CHAPTER 5

We dance a few more times, mingle with some of the regulars, both as a couple and singly, and run up my tab with some more overpriced beverages. Finally, we've both done what we've come here for tonight, and she indicates that she's ready to go. I nod and toss back the last of my distilled water (I'm not going to leave a half-full glass on the table, because I don't want anyone to accidently discover that I don't imbibe), then stand and offer her my arm. Heads turn to watch as we leave, guys and girls imagining trading places with one or the other of us. I suppress a sigh of relief as we leave the pounding music behind.

Destinee doesn't really like my ride, despite it being nearly new, powerful, and expensive. It's got a turbo-diesel Cummins and all the amenities; leather, chrome, and killer stereo, but it's still just a pickup truck to her. She thinks I should drive a big Mercedes or BMW. The garage space at my shop is only big enough for one vehicle, though, and I don't feel safe having another one sitting outside in my neighborhood, especially since I'm not supposed to be living there. I need a truck for the things I do, so I've held firm on that.

I hand her in and we pull away from the club. Our talk is light and inconsequential. She's learned that while I'm polite and make all the right responses about her exciting day, working at the salon, it doesn't actually interest me in any way. Similarly, I know better than to try and regale her with the news of the progress I made on my project this afternoon.

I am certain that my encounter with the Lilliputian woman on the street today would interest her, but not in a good way, and I haven't yet figured out how to tell her about it. Meanwhile, we drive between the dark warehouses and small production facilities that are de rigueur in my neck of the woods. Turning into the small parking lot that my home shares with several other small cinderblock and galvanized steel buildings, I hit the remote and pull into the closed off section of my shop that serves as a garage. The heavy door thumps shut behind us.

Destinee used to say that where I live was kind of chic and cool, but recently her comments have been more likely to include words like "shabby" and "scary." Still, she's here with me tonight. She has her own apartment that she shares with a girlfriend, but I get her to myself a couple nights a week.

After the first time I brought Destinee home with me, I installed a separate spiral staircase that goes straight from the garage area up to my loft. She'd decided that having to make her way between my metal-working machines on the way to the front staircase was a bit intimidating. She evidently worried that they might suddenly come to life and jump out at her like in the Transformer movies that a previous boyfriend had insisted she watch with him. Designing, fabricating and installing the new stairs took me a full day, and like everything else about having Destinee as my girlfriend, it wasn't cheap.

I do admire her amazing ass as I follow her up the stairs though. The girl has got some bodacious curves, and the way that thing moves under her short skirt would be every teenage boy's midnight fantasy. As we hit the top of the stairs, I hit the switch that brings up the low, soft lighting I installed for times like this.

When I originally put my loft together, I'd hoped that I'd eventually be bringing women here, so I boned up on architecture and interior design, picking a style out of a magazine and following it slavishly. There are lots of warm woods and soft, colorful fabrics, and you'd never know you were up above a machine shop.

One wall is a bookshelf filled with the classics and modern best sellers. (The books I actually read are hidden in custom-built roll-out racks under the bed.) And what a bed it is. I splurged when I moved in, buying a custom-sized mattress. It's as wide as a king, but a foot longer to accommodate my height. You don't want to know what custom-sized, high thread count sheets cost.

There's a small but stylish kitchenette in the corner, all stainless steel, hand-rubbed cherry, and granite, complete with a built-in espresso machine. "Can I get you anything?" I ask her. She shakes her head and, without a word, comes into my arms.

We kiss deeply for a while as I run my hands up and down her magnificent body. She's a terrific kisser and I can quickly feel myself rising. She can feel it too and grinds her firm belly against me.

I slowly unzip the back of her dress, then slip a hand under the fabric and around her side, cupping a magnificently heavy breast. "Jesus, that's good," she whispers. Her nipple isn't hard yet, but it perks up when I run the side of my thumb across it a few times. I gently pinch and pull, and Destinee moans. She pulls the back of my expensive designer shirt up out of my pants and slides her hands up underneath, firmly caressing my back and tracing my muscles. I feel the bite of her nails, but she's careful not to press hard enough to leave lasting marks.

I use my other hand to slip her dress off her shoulders. Gravity does the rest and her garment pools on the thick carpet at our feet. She's now wearing nothing but the gold necklace I bought her for her birthday and a tiny yellow G-string that matches her dress.

I skillfully remove her necklace, reaching over to place it in the antique crystal bowl on the dresser, then she slides down the front of me, onto her knees. Looking up and giving me a grin, she unzips my pants and pulls my hard cock out. I'm nearly quivering in anticipation, because Destinee is an acknowledged master in the oral arts.

"I just love your pole, Peter," she murmurs, wrapping two velvet-soft fists around it. "I wish I had three fists, so I could cover it all at once. I've been wet all day, just knowing I get to play with it tonight." Then she slowly and gently twists each fist around me, working one higher and one lower until they meet in the middle. Even dry, she knows how to do this in a way that is frankly astounding. Then she begins to work on the dryness problem.