Class Reunion
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Class Reunion: The Bet free porn video
Thanks to my assortment of Editors, including Dragonsweb, Jacques Noir, RastaDevil, The Old Fart & WanderingScot and other advance readers that prefer to maintain deniability
I really hadn't wanted to attend my ten year High School class reunion, but my fiancée Amber talked me into it. While I had stayed in pretty good contact with most of my old school friends and had visited home fairly often over the years, Amber had never met any of them and the timing of the reunion seemed ideal for her meet all of them together in one place at the same time. She especially wanted to meet my best friend Peter, since I had told her a great deal about him, and his rather remarkable 'gift'.
Amber and I had known each other casually for about four years and it took nearly that long for me to chip away at her rather frosty exterior enough to get her out on a date. When I finally accomplished this, the legendary ice princess slowly began to thaw, and over the next six months a torrid romance began to flame up. Finally, about three months ago, she consented to become my wife. The long pursuit was most definitely worth every moment of it!
Actually, the trip back home for the reunion could serve several other useful purposes as well. My parents were still living there in the old family home but were seriously considering moving to Arizona for their retirement. They were willing to leave me the house if I wanted to move back home, otherwise they soon planned to sell it. There was also a rumor that old Bert Hunter wanted to entirely or partially sell his machine shop, with an eye towards retiring himself in a few years.
If I could somehow scrape up the money, I would be more than interested in buying into that business. Old Bert had given me my first machinists training back while I was still in High School and supposedly business was still good there, with several lucrative and long-term aerospace, military and oilfield part fabrication contracts that would provide a regular stable income for years still to come.
Becoming a machinist had been a pretty good career move for me. I wasn't a good enough jock to get a college sports scholarship and I didn't have the brains to earn one the hard way either. Taking out a lot of student loans didn't seem like such a great idea either, especially as I didn't have a clue about what I wanted to do for a living. I had the patience for machine shop work, especially the tricky jobs that required extremely tight variances of 1/1000th of an inch or more. I became good at this sort of work and had a pretty nice resume of both old-fashioned and computerized machine tools that I could operate, and a stable job history working for some of the better regional shops, mostly in our nearly local small city.
The money had been pretty good too, but I was starting to look forward to the idea of buying into one of the local shops and making some bigger bucks by being one of the bosses.
Amber was more than willing to move with me from the small city we were now living in, to my hometown, which was considerably smaller. She had a college degree in English and worked as an administrative assistant for a small aerospace firm. Business wasn't all that great there and she was always worried about being laid off. She figured that she could work as a secretary or in administration just about anywhere, and she's probably right.
In any case, Amber was very gung ho about going to the reunion. If nothing else, she wanted to meet my parents before they retired and take a good look in advance at the old family home and the town. She wasn't particularly high maintenance and neither did she require a lot of 'shopping therapy', but she did want to take a good advance look at the lay of the land before making any final commitments to move there with me and settle down some serious roots, like starting a family.
Besides, her own reunion would be the following year, and turn-about is only fair play.
We left a bit early for the reunion as I wanted to spend a day looking over Bert's machine shop — assuming that he really was interested in selling some of the ownership ... and indeed he was. We spent the day together reviewing finances and the current and probable future workload and together we worked out a rough sales agreement for a 25% minority ownership to start with, with a secure five-year option to buy out the remainder of the company.
The only problem was, I didn't have nearly enough money even for a suitable down payment.
Bert was happy to see me again, and more than willing to make me a more than reasonable offer, but even with some very creative accounting I was going to end up a bit short. Just for a down payment alone, I was going to need at least $50,000 in earnest money right away (and more would be better). Even for this small minority ownership stake I would need financing for several hundred thousand dollars, for which Bert was willing to work out payments directly, without requiring a bank loan. Sure I could also do some sweat equity or bring in a few really high value contracts, but I'd still need to come up with some real cash to make the deal work.
Currently, I could come up with $10,000 fairly easily from savings, and another five or six thousand if I maxed out all of my other credit options like my checking overdraft and my line of credit at my bank. I filled out a commercial bank loan application with them as well but the bank manager had already warned me that their corporate head office was tightening up on loans and approval was by no means guaranteed. Borrowing from my parents really wasn't an option as they were getting ready to move for retirement and their cash situation was currently fairly tight, especially if they didn't sell their old house and Amber and I moved into it.
Bert agreed to keep the offer on hold for a few weeks to give me time to wait for a miracle to raise the needed money. The miracle, if it was one, appeared promptly that evening during the first reunion event, the Friday night cocktail party, held at a local nightclub.
My hometown was about a mid-sized town, and we had a fairly good sized graduating class of about four hundred kids, of which at least two hundred, plus their spouses or significant others were also in attendance. My clique of old friends, the jock crowd from our less than famous football and baseball teams, had gathered together and assembled two long tables off in a corner, one for the guys and the other for the girlfriends and wives. I introduced Amber around to both tables before she sat herself down at the girl's table to solicit embarrassing stories about me, and I joined my old teammates at ours.
I'm not particularly sentimental, but it was a good deal of fun to hear repeated all of the old funny stories concerning our usual ignoble disasters upon the playing fields of glory. Far too many defeats and not nearly enough glory ... but still we had enjoyed ourselves while we played. What we lacked in talent we made up for with enthusiasm. Our baseball skills were slightly better than our football talents, but not by much. Neither team ever went to the regional championship playoffs, let alone state.
After more than a few pitchers of beer had been downed and our playing field mishaps temporarily set aside, the conversation began to shift to wives, girlfriends, dating and marriages. Which in turn soon lead towards the discussion of our absent teammate, Peter, the inhuman 'Sex God' that no woman could resist. Peter was still at work tonight, he was the sales manager for our local big chain hardware/home improvement store but he had promised to join us for the luncheon and dinner meetings tomorrow.
Everyone knew at least a dozen good stories involving Peter and we must have told them all that Friday evening ... besides, I think every single one of them really was true. More than once I heard Peter's name mentioned over at the women's table also. I'd told Amber a few stories about Peter, undoubtedly now she was hearing a few more, from the feminine perspective. No one, male or female, doubted for a moment that Peter was some sort of inhuman Sex God whom had temporarily manifested himself on earth. He was certainly more than unique.
Peter, who was also my best friend during High School, wasn't particularly tall, or nor of dark complexion, nor was he especially handsome. He wasn't buff and didn't have six-pack abs, and from what I could casually see in the showers after gym or team practices his cock was nothing exceptional either. He seemed average in every measureable way. He did, however, ooze sex appeal out of every gland and pore of his body.
His success rate with girls was perfect. Most just good, not even great ... but inconceivably perfect! One hundred percent. To our knowledge, not one girl in High School had ever resisted his advances. Not one ... ever! And not due to lack of trying. Girls would make all sorts of bets that they could resist him and refuse to date him, but none could. Most even ended up at least once in the back of his car or in his bed. It even became sort of a rite of passage for a new girl arriving at school wanting to join one of the better social cliques', to be ordered to flirt and make passes at Peter but given strict instructions to refuse to date him. They'd always fail ... every single time.
To be fair, it seemed to me that Peter didn't even need to pursue a girl most of the time; just being near him for a few minutes was usually enough for the girl to want to pursue Peter. It wasn't uncommon for a girl to just walk up to him and offer him her panties (still warm) with a hint that he could come and immediately see what they had been hiding. Peter's locker, next to mine, was certainly stuffed with a large collection of female underwear and he had at least one full box at home under his bed that was also full of trophies. It didn't seem to matter if the girl already had a steady boyfriend or not. If she got too close to Peter she would become another moth to his flame.
Most of us were pretty understanding about this. We knew Peter and honestly, he never took deliberate aim at anyone else's girl, especially a friends'. Peter's legendary charm also seemed to work well on pissed off boyfriends, and he could talk his way out of any crisis situation usually within moments.
By the end of his Senior year, I don't think there was a Junior or Senior girl that Peter had not fucked. Indeed, it was pretty much an open secret that Peter held court daily at lunchtime in the third floor ladies' restroom (complete with a sofa). After school, his female admirers hung out in our athletic weight room trailer behind the school. After practice, he'd select his lady of the evening and leave school with her under his arm. Quantity was higher rated than quality, and most girls never got to have regular repeated encounters with Peter. A good thing, or the rest of us guys would have been very rather desperate for girlfriends!
Actually, for some of us less handsome and assertive guys, like me in those youthful days, getting an occasional bit of Peter's leftovers was nearly a sure thing as well – being in a sweaty weight room with the Sex God for more than five minutes was guaranteed to put the unfortunate girls not picked for his evening fun in a flushed, nearly uncontrollably horny state, and eager for any sort of masculine attention. If they couldn't have Peter ... then one of the rest of us would have to do ... and they weren't always patient enough to wait to get out to our cars out in the parking lot! Those weight room benches got a lot of sweaty workouts most evenings ... and not just pumping weights!
It bears mentioning that our high school had one of the highest teen pregnancy percentages in the entire state. At least ten girls that I had personally heard of proudly bragged that Peter had knocked them up, and my own personal unofficial guess would be that his real patrimony total was closer to forty than twenty. Peter claimed to me that he would always try to use a rubber but that the girls were often very insistent that he not use one — that they wanted the thrill and risk of having his baby. Allegedly, some girls even deliberately stopped taking their birth control pills and let him repeatedly fuck them bareback until they became pregnant. There were even wild stories that more than a few girls let him regularly do them in their own bedrooms, and then afterwards would watch while Peter also seduced and screwed their own moms!
Peter, at minimum, must have had sex at least three times a day, every day back in school, and from the reports I heard he had not slowed down much over the years. He currently had a cortège of six regular girlfriends, collectively called the Calendar Girls because each of them was beautiful enough to be a professional model and they all shared him consecutively in turn for one day of the week. According to the stories, he also had a full stable of other men's wives that he was attending to in addition to the regular girlfriends and he had a very full social schedule keeping them all entertained and bedded. Apparently on Sunday Peter ate raw meat, caught up on his rest and took lots and lots of vitamins.
Peter never screwed any of my own girlfriends. He had either already sampled their charms previously or else he would patiently wait until after we broke-up. Peter knew he had a 'gift' and while he was a mega-horny teenaged kid he never tried to screw anyone else over with it. I guess that is why we were the closest of friends. He may have fucked nearly every female in town but at least he never tried to do anyone any intentional harm with his talents. I always wondered if he should be using his magic power to work for the CIA, to seduce and turn evil femme fatale spies or something. On the other hand they'd probably lock him up in some dungeon lab and stick him full of tubes to try and bottle him, or something.
Taking a restroom break to recycle some of the beer I'd drunk, I got into a conversation in the men's room with an old acquaintance named Carl who had made it off to college and was teaching science at one of the local middle schools.
"I still wonder how old Pete manages to do it, attracting every single butterfly to come sample his flower. Is it mind control or a secret magic ring?" I asked him casually.
"Easy. It's his pheromones!" He replied.
"His what? Explain that to me college boy, in small words that a dumb machine puncher can understand." I demanded, and he did. The way he explained it to me made perfect sense too.
Nearly every other animal on earth mates primarily via the sense of smell. Dogs, cats, monkeys, horses, insects, lizards, etc., all use their sense of smell to determine the health and suitability of mating partners. Some creatures are fussier than others about how critical this process is, but smell is usually of much more importance than visual or vocal cues.
Humans have lost something like 98% of our smelling ability as we evolved and normally we (men) mostly rely primarily upon visual cues to select a mate ... but smell does play a small but hidden role. Women wear perfume and some men wear musk to increase these non-visual cues to a prospective partner to attract them. In Peter's case, his natural body scents — his pheromones — broadcast out loudly to all females declaring his superior suitability as a breeding partner. These discrete body chemicals apparently function many hundreds of times for more efficiently for Peter than they do for most other men, sending out an overpowering, but subconscious, signal to women, which greatly magnifies his attractiveness. The closer a woman is to him, the more her body will positively react to his pheromone signals, and the more she will desire him for a mate.
This made perfect sense to me. Again, five minutes or less around Peter and women were dropping their panties and whimpering 'Take me!'. Peter was apparently a walking chemical atomic bomb that loudly broadcasted "I am the perfect Alpha male". Faced with this, what woman could refuse him? Furthermore, all of the other Beta males like our friends looked up to him, rarely resenting when he poached upon their own females ... back in the old days in school, or even today when their wives snuck off for an assignation.
This idea of pheromones was certainly something to think about.
Returning to my table, the conversation had now moved off of Peter as folks were discussing their own love lives, and how they met their own wives and girlfriends. In short order I related my own happy tale of my multi-year pursuit of Amber and how it took me over three years to get her to even go out on a date with me. Everyone laughed at this and someone mentioned that Peter could have managed it in three minutes.
"Nope, not a chance. She'd never have gone on a date with him. She's very, very picky." I replied to the astonishment and dismay of my many companions. Not one person believed that Amber could have resisted Peter — I was absolutely outnumbered at least eighty to one. Then I heard the voice of opportunity — and my potential miracle.
"Want to make a bet that when Peter meets her for the very first time tomorrow at lunch he'll be able to at least kiss her, let alone make her want to take a trip to see the old weight trailer with him?" Someone challenged.
"A bet? No way, I couldn't steal money from old friends and teammates. It would be like taking candy from a baby. Pete has no chance whatsoever against the Ice Princess!"
With that challenge the pump was primed and folks couldn't wait to formalize the terms of the bet. Since Peter was the uncontested champion of romance, with a perfect record of never failing to seduce any woman, I demanded some odds as the underdog, 4-1 at least. Especially since hardly anyone seemed willing to bet on my side. In the end, I settled on taking 3-1 odds, matching my $10,000 against everyone else's pool of $30,000.
A lot of my female classmates soon joined in and made their own contributions to the betting pool. All completely 100% siding with Peter. Having each ridden the magic pony a few times themselves, not one of them believed that Amber stood any chance against him. By the time we parted company for the evening, the betting pool had over a hundred and fifty signatures. Only two folks put their money on my side, and even then with considerable misgivings. We picked a married couple who had not bet on either side to become the arbiter and judges for the bet — and hold on to the betting slips.
Most folks put up an average of $300 against me, but there was a small cabal of a few of the richer classmates that each ponied up a couple of thousand to make the betting pot an even $40k when it was done.
Somehow, during all of this, Amber was kept distracted and mostly steered away from the betting conversations that now dominated the room at nearly every table. I had promised not to give Amber any specific warnings against being around Peter (not that it mattered) and that I would allow him full proximity access at her side for at least ten minutes. If she did not kiss him (or grab his cock) after ten minutes, I would be declared the winner.
Stevie
- 24.03.2020
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