Sally Rides Double

Chapter One: We Just Had Sex

"I love you so much, Sally," Bill whispered in my ear, as he entered me on the circular beach lounger on his patio. The convertible top partially blocked the sun, but we were dripping with sweat, slipping and sliding against each other on this hotter-than-usual day in Florida’s temperate winter climate.

"I love you too," I said, which was true, but it was doubtful I’d ever love again like I had when I married Lance.

Bill smiled down at me with those adoring eyes as he did his best to please me, his stroke, deep and even. He’s a hopeless romantic and likes to take his time making love, which is nice, but at odds with my personality. I love sex, but it shouldn’t take an hour to paddle up Coochie Creek. I prefer to wedge a quick bang into the day when I need it, kinda like a coffee break.

And that’s why I’m here.

I tightened my legs around Bill’s back, and he felt my urgency. He anchored his arms under my legs, raising my hips and maneuvering us into go-time position. "That’s it right there," I cooed, tingling with anticipation. Teetering on the edge as I was, just hearing Bill release could catapult me to climax, and he knew it.

"OK baby," he purred, his face buried in my soft blond curls, his hot breath on my ear. Then he inhaled sharply and began his sprint to the finish line, committing himself completely to satisfying my outsized libido. He gasped then slowed his stroke, groaning out the ecstasy as it filled him. I lost myself in the melody of his euphoria and joined in his joyous expression.

Ahhhh… what a perfect eight minutes.

Bill cuddled up beside me on the lounger and we relaxed in silence, listening to the surf pound the shore. In a few weeks, the final flock of Canadian snowbirds would migrate south. They typically left Canada the day after Christmas: Boxing Day. I understand the desire to celebrate Christmas up north with snow on the ground, presents under a real fir tree, and a blazing fire in the hearth; it never quite feels like Christmas in Florida. Point is, once they got here, the condos on both sides of Bill’s would be occupied, and there would be no more pressing dangly parts on the patio. I’d miss it.

"I'm going to get a glass of water," I said, fixing the flimsy fabric of the sexy teddy over my pendulous breasts. More than once, I had considered surgery to reduce, reshape, and refirm them, but when I read the procedure, which requires cutting out and reattaching the nipples, and with no guarantee sensation would be restored, I said hell no to that; I wasn’t taking any chances. And besides, I knew at least two men who liked big soft Betty and Wilmas.

I stepped through the sliding door into the upstyled living area and made my way to the kitchen, then filled a glass of water and gazed out at Bill curled up naked on the lounger. He looked like a cherub—his muscular frame and bald head smooth and copper-colored. Just a few months ago when we began dating, Bill had been a never-nude like me. He was still a very modest man, though. He’d have his boxers on shortly.

"Hey Bill!" I shouted, "I have to go!" But there was no response.

The guest suite was the only part of Bill’s condo that hadn’t been remodeled to reflect his style: just this side of ultra modern. It had been left as is after his interior decorator, Robin, terminated their business relationship, which followed immediately after Bill terminated their personal relationship. The contractors had managed to cut in the wall edges with white paint, but that’s as far as they got, and the effect of the outlining was to emphasize the drab, pale yellow walls and faded brown carpet still exposed. Every so often Bill would bounce design ideas off me in an attempt to elicit some sort of commitment to the space. It was, after all, where I kept some things for the nights I slept over, which were few and far between and almost always on a Saturday—our day. But I lived in a colorful beach bungalow crowded with inherited antiques that I’d reupholstered to echo a tropical vibe. I couldn’t relate to the sterile medium Bill had embraced, so I declined to offer my opinion. Plus, putting my stamp on his homestead was a relationship bridge too far for me. I suspect that’s why he kept prompting me to do it.

I rinsed off in the tired old ensuite bathroom, then took measure of myself in the desilvering mirror. I’d put on a few pounds since being crowned Bill’s new girlfriend, and I knew the black sundress would put up a fight, but I managed to mold myself beneath the custody of the Spandex. I really needed the height from some spiky black stilettos, but I couldn’t pull off that Miami Vice vibe—not at my age and at four in the afternoon, so I opted for blingy flip flops. Then, having rifled through the half-used cosmetics I’d brought over to free up space in my own bathroom, I settled on a little mascara and pale pink lipstick.

All suited up, I walked back out to the patio, knowing my next exchange with Bill would be far less pleasurable.

"Hey old man, wake up," I said, teasing. At 52, Bill was hardly old, and at 55, I was older. He rolled on his back and smiled up at me, then feeling the sun on his wiener, realized he was buck naked. He scrambled for his underwear lying on the cement deck, and I giggled watching him race to get them on.

"Where are you going, Sally?" he asked, looking confused. "I’m making dinner: baked macaroni and cheese."

"Macaroni and cheese? I just made my grandmother’s two weeks ago, and you said it yourself; it’s the best."

I headed for the door; it would be the first of several attempts to get through it. Bill passed me on the left and cut me off at the kitchen.

"Yours is great, Sally, but I want to try out my mom’s recipe on you. It has a bacon and tomato crust on the top."

"Hmmmm, well that actually does sound pretty good, but I have to leave. I’m meeting Brian, Craig, and Laura for happy hour."

Bill frowned and crossed his meaty forearms, then leaned back casually against the door: his signature pose. Unfortunately, it was the refrigerator door, and by the wince on his face that followed immediately thereafter, I guessed the stainless steel had given his bare sun-baked back an icy reception. He snapped to attention.

He is quite the accidental comedian.

“Don’t look so disappointed, honey,” I said, stifling a grin, “We’ll see each other on Saturday; we’ll have your macaroni and cheese then.”

Bill shot me a gloomy glance as he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. He wasn’t typically a day drinker and he never drank alone, so I knew he had no intention of opening it. He set the beer directly on the newly-installed quartz countertop before thinking better of it and placing a coaster under it.

“Wait!” he said, a flash of awareness brightening his Caribbean blue eyes, “It’s Thursday. Your happy hour is tomorrow!”

Bill looked relieved as he wrapped me in a big bear hug and nuzzled my neck.

“It's Thirsty Thursday,” I said, tapping his nose with my index finger, “and it's a special occasion."

Abruptly, Bill released me from his commanding embrace and looked at me with a quizzical expression. “Since when are Brian and Craig invited to happy hour? I thought that was girls-only.”

“I want to tell them the good news in person,” I said, rising on tippy toes and kissing the bottom of his chin.

“So, you’re sure you got the Ops Manager job.”

“Quite sure,” I said.

Bill and I worked for SouthEast Atlantic Engineering and Telecommunications in Sydney, Florida, although in different locations and capacities. Bill was a senior manager, while I had been thrust back into the workforce after an embarrassing divorce and was struggling to rise to middle management.

“You’ve only been at SEA for a little over a year,” he reminded me unnecessarily, “and you’ve already been promoted once.”

“So what?” I said, “Mark says that’s long enough, especially since no one beats me on paper. He’s confident the job is mine, and he should know; he’s my boss.”

“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up,” Bill said cautiously. He picked up the beer bottle and pretended to examine it. “Hmmmm, only 105 calories.”

“Do you know something I don’t, Bill?”

He gave me a What? Who? Me? look.

“No Sally. I just know how things work.”

"Oh, you sure as hell do,” I said with a smirk, “But have you forgotten about my not-so-secret weapon.” I turned and wagged my tail at him. “Mark didn’t bring that up, of course, but you know as well as I do that being a woman is an advantage in the engineering world.”

Bill chuckled. “In a fair world, everyone would rise through the ranks based solely on merit.”

“That’s rich coming from you!” I blurted, “You said it yourself, you should have been fired.”

Bill reddened and stilled. “No, Sally. I said I thought I would be fired.”

I immediately regretted my outburst, but I believed what Mark had implied: that Bill would have been fired if his last name wasn’t Pruitt.

“Anyway,” I said, waving him off, “if they want to give me extra points for being a female, I’m not going to argue with them.”

“Why can’t you tell Brian and Craig tomorrow at work,” Bill said, returning to his obvious displeasure with the modified happy hour plan.

“That’ll be too late. Mark says they’ll probably announce it first thing in the morning. Plus, I thought maybe Brian and Laura might hit it off.”

Bill furrowed his eyebrows.

“I thought you didn’t like mixing business with pleasure.”

“I don’t, but Brian and Craig are more than my supervisees, Bill. I tell them pretty much everything.”

Bill jerked backwards at the in-coming I had just hurled in his direction.

“Everything?” he asked, hands on hips. “I hope you don’t entertain them with your provocative memoirs.”

I grinned at Bill’s colorful description of the collection of short stories I was writing. It had started out as journaling, a way to deal with the divorce, a sort of therapy without the therapist. But it had quickly escalated into a passion for storytelling.

“That stuff you write is so personal,” he added. “Some of it is downright pornographic.”

Bill air-quoted the word pornographic with his expressive fingers, as if it needed emphasis. He’d picked up that banal body language habit from me and tended to use it most inappropriately and almost always when he was irritated. I liked to make fun of him, and often we’d get into an air quote battle until someone would laugh and lose the game. By then, whatever had set him off was long forgotten.

“What difference does it make if I share my stories with Brian and Craig?” I asked. “You have no relationship with them–at work or otherwise. I think you’ve only ever met them once. It was at that company picnic at Rogers Park.”

“I remember,” said Bill, pursing his lips, “You were drunk and dirty dancing up against me. They saw the kiss.”

Bill air-quoted the word kiss.

I shook my head.

“They did not see the kiss. They saw the feel,” I said, air-quoting feel.

I smiled to myself as I recalled the very bad behavior I’d gotten away with that evening.

“I’m serious, Sally. If I thought you told them about that time at Mom’s party–when you… you know… did that thing to me in my bedroom.”

Bill blushed and lowered his gaze.

“No worries, honey,” I said, as I pressed myself up against his toasty torso. “The smokin’ hot stuff is for ladies only.”

I gave his bulging bicep a little love bite, and he jerked his arm from me.

“Ouch!” he yelped, rubbing the spot where my teeth had left a faint impression. “Don’t be so rough!”

“I’m sorry darlin’,” I said, looking at my watch. “Hey, I'm going to be late. And if you're not going to drink that beer, hand it to me. I’ll down it on my way out.”

“You drink too much," he responded, returning the beer to the fridge. And I took advantage of that distraction and tiptoed to the foyer. I got my hand on the knob, but Bill pressed his palm firmly against the door.

“Bill, PLEASE! I have to go!”

“I’m asking you not to,” he said, leaning back on the door and crossing his arms over his barreled chest.

Aware that vinegar rarely persuades a man, I reached my arms around his neck, pulled him down to me, and kissed him thick and sweet as Florida honey.

“Why don’t you come over a little early on Saturday. Pop one of those little blue pills. You can wow me again with your Woodrow Wilson.”

“I can wow you again right now, baby,” he said, licking his lips and foreshadowing his proposed methodology.

Before I could say, “We just had sex,” Bill reeled me to him like a helpless fish on a hook. He squatted on his beefy haunches and hoisted me onto his lap. Instinctively, I wrapped my legs around his waist, and he rolled me against the door until I was pinned against it like a panini.

“Bill, put me down! You’re squishing me!”

Bill relaxed his hips just enough to allow my legs to ease to the floor. Then he planted his palms against the door, penetrated me with his hypnotic blue eyes, and began to exert his influence.

Chapter Two: A Man Without an Invitation

From that first voltaic brush of his lips against my cheek, I felt the power of Bill’s magnetic lure. It’s as if he sleeps under an electric blanket and charges overnight, and if I get within a foot of him and his eyes go liquid with lust, I draw current from him. His lightning inevitably strikes deep into my hidden valley, inducing a painful longing to be taken by him. Bill is quite cognizant of this super power, and he uses it to get his way.

“We need to talk, Sally,” he said, softly, as he rubbed his nose against mine.

“Not right now, we don’t,” I said, backing away, but Bill turned me and yanked my hips toward his, prompting me to pitch forward and brace myself against the door. He wedged his right knee between my thighs; his left knee followed.

“Spread ‘em” he said playfully as he mamboed me side to side, working my legs apart.

I should buy him a cop uniform.

And so, accepting I would be late for happy hour, and I may arrive looking rode-hard-and-put-away-wet, I gave in to the wanton frisk.

Bill besieged me with both hands: his right gliding up under the front of the dress to breach my mound, while his left attacked from the rear. He worked the hem of the dress up over my backside and slid his hand beneath the lacy elastic of my panties. When the soft pads of his fingertips settled into a back and forth between my cooter and my crinkled star, I prepared to surrender.

He’s an army of one.

“How’s that, baby?” Bill murmured in my ear, his typical tenor dropping to a bass baritone hum, as it always did when he got in the zone. He’d go all love-me-sexy.

Imagine a white Barry White.

“My God, Bill, you have the worst timing,” I moaned, savoring the fondle of his fingers as they continued to fill me out like an application.

“Stay with me tonight, Sally,” he whispered, then he hooked his finger around the dampened lace, knelt, and slowly dragged my panties to the floor. I rested my forehead against the door, closed my eyes, and widened my stance, aching with expectancy as the caress of Bill’s hot breath climbed the insides of my thighs.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

It rattled the door, beating a rhythm into my forehead. Bill startled and stood, then peered over my shoulder through the peep hole; it was evident he knew who it was. I worked myself back into the dress as he turned the knob, and the interloper pressed through the door.

“Hey bro,” said Johnny. “Why are you in your underwear?”

Then our eyes met.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, looking me up and down and smiling his lazy antagonistic smile.

Johnny was Bill’s younger brother and by only twelve months—Irish twins as it’s called. He looked very much like Bill, but his temperament was decidedly different. He didn’t like me, and he didn’t care that I knew it. He operated under the assumption that at any moment and for no good reason, I was likely to drop Bill off on the side of the road and leave him to die of a broken heart which, in fairness, I had demonstrated I was capable of doing.