Coo, Coo, Ca-Choo, Mrs.

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Psychologists and sociologists the world over debate the origins of mankind’s habits: nature or nurture? Is man born with a particular habit, or is it instilled in him by way of experience? A careful reading of the opposing analyses does not really lead to one particular answer for any particular habit.

Much the same can be said of Dan’s attraction to older women, particularly those whose left hands come adorned with sparkly diamonds. Was Dan born with this temptation, or did it come to pass through experience? In the end, that question will likely never be answered. Nonetheless, a strong case can be made in favor of nurture.

* * *

Dan’s parents, though wealthy, have not transferred to him all the trappings that come with that wealth. To be sure, he dresses well. They provided him with the down payment for his condominium, and a nice car when he graduated college. And to be sure, that is more than most young men his age receive from their parents.

Nonetheless, Dan’s parents are down-to-earth, very well-grounded (which, of course, calls into question his own particular predilections). During college summers, they required Dan to work at his father’s private equity firm. During the school year, he always held a job. It was never full-time, nor was it hard labor. His parents just mandated that he work a few shifts a week to prevent his from viewing the world as his oyster.

So it was that during Dan’s junior year at USC he obtained a job waiting tables at the World Café in Santa Monica. It wasn’t located terribly convenient to campus or his fraternity house, but the hours were decent, and the tips better.

The World Café sits on the corner of Main and Ashland and offers typical California fare: salads, tuna, light pastas, all very health conscience. While part of the restaurant is indoors, it has a garden patio for diners to enjoy their meal al fresco, surrounded by trees and small rock ponds.

Dan was working one August afternoon a few weeks after he started. It was a typical Friday afternoon for the World Café. A young couple was seated at table 8, picking at a shared salad. Two Hollywood wanna-bes were downing vodka-and-tonics with their pasta, yapping away on their cell phones, ordering Dan to get them this and take that away. A group of young women, apparently taking a break from shopping, sat at table 12. Though Dan wasn’t working this table, he made eye contact with a cute brunette, and they exchanged smiles.

Around noon, three older women were seated at table 4, one of Dan’s tables. Before he approached the table with their menus, he took one look at them and rolled his proverbial eyes. ‘Here we go,’ he thought. ‘Salads and a bottle of wine.’

After only a few weeks, Dan found that was able to gauge what a person would eat and drink by the way they dressed, who they were with, the day of the week, the time of day, and other such factors. For example, if a couple in their mid-thirties arrived on Saturday around 7:00 wearing comfortable yet stylish clothes, Dan could guess that the husband would order steak or sea bass, and the wife would order chicken or salmon. They might get a glass or two of wine, but might just as well order a few beers.

For another example, at noon on a hot Friday afternoon in August, if three women in their late thirties or early forties walk in dressed for show, they were likely to each order a salad, and together would order a bottle of wine (probably white, and maybe two bottles). The women at table 4 fit this mold. All were clearly trophy wives.

The brunette of the group wore a pair of white, open-toed heels below matching pants; a pale yellow blouse covered what appeared to be ample breasts. As they sat, a French-manicured hand slid her Gucci sunglasses atop her head, a diamond bracelet sliding down her slim, tanned arm in the process. Her lustrous hair had been pulled back in a clip, revealing glossy lips, high cheekbones and glittering green eyes.

One of the blondes – clearly a dye-job – wore a pair of Seven jeans over a pair of black Manolo Blahnik heels. A red, silk halter top hid smallish breasts, and her platinum hair pulled back in a tight ponytail highlighted a freshly-scrubbed face. This one’s Gucci glasses were actually hiding her eyes. Dan wondered if she had breast-envy, given her current company.

The third woman – the other blonde, this one a dirty blonde – was a little different from the first two, insofar as she wore a silk skirt instead of pants. It was baby-blue, and ended halfway up tanned and well-toned thighs. Covering a substantial pair of breasts was a white, spaghetti-strap silk top that hung loosely above her cleavage. A pair of open-toed Gucci backless heels adorned her cute feet, exposing red-manicured toes. Matching nails tipped her long elegant fingers. Her hair was pulled back enough to reveal a diamond necklace, which seemed to be paired with the diamond tennis bracelet that clattered on her right wrist.

Looking at them as a whole, Dan wondered bahis firmaları at the value of their jewelry. A pair of diamond bracelets, a diamond necklace, at least one pair of diamond earrings, two pendants that were probably purchased on Rodeo Drive. And this does not even include the wedding and engagement rings. All three women wore one of each. Dan was no expert, but he guessed that he was looking at a total of 10 or so carats.

He took all of this in as he collected three menus and made his way over to table 4. When he approached, the three trophy wives looked up at him, all smiles. ‘If the jewelry doesn’t blind me, the bright teeth will,’ he thought to himself as the dirty blonde lifted her dark Chanel glasses to the top of her head, revealing piercing blue eyes that smiled their own brilliance.

“Afternoon, ladies. Can I start you with a drink? A bottle of pinot grigio, perhaps?”

The brunette must have been the leader of the group. “Absolutely. A bottle of Santa Margherita would be perfect. And I don’t think we’ll need the menus; we eat here often enough.” The blondes just nodded their heads. The group started with an order of hummus, but for lunch, the brunette ordered a mozzarella-and-tomato salad, the dye-job a Caesar, and the dirty blonde sesame-encrusted tuna over greens. ‘Damn,’ Dan thought. ‘I forgot to anticipate the hummus.’

With a nod, Dan departed the three wives and put in their lunch order. Grabbing a bottle of pinot grigio, a corkscrew and three glasses, Dan headed back to the table, popped the cork, and filled the glasses. He returned a while later to serve their appetizer and then lunches, and few times to see if they needed anything (“Another bottle of pinot grigio, please”).

After two hours of what Dan could only imagine was nothing but pure gossip and inanities, the dirty blonde signaled to him that she would like the check. He quickly responded, and placed the check folder on the table next her, then departed. When he next looked, the three women were walking toward the front gate, having left the check folder on the table.

He collected the folder from the table and cashed it out, surprised (and delighted) to find a thirty percent tip. While he was cashing out, the dirty blonde stopped at the maitre-d’s desk and asked when the next shift change would occur. “Four o’clock, ma’am,” she was told. After thanking the maitre-d, the three women bid their au reviors, and parted ways, the dirty blonde spending some time in the boutiques that dotted Main Street.

Dan worked the rest of the afternoon. Right after 4:00, he clocked out, collected his tips for the afternoon, and walked through the garden patio toward the front gate. On passing through the front gate, he stopped short, and took in the beautiful creature resting at the curb: an Aston Martin DB7 in titanium gray, top down, its engine tick-tick-ticking the hot afternoon sun. It took him a moment to notice the dirty blonde leaning against the passenger side door, arms folded beneath her generous breasts, one ankle crossed over the other.

“Oh, hi . . . uh . . . Mrs. . . .”

“Mrs. Marcus. Belinda Marcus.”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry, Mrs. Marcus. I saw this car and . . . is it yours?”


“Very nice.” Dan paused. “So, did you enjoy your lunch?” he asked, not even looking at her, instead circling around the front of the car, examining all its curves and bulges.

“I did, very much. Thank you. Are you just getting off work now?”

“Yeah,” Dan responded, barely hearing her. “Had a full day here, but no class, so that’s okay.”


Dan was near the rear of the car now, looking at the cockpit. “Hmm? Oh. Yes. Class. I go to SC.”

“Really.” It was not a question. “So, where are you off to now?”

Dan pointed at the Stumpjumper mountain bike chained to a bike rack. “Home. We’re having a party tonight. Gotta shower.” His attention was again focused on the DB7, and he didn’t see Mrs. Marcus glance toward the bike, a sly smile parting her shiny, red lips. He walked back toward the driver’s door, and inspected the cockpit from a better position.

“Who’s we?” she said, turning to face him, leaning the front of her trim thighs against the passenger door.

“Huh? Oh. I’m sorry. I’m being rude. My fraternity. We’re having a party tonight.”

“That’s a long bike ride.”

“Not really. Well, yeah, it is, but its good exercise,” Dan quipped, patting his taut stomach.

“Well, I can give you a ride if you want.” Belinda placed her manicured hands on the window sill of the door, and leaned over a little. Her movements caused her lush breasts to bunch up between her arms, creating an immense cleavage. Dan, of course, didn’t notice.

“No, but thanks. I think I need to burn a few calories. Keeps me in shape.”

“Apparently,” she smirked, almost rolling her eyes at obliviousness.

“Nice car,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“So you said. My husband bought it for me for kaçak iddaa our tenth wedding anniversary.”

“Nice present.” Dan again gazed upon the body of the car. “This is a whole lotta car. Do you even get to enjoy it in L.A., with all the traffic?”

“Sure. At the right time of day, the PCH is clear, and a great drive, too. We also take it over to our house in Palm Springs. Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”

Dan hesitated a moment. He really wanted the workout that the bike ride would provide, but at the same time really wanted to take a ride in the Aston Martin. “Sure, why not? I have to work tomorrow afternoon. I’ll just get a ride over here then.”

Belinda Marcus pushed herself off the passenger door and walked around to the driver’s side, the heels of her Gucci slides clacking against the tarmac. Dan remained standing at the driver’s door, and Mrs. Marcus made no move to open the door herself.

“Oh. I’m sorry, Mrs. Marcus,” Dan laughed, somewhat flustered at being in the presence of such beauty – he had always loved Aston Martins, from the time he first saw a James Bond movie. “I must have left my manners at home.” He opened the car door and allowed Mrs. Marcus room to settle into the driver’s seat before scurrying around to the other side. Before he could fasten his seatbelt, Mrs. Marcus accelerated away from the curb and took a right at Ashland, then another right at Ocean, a low rumble playing through the exhaust pipes.

“So tell me, Dan. What are you studying?” she inquired, pushing the gear lever into third and pulling errant strands of hair from her face.

“Finance. I’m not really sure what I wanna do yet, but my parents think finance provides a good background.” He was hearing her words, but barely paying attention, instead examining the cockpit and all its controls.

“Indeed it does. Some people think money is found in medicine or the law, but that’s not true. The real money is in finance,” Mrs. Marcus responded, pulling up to a stoplight at PCH.

“I guess. It just seems so boring. It’s all numbers and accounting and . . . uh . . . why are you getting on PCH?” he asked, looking in her direction. “It’ll take you forever to get me back to campus going this way.”

Without taking her eyes off the car in front of her, she responded, “Probably, but the view is much better. Don’t you think?”

“Well, I guess. I just don’t want to put you out.”

‘You have no idea, young man. You have no idea,’ Mrs. Marcus thought as she turned the Aston Martin onto PCH and accelerated through the gear box, her hair blowing in the draft created by the car’s speed along the coastline.

She and Dan continued their small talk as she sped a few miles up PCH. When she breezed right past Sunset, Dan interrupted himself. “Uh, not sure where you’re going, Mrs. Marcus, but you just passed Sunset. I’m enjoying the ride and all, but going back through the Canyon and down the Valley will take hours.”

“Don’t worry about it, Dan. I live right up here.” She smiled at him; the dark Chanel glasses hid her eyes, but her full, red lips parted, revealing a dazzling smile. “I’ll get you back to your fraternity house in time for your little party, but until then I want your company.” With that, Mrs. Marcus dropped her right hand from the gear shift to Dan’s exposed thigh; her long manicured nails tickled his skin and sent shivers up his spine. “And please, call me Belinda. ‘Mrs. Marcus’ makes feel like an old lady.”

Belinda’s actions silenced Dan for the moment, but she did not relent, and kept her hand on his bare thigh, lightly rubbing the muscled flesh, tracing circles in his leg hair with her nails. Dan squirmed in his seat, uneasy at this turn of events. Certainly, he found Belinda attractive, beautiful, but he was unprepared for her advances, for her frank signals of desire. His stomach knotted, and seemed to turn over on itself. But despite his trepidation, his cock began to straighten, lengthen, thicken.

Soon, the car rumbled past Pepperdine and she slowed, her blinker indicating a left turn. When traffic cleared, she pulled across PCH and onto a macadam driveway barred by a wide, swinging gate. Belinda’s hand left Dan’s leg to press a button mounted on the sun visor, and the gate slowly swung open, revealing a pea-gravel driveway.

As soon as the gate opened, she eased the car through the pillars and up the winding, tree-lined path, the gravel crunching beneath wide tires. A slight breeze rustled the trees overhead and, as the car rounded a bend, a magnificent Spanish-style villa appeared. A fountain placed in the middle of an open courtyard spat water into the air, and Belinda pulled the Aston Martin around the fountain.

She brought the big car to a halt in the courtyard and killed the engine, releasing the catch of her seatbelt at the same time. With grace that was incongruent with a woman in heels departing a low-slung sports car, Belinda unfolded herself from the Aston Martin and strutted around the back kaçak bahis of the car toward the front door. Dan exited the car and followed her, on her heels as a ten-foot door of carved mahogany swung open, aided by an elderly gentleman in butler’s livery.

“Good afternoon, Amos,” she intoned as she marched past the man.

“Afternoon, ma’am.” He gave only a curt nod to Dan, who followed the elegant woman through a large foyer that stretched the depth of the house, ending in a great room with French doors that led to an enormous slate veranda. Belinda dropped her purse on a side table before pushing through one of the doors and stepping onto the patio.

Dan obediently followed her and, stepping onto the terrace, paused to take in the beauty of the property. Large slate slabs surrounded a shimmering, Olympic-sized swimming pool. Beyond that was a good fifty yards of lush, green lawn; he could smell the fresh scent of cut grass. The property seemed to end abruptly, and he could hear waves crashing below what must have been a cliff of indeterminate height. To the right of the pool was an outdoor shower surrounded on three sides by slate-covered half-walls, and then a small pool house. To the left were further expanses of slate with a number of tables and chaise lounges, some with cabanas, some without.

Leaving Dan in her wake, her scent lingering in the air and mixing with earthy smell of the lawn, Belinda pranced over to one of the tables that sat beneath an open umbrella. Dan followed, taking a seat across the glass-topped wrought iron table from her. Soundlessly, the butler materialized at the table.

“Would you like a refreshment, ma’am?”

“That’d be lovely, Amos. Sapphire and tonic, please. Two limes, of course.”

“Of course. And for the gentleman?” he asked, turning toward Dan.

“Uh . . . the same thing, please.”

“Certainly,” Amos responded, before retreating into the villa.

“Beautiful property you have, Belinda.”

“Isn’t it? This house has been in my husband’s family for generations,” she informed. “We’ve been here for five or six years, and I can’t get enough of it. It’s so peaceful.” Belinda crossed one trim leg over another, exposing further expanses of tan, taut skin that almost shimmered in the fading light.

“I bet.” Dan paused; the only sounds were the waves smashing against the rocks at the base of the Marcus’ property, and the faint burbling of the pool’s filtration system.

“So close to PCH, but you can’t hear the sounds of traffic, just the waves crashing against the cliffs.”

“I’ll bet the sunsets are something, too.”

“Mmm-hmm. If you’re here long enough, you may get to see one.”

Before Dan could respond, Amos reappeared with their drinks on a tray, setting it on the table between them. “May I be of further assistance, ma’am?”

“Not right now, Amos. Thank you. But have you gone to the grocer’s yet?”

“No, ma’am, I haven’t. I was waiting for you to return, but can leave any time you wish.”

“Wonderful. While you’re out, please stop off at the dry cleaners, and also the liquor store. I have an order ready for pick-up, for tomorrow night.”

“Of course, ma’am.” Amos once again retreated into the house. Sipping their drinks from tall glasses, Dan and Belinda sat in silence for a few moments, basking in the early evening sun setting over the horizon and in the tranquility offered by the old estate. Before long, they heard the low rumble of an SUV backing out of its garage space and making its way down the driveway toward PCH.

As the crunching of gravel receded, Belinda took a short pull from her drink. “So,” she began, setting her drink on the table, turning it on the condensation that collected beneath it. Dan just looked at her expectantly, and then turned his gaze to the horizon, bringing his glass to his lips.

When Belinda rose from her chair, Dan turned toward her again and watched her move as she came around the table, a gentle breeze rustling her blonde tresses. As she neared him, she turned slightly, almost presenting her backside to him, and slowly, gracefully, lowered her bottom to his left thigh.

“Um . . . ,” he murmured, sitting up straighter in the chair. As Belinda’s warm body sank into his, she draped her right arm around his neck, pulling his face toward her own. Dan’s heart rate increased dramatically. His eyes remained locked on the slender, tanned face that was descending on him, on the lightly powdered high cheek bones, on the shiny red lips that parted slightly as they lowered toward his. His nostrils flared, attempting to suck in as much of her intoxicating scent as possible.

When her soft lips lightly brushed against his, his stomach knotted and he felt a slight stirring in his groin. The scent of her perfume overpowered his olfactory senses, and his eyes rolled into his head before fluttering shut.

Belinda’s left hand, theretofore resting on her thigh, caressed Dan’s cheek, her nails tickling his skin. After a few light brushes of her lips along his, they parted and her tongue traced along the outlines of Dan’s mouth. Despite the hardening of his cock, Dan pulled back when her tongue slipped between his lips and into his mouth.

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