I ask.

“Good! It’s incredible. No one has ever done that to me.”

Taking a chance I let my soapy finger push at her puckered hole, and I feel her open to my touch, and my finger penetrates her. Her body shudders, and I slowly allow my finger to thrust in and out of her body. She is very tight, and I feel her tighten around my finger with each thrust.

My other hand slips through her thigh gap, and I cup her pussy and part her lips. I thoroughly wash her most intimate parts before withdrawing my hands and proceeding to rinse her.

“Why did you stop? I was so close.”

“Good things happen to she who waits,” I say taking her hand and leading her to the now-filled tub. “Hop in.”

She gets in and lies down as I smile to see that she is completely submerged except for her head and tits which rise above the lavender-scented soap bubbles. I sit myself facing her and place her foot in my lap. I am overwhelmed with feelings for this delightful woman.

Each foot gets a thorough massage eliciting gasps from my sweet playmate. When I lift a foot and run my tongue between her toes, she starts giggling.

“Robert, that tickles. Please… don’t stop.”

I scoot forward and place her legs over my shoulders. “You think that tickles? Just wait till you feel this!”

I lean forward and lower my face to her delicate nether lips and run my tongue from her pucker all the way up her cleft. I lap at her like a cat in front of a saucer of milk. She tastes delicious, and my tongue decides that it’s going to perform victory laps.

“Oh! Robert,” she squeals as I take her delicate nub and suck it between my lips and tug on it with my teeth.

Her body trembles and quakes under my ministrations. The water is now sloshing on the marble floor as I torture her delicate flesh.

I curve two fingers into her hot cleft and search for her happy spot. As soon as I start stimulating it, she starts moaning.

“Robert! Robert… you’re going to make me… I’m cumming. Oh my god, that is out of this world.”

I let her catch her breath and just gently toy with her as she regains her composure. Lifting her out of the water in my arms I wrap her in one of the oversized bath towels and rub her dry.

We go back to the bedroom, and I place her on the bed and join her. She reaches over and kisses me with a passion I have not experienced for years.

“Robert, you are an amazing lover,” she says and then drops her head on my chest, and her eyes close. She is soon fast asleep while I ponder where this is going.

We wake up, and it is mid-morning. Jan nuzzles into my neck, and I delight in the sensation of her naked body next to mine.

“How about if we have a bite to eat and then head for the sights of Venice?” I ask.

“But Robert, I have not returned the pleasure you gave me.”

“Yes, you have, more so than you can imagine. We have weeks for you and me to trade and share pleasures; however, we only have today and tomorrow in Venice. I also assure you tonight I am going to exact every drop of pleasure from your nubile body.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart. Get ready, woman. The news on the Rialto waits on no one. We have basilicas, museums, and other sights to see. Tonight I promise to take you to Café Florian before we get back. They make the most fabulous risotto you will ever taste.

“Get yourself together, and I will get the management to bring your clothes over while we’re out.”

“Yes, love.”

Love... wow, that sounds so sweet.

To be continued