The Mistress of Mississauga

Chapter One: The Bait
“Thanks again, Chief!” shouted Lloyd Danvers as he left the beach to walk the short distance to his bungalow. He was plum worn out and waterlogged after a day of pre-planned waterfront activities and ready for some solitude. Lloyd was one of only two salesmen at ToneDef Communications honored that year with a week at the Clitz Royal Resort in Grand Cayman. Known facetiously as Club Davos for the abundance of top political figures, CEOs, and Hollywood elite who traveled there to see and be seen, Lloyd found the environment and its clientele overly pretentious. Nonetheless, the allure of the luxurious accommodations was undeniable.
This visit, his third, he was a fifth wheel. Sharon had been overwhelmed with a bathroom remodel and had stayed back home in Scarborough, leaving Lloyd to spend his days with one of his entourage: his boss, the boss’s wife, his rival Chad, and Chad’s girlfriend-in-progress. As for late afternoons such as this one, it was typically just Lloyd and his left hand, then a catnap before dinner. Today, however, was an exception to the rule, for when Lloyd unlocked his Hacienda-style front door, he thought he heard giggling buoyant on the private saltwater pool just beyond his lanai. He grabbed a cold beer on his way to investigate, and shortly thereafter, his suspicion was confirmed.
“Kerry?”
Waist deep in the pool with a lavender martini perched in her piano fingers was Lloyd’s Mistress of Mississauga, as he called her, and if that wasn’t surprising enough, she had company.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“You told me your wife wasn’t coming, so I thought I’d surprise you.”
Kerry placed her plastic martini glass on the edge of the pool at Lloyd’s feet and twisted her long fawn mane high on her head to better secure it with the wide-toothed comb. Lloyd gazed down into the deep gorge formed by the compression of her breasts by the balconette bikini.
“You know Dragana, of course,” she said, smiling up at him with an exaggerated wink, as if to suggest he had locked legs and swapped gravy with the woman he now recognized as one of the resort staff. Tall, very thin, and surprisingly pale, with a stylish black satin bob, cut shorter in the back and angled to the front, she wasn’t Mexican like most of the menial workers; she was some sort of East European transplant who worked in the front office and wore tropic-casual attire, rather than a uniform. Regardless, he’d had only minimal contact with her and it had been strictly business.
“She let me in,” Kerry added.
“Ciao, Monsieur Danvers,” said Dragana, addressing Lloyd in the disparate dialects, “You no mind?”
Of course he didn’t mind, well, notwithstanding the worry his boss would discover the subterfuge; that would be a disaster of extraordinary magnitude. Their wives were tennis partners; there would be no way to protect Sharon from the scandal, and having been duly embarrassed, she would be compelled to divorce Lloyd just to save face. As for Chad, he’d love nothing better than to see Lloyd lose his job so that The Chadster could turn his #2 salesman jersey in for #1.
All torqued up with the pessimistic possibilities, Lloyd plopped on the edge of the pool and took a long draw of his beer to settle himself. Then realizing he had over-reacted, as he was inclined to do, he talked himself out of the scary scenario. He was pleased his paramour was about to be under him, and it was just for one night; he was headed home tomorrow. If he could just get rid of this office manager person, he and Kerry could get in a quickie before dinner, then he’d make up some excuse to get back here early and bed her again for the night—the entire night. For obvious reasons, that was nearly impossible to negotiate back home, and knowing it was now in the cards had Lloyd hardening with new optimism.
“So Dragana,” he asked, interrupting the chitchat, “Who’s minding the office?”
“Arturo,” she answered, then launched into an explanation in broken English mixed up with some Spanish. But as far as Lloyd was concerned, it may as well have been Maltese.
“She’s off the clock,” said Kerry, disappointing him with the translation, for he wanted Dragana gone, so he could cream the twinkie with Kerry.
Just then the mid-afternoon sun broke over the west end of the bungalow, flood-lighting the outdoor space and prompting Lloyd to lower his Maui Jims. He labored to his feet, wincing with the painful ping in his left knee, leftover from the knee surgery two years previous.
“Can I get you ladies anything while I’m up?” he asked, just out of politeness—he didn’t really mean it.
Dragana pointed to a bottle of sunscreen on a chaise next to the pool. Lloyd held it up for her consideration, and when she nodded, he threw it into the water in her direction, prompting a thumbs up. Her gestured instruction had come through loud and clear, and Lloyd felt lucky the lotion was all she wanted, and she hadn’t attempted to describe some fancy umbrella drink in Spanglish. He limped to the kitchen, poured out the last half-inch of his flat, warm beer, then rested his palm on the cool concrete counter and watched Kerry through the window as she smoothed the sunscreen over her sun-kissed shoulders. Damn, she was hot, and for some inexplicable reason, she was all his. Theirs had been such an easy, uncomplicated relationship from the moment the young doe-eyed beauty had taken up residence on the barstool beside him at Toronto’s Festival of Brews.
Kerry Coltrane was a successful freelance clothing designer, working with luxury fashion houses—Gucci, Prada, Armani and the like. She was powerfully engaging and dangerously charismatic, and in spite of the obvious age disparity, they had a lot more in common than just beer. The hours flew by unnoticed, and when she peered through Lloyd’s nerd-black glasses to gaze into his admiring eyes, then leaned in for an Eskimo kiss, it didn’t matter the festival was over, because he knew they weren't.
And so, after texting Sharon to tell her he was too drunk to drive home and would stay at a downtown hotel, he spent the night with Kerry at her condo in Mississauga. It began as benign as it could have in those circumstances: a whiskey nightcap accompanied by some light touching and soft kisses on the couch, but not surprisingly, it bloomed into rapacious rub-a-dubbery, then a straddle, some titty badgering, and finally a BJ in her bed while her Westie, Wagyu, looked on.
In the past, Lloyd had avoided the seduction of a sidepiece, as any such temptation ended with a recall of that bunny boiling on the stove in the movie Fatal Attraction. But now, three years after he had succumbed to Kerry’s indecent proposal, he had the combo to her condo, a garage door opener, and he was the dog’s best friend.
Per their routine, Lloyd would leave work early on Wednesdays and spend the afternoon in her bed, in her arms, and between her legs—it was literally a hump day—then a nap, a homemade meal, and the half-hour drive back home. Kerry was quite comfortable with the arrangement; there were no arguments and no demands. As for Sharon, she never questioned Lloyd’s loyalty, probably because there was no indication he wasn’t. He labored long and hard for the benefit of their family when he could have retired years ago. So, it was fine with her if he wanted to blow off steam once a week after work. Obviously, she didn’t know it was Lloyd who was getting blown, and as far as he was concerned, she never would.
Just then a tingle in Lloyd’s trunks plucked him from his erotic reminisce. He needed to get out there and move things along. In just over an hour, he’d have to report for pre-dinner refreshments, and Kerry wouldn’t be on the menu until much later—a torturous delay for the dessert he hungered for right now. He hobbled down the hall to the bathroom to retrieve a little blue pill, then stepped back out onto the lanai with a cold Modelo Negra in hand.
“DO me,” said Dragana, pointing at the bottle of sunscreen. Lloyd chuckled as he took up his previous position on the pool edge. Obviously, she meant, “Do ME,” but had placed the emphasis on the wrong word.
“Sure,” said Kerry, taking her meaning.
Dragana tilted her head forward and untied the bikini top from behind her neck. The tiny triangle cups fell onto her sunken tummy, exposing her teacup titties with the dark chocolate nipples. Lloyd stifled a gasp and his mind immediately got way ahead of himself as it often did. Had he miscalculated the group dynamic? Would he be expected to perform in some fashion foreign to him and his arthritic frame?
Then, as was typical, he talked himself down from the ledge. After all, he and Kerry had a simple, straight-forward extramarital affair going. She wasn’t interested in anyone else; she called him Boyfriend. And when it came to sex, she’d never expressed any desire to go beyond the conventional. She was strictly vanilla, and that was how Lloyd liked his ice cream. But when Dragana’s size 2 bikini top was ceremoniously cast off and landed in Lloyd’s lap, the fight-or-flight response washed over him once again, and this time justifiably so.
Oh shit it’s really happening, he fretted, as he did his best to appear only casually interested in Kerry’s hands, as they creamed up Dragana’s alabaster body and toyed with her Tippi Hedrens.
Clearly this was no longer about sun protection.
“Mmmmmm,” Dragana moaned, a sentiment understandable in any language. She turned to face Kerry and kissed her—a quiet, friendly invitation, to which Kerry RSVP’d aggressively in the affirmative, unleashing a tempestuous tongue tussle and underwater exploration of each other’s abyss.
Now, many a man would have jumped into the pool and joined in the jiggery pokery, but the escalating passion playing out just five feet in front of him made Lloyd uncomfortable, both with Kerry’s surprising acceptance of it, and with the uncertainty of what he was supposed to do about it. Even if he could perform under such pressure, in less than half an hour he was expected at the bar by his overbearing boss.
Then suddenly, the wanton water aerobics was over and Dragana swam to the other side of the pool. She hoisted herself onto the lip of it, her double-A cup breasts down on the deck, her achromatic ass in the air, as she attempted to get to her feet. But Kerry swam after her, yanked Dragana’s bikini bottoms off, and spanked her. SLAP! SLAP!! SLAP!!! SLAP!!!!
It would be a vast understatement to say that Dragana enjoyed the unnecessary roughness. She squealed with delight, then let loose with a string of syllables in what sounded like Swahili.
One thing was for certain: Dragana was capable of saying yes in many languages.
She pulled herself out of the pool—her imposing ebony bush dense enough to house a flock of sparrows.
"You!" she ordered, come-hithering him, as she got on all fours on the oversized cabana bed. “You!” she repeated, pointing at Kerry.
Lloyd was confused by the one-word command, but as before, and strangely enough, Kerry appeared to know exactly what to do. She climbed up the pool steps, dug around in a duffel bag, and drew out a 9-inch rubber peter mounted in a harness.
Ouch, thought Lloyd.
“Come, come, Herr Danvers,” said Dragana, as Kerry suited up in the strap-on and got on her knees behind her.
Lloyd looked at his watch and frowned. There was no damn way. There just wasn’t enough time. Plus the whole scene was surreal; it felt wrong. OK, just more wrong than he was used to, but more importantly, it felt dangerous.
“Sorry ladies,” he said, waving them off, “I really need to get ready for dinner.”
“Oh, come on, Lloyd,” said Kerry, coyly cocking her head, “Live a little. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
Was it? Lloyd wasn’t so sure. Until today, he didn’t think this was even possible. Now, everything he thought he knew about Kerry was in question. How could she be so explicitly intimate with this woman, this stranger? Had she been doing this kind of thing all along? Maybe he wasn’t her one-and-only after all. He needed an explanation, but that would have to wait.
“I can’t be late,” he said, easing into the pool for a quick cool-off and to reset himself. He took a deep breath, submerged to the bottom, and gazed up through the glassy surface as it stilled overhead. Gradually, the blurry spectacle of his mistress graciously moving up and down over the overzealous office manager, came into focus. Unexpectedly, and despite his reservations, it stirred him, and when he popped up for a breath, the sensual sound of their carnal encounter wafted over the water, compelling him to swim toward it. He found the steps, started up them, then stopped, stunned, as he watched the two women make love. It was as erotically hypnotic as anything he’d ever witnessed—a gloriously choreographed sapphic ballet that rendered him spellbound.
And then it didn’t matter what time it was, because Lloyd had lost any awareness of it. All of his resources had high-tailed it to his pecker and he was harder than high-carbon steel. He zombied to the side of the cabana bed, closed his eyes, and felt the gravitational force of their feminine seduction draw him into their dance. The powerful essence of their salty sweaty sex acted on him like a drug, slowing and exaggerating every sensation: Kerry’s soft hands on his bare chest guiding him onto his back, her deep-throated purr in his ear, reassuring him, while Dragana drifted to her knees, her staccato nails trailing down his legs as she dragged his swim shorts to the deck.
“Ohhhhhhh fuuuuuuuuck yessssss,” he exhaled, hearing the words echo back with the ebb and flow of his hips, as Kerry’s mouth moved south to maul his length, and Dragana ministered to his sac of marbles. Delirious with the double-teaming, Lloyd inched his way to what he knew would be a cacophonous climax, and when he finally hit that high note, the vibration from his operatic wail almost blew the canopy clear off its fragile bamboo supports.
“KERRY! KERRY! KERRY!” he cried out, as if he had lost her in a crowd, and then his senses overwhelmed him and he shut down.
Sometime later, he awoke to the sound of his cell alerting him to an incoming text. But it wasn’t just one; he’d missed several—three from Chad, and one, the last one, from the boss.
“Where the hell are you?”

Chapter Two: The Witness
“Well, is he OK?” barked the boss, snapping his napkin into his lap.
“Oh yeah,” said Chad, with a flick of his wrist, “He’s fine—just running late. He fell asleep.”
Chad took his customary seat and picked up his menu, but having been walloped with what he had just witnessed, was unable to focus on the evening’s offerings. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do about it, but holy fuck, he had stumbled on the mother lode of inside information. This was GOLD! And of all people, Lloyd Danvers? Lloyd fucking DANVERS?! The mildest of mannered men getting a double blowie, and during a company-sponsored vacation with the boss? Had he lost his frickin’ mind?!
“And for you, sir?”
Chad peered up at the server and passed the menu to him.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” he said, pointing at his girlfriend, Shenice, “and a Captain Morgan and Diet Coke.”
And who were those women, anyway? He wondered. Prostitutes most likely. I mean, who’s going to suck Lloyd’s dick for free? He’d be lucky to get a Bday BJ from his wife. That’s why The Chadster stayed single. When the BJs stopped coming, he just traded up to a new pair of tits. But despite his considerable experience with a succession of willing knob gobblers, the double blowie had remained elusive.
Fucking Lloyd Danvers.
And thirty minutes later, Fucking Lloyd Danvers appeared, dressed in the day’s dirty shorts, a wrinkled t-shirt inside out, mandals, and his white hair Alfalfa-ed atop his sweaty head.
“Jesus, Lloyd,” decried the boss, “You look like a clown’s day off.”
“LOL Chief,” blurted Chad, slapping the table and causing the cutlery to rattle against the empty plates.
“Sorry,” said Lloyd, taking his seat, “I didn’t have time to clean up. I must have been terribly tired. I fell asleep and slept right through the alarm.”
“Yes, I know. Chad told us all about it,” said the boss. He raised his arm and waved the waiter over.
“What can I get for you, sir?” the waiter asked, but Lloyd looked to be left speechless by the boss’s revelation, and after more than a few moments of awkward silence, Chad took the helm.
“He’ll have the onion-crusted grouper,” he ordered, relishing Lloyd’s unease.
“Lloyd, have you talked to Sharon?” asked Winona, “I hope she registered us for that charity tennis tournament next week. I texted her, but she hasn’t confirmed.”
Lloyd attempted to engage her, but it was obvious that his mind was otherwise occupied. Chin in hand, Chad studied the struggle with great pleasure.
“Listen, Lloyd,” said the boss, interrupting his wife, “Chad and I have been discussing who will take the lead on the Freedonia proposal. You’re the senior engineer on the Hawker II; I’m assuming you want it.”
But rather than responding with the perfunctory yes that everyone expected, Lloyd appeared pensive as he sipped his Chardonnay. He threw a side-eye at Chad, who winked at him on the sly.