Conference Sex

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Juegos Sexuales

Takes a bit to get to the sex; I was trying to write a ‘slow burn’ sort of story.

“After you.”

“No, please.”

That was our introduction; a couple of conservatively dressed young middle managers trying not to beat each other out for the mediocre Marriott lobby coffee. It was day two of the national conference, but I hadn’t seen her before.

And I would have remembered. Curly dark brown hair, light skin, green eyes, and a dark grey suit that did things for her – a buttoned jacket barely restraining her lovely breasts, with a hint of a light cream silk blouse underneath, and slacks which were expertly tailored – not tight, yet showing me the curves between her narrow waist and heart-shaped buttocks in a way that made me glad I’d gestured her ahead.

“Mmmm, thank you,” she said, taking the first sip after stirring in the slightest bit of sugar. “I could barely get out of bed this morning. Jet lag,” she added with a smile, as if to quickly move on from the reference to bed.

“Where did you come from?” I asked.

“Maryland. Long flight to San Francisco. Ugh.”

“I know what you mean,” I said, mainly to keep the conversation going while I stirred in cream and sugar. “I came from Austin, myself – bad enough.”

“I thought that accent sounded southern,” she said, grinning.

“Well, southwestern; it’s a little different. Texas is so big we have a few different accents.”

“My husband always says Texans will get around to how big it is within two ticks,” she laughed. “Well, I’m off to a session on risk management. See ya, Tex.”

I just grinned at her to cover the annoyance at being called “Tex” and the chagrin over the reference to a husband. I hadn’t noticed a ring, but it had been a brief encounter, and hadn’t started out with me wanting to know her marital status.

I wasn’t going to the session on risk management. Just my luck.

I saw her again, sitting with a couple of other women, around midday in the room the company had reserved for lunch. I was looking around for a couple of guys I’d met in my morning session when I heard her: “Over here, Tex.”

I walked over. “Actually, it’s Michael,” I said, smiling, trying not to sound like I was making too big a deal of it.

“Michael. I’m Kelly. Care to join us? This is Debbie and Henrietta. We all met in the morning session,” she said, indicating a couple of other women who looked like they might really get off on risk management.

My interest in talking to Kelly won out over my desire to avoid having lunch with three women I didn’t know (the talk always turns to something designed to embarrass or gross out the man), and besides I didn’t see how I was going to back out gracefully. I sat down.

We ate the sandwiches which were provided and talked about the morning sessions. I’d been in a marketing meeting, and they feigned interest in that while I pretended to care about the latest developments in risk management. Talk turned to family; Kelly had a husband but no kids (yet), Debbie wasn’t married, Henrietta was a grandmother, and I was divorced. As this information trickled around the table, I began to size Debbie up as a possible conference fling, but something just wasn’t doing it for me. For her part, she seemed to be glancing at Kelly more than she was me. About the time lunch was winding up and I figured I might as well excuse myself to find my afternoon session, Henrietta mentioned a gift shop around the corner and Debbie agreed, perhaps with a touch of reluctance, to go there with her in the 20 minutes or so they had left on their break.

“Not going to the gift shop?”

“Seen it. Or one just like it,” Kelly yawned. “Wow, didn’t mean to sound so jaded. Really must get a lot of sleep tonight. What are you doing this afternoon?”

“Cross-training session on lean manufacturing.”

“Really? Me too. You’ll have to explain it all to me; I’ve never even seen one of our manufacturing plants.”

“Don’t look at me. There’s one about 100 miles from where I work, but I’ve only been there once on a field trip.”

“It really is like school sometimes, isn’t it?” she laughed.

“I reckon it is.”

“You reckon?” she said with an exaggerated bad imitation of a drawl.

“Ah, crud. One of my few Texas ‘tell’ words,” as my speech prof put it. Really, I don’t even own a horse.”

“My husband Jerry is from Virginia. He’s got a few of his own.”

Ah, the husband. Well, even if I’d never get to see that fine ass of hers when it wasn’t covered with equally fine wool fabric, she seemed like an agreeable person to spend time with. “What does Jerry do for a living?”

“He’s a police detective.” I feigned nervousness and slid my chair an inch away from hers. She giggled. “He knows I talk to strange men when I go out of town. He’s not the jealous type. You’d probably like him.”

“How does a nice accountant like you end up with a police detective?”

“He was a nice accountant type too. He got a FBI job, then when he got tired of moving around, he took a position antep escort with the state’s white collar crime unit. Cut in pay, but it’s worth it. I make enough for both of us anyway,” she said matter-of-factly, reaching for a water pitcher.

We walked together to the session on lean manufacturing. The Marriott lobby and hallways were a mixture of business people in dress clothes like ourselves and vacationers with kids roaming the place in t-shirts and shorts. When we arrived, Kelly indicated a couple of seats at a table toward the back of the room. Each table had a box on it. “I’ve got to take this jacket off. Aren’t you hot?”

“I wasn’t, but it’s a little warm in here.” We both took our suit jackets off and put them over our seat backs. I stole a look at her breasts, and they looked as fine as I thought they would – if anything, a little bigger than I imagined, but nicely proportioned to her frame, and firm-looking. The blouse followed her curves without being overtly tight, just like the pants, and was buttoned up, but the neckline exposed a bit of collarbone. I thought about how much I’d like to run my lips along it, but I managed to keep my tongue in my head and we talked about Austin until the meeting started.

It turned out that the afternoon session involved a hands-on group project. The box on each table had lego bricks, wheels, etc. in it, and the presenter had put together a simple demonstration of lean manufacturing principles. Each group of four was to put together a sort of assembly line, and the presenter was going around helping each of us with ideas. I have to admit that I was enjoying standing next to Kelly, looking over her shoulder at the table with her. I was careful not to appear to be looking down her blouse, but just feeling that little bit of body heat and smelling a bit of perspiration from her was exciting (weird, I know – but I love the natural scent of a woman).

The presenter was very engaging, but we were paired with two other guys, one of which was just half-asleep and the other of which was a tall, thin, tense-looking guy who was determined to take charge. I was happy to let him do it, but he began to critique every move we tried to make, to the extent that none of us could do anything, and then began to brow-beat Kelly for “not doing anything.” Her eyes darkened, and she looked like she was ready to take him out.

“Take it easy, man,” I found myself saying.

“Well, she’s just standing there watching me do everything.”

“That’s all any of us are doing, because you have a better idea for everything we try to do.”

The tall, thin guy harrumphed, but when he saw the other man also sheepishly nod his head a bit, he backed off, and we got through the rest of the session.

When it was over I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Kelly apparently had the same idea. She nodded at our sleepy friend, grabbed her jacket, and we both headed for the nearest exit.

“Thank you,” she said when we got outside the door, laying a hand on my arm. Even through the shirt sleeve, her touch felt electric.

“What for?”

“You know what for.”

“I just didn’t want you to deck that man.”

She laughed. “What an asshole. Sorry, my priest says we need to try to understand where people are coming from. He’s probably actually in manufacturing, and they’re making him take this stupid seminar.” Married to a cop, and a churchgoer. I was lucky to get to see her collarbone. “Looks like coffee and cookie time. I’m saving calories for tonight. I understand we’re going to the pier for dinner. Seafood. Yum.”

“I’m ready to get out of here, and it’s only day two,” I admitted.

“You’ll make it,” she said, smiling and laying a hand on my arm again, and somehow I thought I would.

At dinner that night, decked out in khakis and a company polo shirt, I wound up at a table across the restaurant from her; I barely caught a glimpse, but she had her hair up in a ponytail and was wearing jeans and the same company polo as I. I’d gotten wedged in between another sales guy and, oddly enough, the tall thin guy, who was a much nicer human being with three beers in him. He’d apologized profusely, as had I, and in the course of conversation it proved Kelly was right. He was frustrated over having to take a entry-level cross-training course in something he’d been in his entire career. I found myself wanting to tell her.

After we left the restaurant, several of us walked around the pier looking at shops. I told myself I was randomly strolling around, but of course I was looking for Kelly, until I remembered that she had said she wanted to get as much sleep as possible. Then I started working my way back toward the hotel. I didn’t see her again that night.


I caught myself looking for her at the coffee pot, but managed to see her as I casually walked by the table at which she was sitting. She was alone, wearing a dress – a sort of bluish-gray with ruffles. I’d left the tie and jacket behind that day, because the big bosses were off-site today in an executive session, but was otherwise dressed much like I was yesterday – white dress shirt and black pants. She moved a newspaper as I came by: an unspoken join me. I sat down.

“You were right,” I said, and told her about our friend.

“Hmmm. Nice to know us accounting types can understand human nature too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I laughed.

“You marketing boys are the ones who get paid to do all the empathy stuff, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. You were the one who was about to kill him. Poor guy.”

We found out our schedules took us separate ways today. We didn’t even have lunch at the same time. We were still acting like two people who just happened to keep bumping into each other. I didn’t want to seem like I was paying too much attention to her. I didn’t want to scare her off. Still, we managed to know each others schedules before the waiter could get by to pour my orange juice.

“Are we having dinner tonight as a group?” she asked.

“Don’t think so.”

“Of course, you’ll be going to the strip club.”

“Wh-at?” I laughed, nervously.

“By Wednesday, all the men want to go to the strip club. That’s why there’s always the open night on the agenda. The company can’t organize it, but every man from the president on down wants to go. Right?”

She was right, of course. Every trip of this sort I’d ever taken for any company I’d ever worked for involved an unofficial trip to a strip club by mid-week. In my younger days, it always seemed like great fun, and left me horny as hell, but in the past few years it just seemed about as exciting as the Marriott coffee.

“Well, yeah, that’s what happens, of course, but…”

“But what?” she laughed. “It’s like a dog’s nose being wet. Jerry goes to these places. My only rule with him is to go when he’s out of town so that he doesn’t run into someone from church.”

“The zip code rule?”

“You could call it that.”

“Truthfully, I’ve seen it all. So I may not go to the strip club. So there,” I teased her.

“What are you gonna do – stay at the hotel and read a book?”

“I might. What are you gonna do?” I said, praying silently for an opening here.

“Well, the women at these conferences don’t seem to have this underground network you men do, so I don’t know. Any suggestions?” she said, coyly.

“You could go to dinner with me,” I said.

“Well, okay. I wouldn’t be keeping you from anything, would I?” Now she was really teasing me. I’m a believer that you can figure out what a woman is like in bed from the way she talks to you. Kelly seemed business-like, but a free spirit in a certain reserved way. I could suddenly imagine her taking her top off, leading me to a hotel bed, and saying “I want you to fuck me,” if she really got in the mood. Husband or no husband.

But she’d really have to be in the mood. She wasn’t lonely or insecure enough to do it for lack of anything better to do, or because she needed validation.

Alcohol could help, but she struck me as the sort who would probably stick to a limit, and for that matter she’d probably pass out before she did something she didn’t want to do. Alcohol just lets people do stuff they already want to do.

“I said ‘Would you like to check out the Cable Car Museum before dinner?'” she repeated, with a smile. I hadn’t heard a word she’d been saying, and I had a feeling she knew why.


We met in the lobby around 4 p.m. Our afternoon sessions were over a bit early (probably because of the strip club effect). I’d switched to a nice golf shirt (no logo) and walking shorts; she was wearing a short sleeve denim shirt over a snug-fitting top and relatively short shorts that showed off her legs, with some dressy sandals. She looked around a bit after seeing me; she didn’t really want to be seen heading off with me. I grinned. “You look nice.”

“Thanks,” she said absently. We headed off.

The Cable Car museum was a quaint, musty little place a short walk from our hotel. It was interesting, if only to get our minds off of the modern corporate world. But they closed at 6, so we soon headed off in search of a restaurant. We found the Zuni Cafe on Market Street.

“Get enough sleep last night?” I asked.

“Yeah. I feel better today than I did yesterday.” She was smiling at me, but still seemed a little on edge.

“What kind of wine would you like?”

“Sauvignon Blanc?”

“Sure.” After some discussion with the waiter about which Sauvignons they had, and placing our food order, it arrived, crisp and cold. We talked about work until the entrees arrived. She was in accounting in Maryland; I ran a sales office in Austin. We made some of the usual friendly complaints our respective professions always made against each other, and the inevitable bean-counter versus lying salesman stereotypes made their inevitable appearances.

Talk turned to our respective homes as we ate. I wound up in Austin because my ex-wife had a job with Dell; no, I wasn’t like her usual Texas stereotypes. I didn’t even own a cowboy hat. “I just feel sorry for you because you come from a state with no good stereotypes.”

“You’re kidding. Maryland? We’re all Catholic, white yuppies who eat a lot of crab. Unless you live in Baltimore; then you’re a crackhead.” Her nervousness was disappearing with the wine.

Her cell phone rang, and she dove into her purse, tense again as the ringing continued. “Hey, honey.”

From the greeting and her side of the conversation, I could tell she was talking to her husband. He missed her; she missed him too, all that kind of stuff married people said. “I can’t talk about that now, Jerry; I’ll call you later. I’m having dinner with some girls I met at the conference.”

When the conversation wound to a halt and she hung up, she reached for the wine bottle. It was a bit closer to me, so I poured her a large one. I was trying not to grin at her little white lie.”Thanks,” she said with a look that was hard to read. “It’s just easier than explaining sometimes.”

“I know.”

“I mean, he’d be fine with it. Dinner, I mean. He’s down in Germantown, probably about to get a lap dance…” she suddenly laughed until her chest shook, which was a magnificent thing to see, and then the rest of the dinner was great.

We walked by the indoor pool as we came back into the property. “That looks great. And no one’s in it. You bring a swim suit?” she asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“See you down there?”

She had her hair pulled back tight and wore a demure green one-piece suit, but I’d gotten to see so much more of her than I dreamed I would, as of yesterday. I wasn’t complaining. I was just trying not to stare, and to maintain eye contact. We swam around a bit. The sexual tension actually diffused a bit. It almost felt childlike and innocent as we stretched our muscles, cooped up by 3 days of airline travel and sitting in meeting rooms and eating too much.

“Ah, shit, the guys coming back from the strip club,” she said as a number of apparently drunken men in polos and khakis stumbled down the sidewalk by the glassed-in room in which the pool was located. “Sit down here,” she said, indicating a step where I could sit fairly deep in the pool with my back to the windows. She snuggled in close to me; putting my arms around her seemed to be the only thing to do. One of her hands was on my stomach and she hid her face against my chest.

I was really enjoying this, but I had to ask: “What’s the big deal if they see us? We were just swimming.”

“I just don’t want to give anyone anything to talk about. I don’t want to become known as the conference slut.”

I looked down at her pretty face, all makeup gone, hair in a frizzy knot. “Seems reasonable enough,” I said, and kissed her.

And she kissed back. I had thought all along that if it came down to it, if she got into the mood, she’d be all business, and she was. After a few moments of this she felt my crotch. “I see. Things are bigger in Texas,” she said with utter seriousness, and for once I didn’t mind the Texas lines. “Okay, go take a shower. I’m in room 1843. Make sure no one sees you or it’s off.” She got out, not trying to keep her wet, luscious lycra-clad bottom out of my line of sight like polite women do at a pool. She even bent toward the railing while getting out, and for the briefest of moments I saw a tantalizing outline of green-lycra-covered pussy in the V of her muscular legs. I was going to get to see it, and have it, after all.

I made sure no one saw me as I rode the elevator back down to her floor. She greeted me with a smile, all nervousness gone with the pretenses. A light rose fragrance greeted me. she was wearing plain black underwear and a hotel robe, open at the front; I was wearing an outfit that would pass for running clothes if anyone had seen me, but I’d showered thoroughly.

As had she. Her wet hair was combed straight back; she took my hand and led me back to the bed, almost exactly like I’d envisioned it. The robe, and my shirt, didn’t make it that far, but she was in no hurry to strip down further as we enjoyed the feel of each other’s bodies and the warmth under the covers.

“How many orgasms you think you got in you?” she asked.

“Maybe three, depending on how slow you want to take this. But the first one’s going to happen pretty quick.”

“Mmmm. I want to take it slow. So where do you want the first one?”

“I’ve wanted to fuck those tits of yours since I first saw you by the coffee pot.”

“M’okay. Take off your shorts and stand up by the bed.”

She took off her top and knelt down in front of me. I thought that just the making out had taken me close to the edge (The first thing I’d done was to suck on her collar bone), but my penis surrounded by her perfectly shaped, firm mounds as she squeezed them together almost instantly had me about ready to pass out. Within minutes, I was frantically rubbing against her, feeling her erect nipples on my thighs, needing to come. The relief when I started splashing ropes of thick, white cum on her neck and chest was incredible, and I had to lay down on the bed. My legs felt like rubber.

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