Second Wife Ch. 07

Dana Adams was about two years my junior, an up-and-coming accountant with serious business development credentials. That meant, for my industry, that she was very attractive, knew how to sell, and knew her shit. You can wave a piece of ass under an accountant's nose and they're every bit as willing to overlook a few details as anyone else -- but when it comes to doing business, you have to know your stuff. No over-stuffed bra could overcome a deficit in ability, when the rubber met the road. You can't wave titties at the IRS and expect results.

Dana had done quite well for herself. She had taken the same entry-level positions I had taken when I'd started out, but her charm and her ability had put her into the fast-track in record time. Professionally I would have said that I was more concerned with the possibility of there being too much style and not enough substance, but then I wasn't looking to hire her. I was looking to bed her. For that she was eminently qualified.

She was about five-four or five-five, with dirty blonde hair that was always impeccably styled and perfect make-up and wardrobe. She went a little overboard on the accessories for my tastes, but all women have a few weak spots like that. Mary's had been cosmetics, for instance. She was attractive -- even "business hot" -- at work, and I was curious how she'd approach a clearly "fun" date. I had low expectations, of course. This wasn't one of Susan's "sure things", this was something I'd set up on my own to take advantage of a long-standing flirtation between the two of us. And while I was the slightest bit nervous about making a play for someone in my industry -- who technically worked for one of my competitors -- I'd had enough sexual successes in the last six months to not worry so much. I was here to get into her panties.

We met at the restaurant at the same time, and I was pleased at her punctuality. She'd cut back on her accessories to one elegant gold watch and one simple necklace that matched her earrings. She wore a black cocktail dress and a clutch purse, just a little dressier than the blazer-and-no-tie look I was sporting. Her eyes lit up when she saw me in the lobby, and she didn't hesitate to give me the double kiss that passes for a casual greeting among professionals of opposite gender.

"Thank you so much for asking me out!" Dana said, after I'd led her to our table. "I had no idea that your interest extended to me . . . personally," she said, a little nervously.

"I've always found you very attractive," I acknowledged. "Of course, I've been married up to now . . . "

"Yes, I've heard rumors about that situation," she said, again a little nervously.

"Put them behind us," I dismissed. "It's an ugly divorce, and I'd rather not dwell on it. But it has opened up my social schedule. When I realized that I was back on the dating market," I added, "I naturally wanted to give you a call."

"I'm so flattered!" Dana said, genuinely, tossing her hair over her shoulder flirtatiously. "I've always admired your work . . . and I have to agree, there's always been a little attraction there." The admission came with delightful dimples that framed her smile. Nice.

"I'm glad we're on the same page," I smiled, warmly, opening the menu.

That's when things started to go downhill.

"So," Dana began, "just how well are they treating you over there?" she asked, casually. "I hear you made partner already. So young!" I flinched inwardly -- I wasn't interested in talking about work -- but then I realized that she wasn't really talking about work. She was talking about me.

What followed were a number of questions that seemed innocuous -- but I started to get a suspicion that something was not quite right. Most of the questions seemed innocent, but I soon realized that they were each designed to get me to admit to how well I was doing. "How well" meaning "how much money". On top of that, there were a few that seemed borderline nosey, particularly about what I wanted to do with my professional future.

After I cautiously answered her inquiries, being as non-committal as possible while remaining talkative, she relaxed just a bit and began asking me about my social life. Or, more accurately, my social position. Then she started digging about my desire for family . . .

It dawned on me that I wasn't on a date. I was on a job interview for the position of her husband. I was being run down a checklist of answers to see if I fit her criteria for a potential mate.

Okay, it might seem unfair of me to judge a woman for that, considering my primary concern was how easy it would be to get between her legs -- assuming it was worth the effort. But from the questions she kept asking it became clear that she not only wanted to see if I fit her "dream guy" image, but that she had already done some considerable research on me. That made me a little irritated. She didn't seem to catch that, however, since I was also polite and gracious, and she was getting more and more enthusiastic about things with every "correct" question I answered.

I don't mind being a "success object" -- Mary had trained me well for that. And I make a good trophy husband. But Dana, despite her lovely looks and intelligence, was taking the checklist too far by half for a mere first date. I know I've been out of the dating scene for a while, but instead of a pleasant and relaxing evening I felt subtly on display. Having made the leap from "professional colleague" to "potential romantic interest" in Dana's mind, she had given me both barrels of her husband-hunting checklist even before the waiter delivered the bread basket.

"Wine or beer?" she asked, when the waiter returned to get our drink order. It was a direct and friendly question, but there was no doubt what the "correct" answer was in Dana's mind. I smiled inwardly and very deliberately ordered red wine. The most expensive bottle on the list. She was curious about how extravagant I might be -- no one likes a cheapskate -- and I'm sure I came through with flying colors. The fact that she seemed so pleased with my extravagant selection further irritated me, however. I mean, I like a woman to appreciate the little things I do for her on a date -- it's part of the mating ritual -- but not gloat about them. And Dana had a lousy poker face when it came to that sort of thing.

That's when I realized that this dating thing wasn't just about whether to sleep with someone -- at least not to the women. I suppose my recent history has made me jaded when it comes to romance in general, but while sex was the primary thing on my mind, it was just barely in the running for Dana. She had automatically assumed the protective attitude in regards to sharing her genitalia with me. I could respect that, to a point -- but her attitude increasingly told me that the only way I'd get into her panties was if I continued to perform to her expectations, and even then she was going to make me wait for it.

Don't ask me why that pissed me off. Or what specific question or comment cinched it. I should have expected it -- hell, I'm surprised I hadn't run smack into the checklist before this. I'd done so often enough back before I'd met Mary, I guess, but back then we were young and unrealistic -- and I admit, I was stupid about that sort of thing back then. But since I'd been choosing my dates based largely on sexual availability, not suitability for a long-term relationship, the whole am I Mr. Right? question just hadn't been an issue -- especially not with Mary in the background still.

Now Dana was, subtly, making it an issue, and the more she probed my past, including my college career and preferences for vacation destinations, the more I resented being put in that position. On a first date, at least. A woman shouldn't spring that on a man until at least the third date, probably after they've had sex, and he's a little more comfortable with the relationship. Or at least that's my opinion. I was starting to get a glimmer of why Dana was still single, and it had little to do with her devotion to her career. She came on way too strong, without subtlety. And then she wasn't sensitive enough to pick up on my cues. She should have realized it bothered me and focused on enjoying our evening instead of flipping to the next page of the interview.

I made a point of not letting that resentment show, however -- dealing with Mary's shenanigans had given me an outstanding poker face. I had, after all, wanted to try out my "good dating behavior", and this was a great way to do it. But I did so at the risk of feeling "played" by Dana, and while I let the resentment build I countered with a few personal -- even intimate -- questions of my own. The other thing that Mary's infidelity had gifted me with was a far better understanding of female psychology -- especially what buttons to push to get a reaction.

"So, when was your last relationship?" I asked, casually, when she broke her inquisition for a sip of wine. There was a startled look in her eye, as if I'd touched upon a taboo subject, and then I realized that her reluctance was based in part on how long it had been. I considered that a hit.

"I . . . dated a couple of guys in the last year," she admitted. "But none of them were really 'boyfriend' material. One was a drummer, I'm ashamed to say. A good one, but still a drummer. The other was a non-profit administrator. Nice guy but . . . well, he just didn't do it for me." That was her polite way of saying "he just didn't make enough money for me." That's one thing I've always disliked about my industry -- while some of us are into it for the pure joy of bean counting, for others it was all about the money and success. Dana had a good professional rep, but she was only good because she had a goal that really didn't have much to do with accounting. She wore her ambition like the expensive mink stole her future husband would give her on their one-year anniversary. Dana sloshed wine around in her glass uncomfortably. "I guess my last serious relationship was with Jeff, and that was . . . three years ago?" she said, wrinkling her nose while trying to recall.

That was bullshit. She knew, probably to the day, when the last time she got laid was -- and when the last time she had a "real" boyfriend, however un-ambitious. The truth was she hadn't been able to attract or hold on to a real boyfriend, which, with her knock-out looks, was a significant warning sign.

"Well, work does keep us busy," I said, trying to be gracious. "Hard to work in a social schedule. Or find a great guy who doesn't mind late hours at the office."

"And there just aren't that many great guys out there!" she confessed, suddenly. "I mean, you're fantastic, Bill. But you're the exception. Trying to find a man who is ambitious, secure, health-conscious, and willing to put in the time to build a good relationship is . . . well, it's hard to find that kind of guy. They're all married or gay."

"I can see that," I said, affably, although now I was starting to really resent her attitude. I threw in a stray dig, just for fun. "And we're not exactly at the age where we can hang around in bars all night, either, are we?" I chuckled -- because it was clear that ambitious Dana was wrapped up enough in herself to think she was still that kind of girl, and pointing it out to her stung. But I continued on, changing the subject lightly, before she could respond to the sleight. "Finding a worthy woman is pretty difficult, too. And one that is trustworthy . . . well, not to dwell on my wife, but I'm a big fan of marital fidelity, at the very least. And there is the matter of sharing a common background, common goals and aspirations . . . " I said, baiting her.

Maybe she'd just had a little too much wine too quickly to properly guard her words, or perhaps she'd just decided that I'd given her the proper opening, but she took the bait and ran with it. "Oh, you're so right about that! There are so many complete and utter losers out there who talk a good game, but when you come down to it, they're just posing. I mean, you either know you want Waterford crystal, or you don't. You either know you want to honeymoon in Tahiti, or you don't. There's no sense of commitment with guys these days, no standards."

While the flirtation officially continued while we were eating, my enthusiasm for Dana's company had waned considerably by the time we jointly refused dessert. Still, I wasn't eager to end the date prematurely. I invited her to join me on the observation deck of the Kerr Tower, a monstrous office building that dominated the skyline, and take in the cool spring evening. She giggled excitedly and agreed. At the very least I wanted a chance to get her alone. Casual golddigging was something I could put up with (as I had with Mary) but only if there were other considerations. This was Dana's chance to show me some "other considerations".

We stood and looked out over the night skyline for half an hour, pointing out places where we'd worked, where we'd dated, where we'd like to build a house or something someday. Just idle date speculation, but it gave me enough of an opening to put my hand protectively on Dana's hip and draw her in for a kiss. We were alone on the observation deck and could have loudly fucked all night long up there without being disturbed.

She started to return the kiss, at first, the taste of expensive zinfandel on her painted lips inviting me to explore further, but half-way through the act she stiffened and backed off. I tried to press her a little, but it was clear that a little smooching was all that Dana was willing to venture on a first date. Every time I tried to pull her too me after that she resisted playfully. She was playing "hard to get", a classic female move designed to inspire interest. I'm not a fan.

From my perspective, at that point, the date was over. I quit trying to advance my play, and at the earliest possible convenient time I took her home.

"Come in for a drink?" she asked, a little seductively, as I pulled up to her luxury apartment complex. While I was a bit disillusioned with her at that point, I still saw some potential in her invitation. I was a little reluctant before I agreed, but I admit that some women just aren't ready to get physical until they feel more comfortable. Maybe she was waiting for the home turf advantage before she unleashed her inner vixen -- assuming it was part of the equation. So I nodded and followed her in, where she poured another glass of red wine for us while we sat on the couch.

Things went a little better from there -- I managed to pull her into a kiss again, and we macked for ten minutes or so. Quite enjoyable -- Dana was a good kisser. But the moment my hand tried to cup her boob, it was "GAME OVER". She pulled back, and calmly steered the conversation towards getting me out of there. The message was clear: you have potential, Bill, but I want to make you work for it.

Re-jected. And I wasn't particularly happy about it. Nor was I willing to work that hard for pussy when I had it for the asking at home.

I thanked her for a lovely evening, and assured her I had a good time. But I didn't mention a second date. Nor calling her again. The lack of follow-up was so obvious, actually, that she tried to steer me into asking her by mentioning a number of upcoming social events at which we'd make a stunning pair. But I wasn't falling for the bait. When, at last, I was about to head back out to the car with a hard cock and a resentful mind, she finally stopped me one last time.

"So, Bill . . . when would you like to do this again?" she asked, her lip trembling expectantly. I'm sure she was pissed I wasn't taking her hints. I didn't mind. She hadn't done me the courtesy of taking mine.

I considered. "It was lovely, but . . . in all honestly, probably not. Good night, Dana," I said, leaving her alone and speechless at the top of the stairs. I didn't even look back afterwards. I went home. It was already eleven-thirty, but unlike my college dating days, I wasn't concerned with blue balls after a strikeout. I went into the house, threw my keys on the table, went straight to her room, woke up Mary, had her blow me sleepily in frustration.

"Did you have a good time, hon?" she asked, sleepily as she sat up on her bed and fumbled for my fly.

"Well . . . kind of," I admitted. "She looked hot enough, was pleasant to be around, but . . . I felt like a pair of expensive Italian designer pumps she was contemplating buying. But I didn't ask to go out again." I was surprised that Mary took an interest -- you'd think she'd be completely antithetic to my dates, since they were a direct threat to what was left of her marriage. But she merely nodded and sighed as her hands firmly stroked my cock between them.

"It was Dana, right? I've met her before at a few of your work functions. Total manhunting cunt," she explained, tossing around the word she'd always considered obscene like she did so every day. "I mean, she's pretty -- even hot -- and she spends enough on the right designers, but . . . well, if you gave up on me for the likes of her, Bill, I'd be disappointed in you. She's so not worth the effort," she said, with a bitter laugh before she leaned forward to engulf the head of a prick impatient for relief. Mary gave me a little tongue action on the head, swirling around deliciously, before taking me deep into her mouth for six or seven long strokes. I was reveling in the glory that is fellatio-on-demand when she stopped her sucking -- though her hand never left my joint.

"Not to put too fine a point on it," she offered, "but she's going to stalk you now. Especially if you didn't ask for a second date. You've made her feel like there's something wrong with her, and that's going to mess with her head." She pushed her mouth back over my dick and continued with the hard long strokes -- just what I needed after a frustrating date.

"I know," I sighed, distractedly. "But that's because there is something wrong with . . . oh, my . . . with her. Not my . . . type," I grunted out as she pulled back off with a powerful suction. Her hand kept pumping the base of my shaft, and she started to palm my balls with the other one.

"She's not going to take 'no' for an answer," Mary warned me, clearly amused about the situation. "She's going to hound you until you give her a reason for not dating her. Then she's going to try to prove herself to you, only so she can dump you later, salvage her self-esteem and improve her reputation for having gone out with you. Because once you've rejected her, she's not going to be happy until she's re-claimed you, then rejected you." Mary's head bent back to her task, and I gasped at the sudden warmth.

"Well, she gets a total fail when it comes to maintaining my interest," I said between shallow breaths. "I could have . . . put up with . . . the interrogation," I said, my eyes closed, "if she had . . . put out a little . . . at the end . . . of the evening."

Once again Mary popped off my prick and turned into Ann Landers.

"She's just a golddigging whore, Bill," she said, reasonably, as she wanked me. "And you already have an in-house whore. If you're going to leave me, for God's sake don't leave me for the likes of her. You're better than that," she said, sympathetically. "You deserve better than that. Especially after . . ." she said, trailing off.

I saved her the trouble of finishing the sentence by grabbing her head with my hand and pulling her mouth back to my dick. I didn't mind the surprise commentary -- as startling as it was -- but I didn't need to be reminded of the circumstances. Mary looked up at me gratefully as she made a show of power-sucking me to a titanic explosion that challenged her ability to swallow it all. She gagged for a second, choked, coughed, but stopped like a pro while I enjoyed the pure and unique satisfaction of cumming in your wife's mouth after an unsuccessful date with another woman.