The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever (9 page)

Po, po Betty-Jo, she thought as they pulled
into a secluded spot at Oyster Cove. She dreams of romance in
France, but gets a fuck in a truck. Balled for the first time in a
Jimmy by a Jimmy. It's all too shabby to contemplate. I'd rather be
home alone watching 'Leave It To Beaver' reruns.

She bit at her lower lip, parted her legs,
and held out her arms. "Okay, Jim Bob," she said, "it's open season
on squirrels."

All the free Champagne was thwarting Greg in
what should have been a simple task. His objective was clear, but
Belinda's pantyhose was refusing to ease down her legs. Confused,
he shifted his hands to her hips and buried his face in her lap.
But Belinda was having none of that. She pushed Greg away, and
kicked off her shoes. Then she bent down, and yanked off her
pantyhose.

That is one eager woman, Brad concluded, but
only for a moment, because Belinda, after fumbling with the
waistband, brought her pantyhose up to her mouth, and heaved.

As Sandy pushed over to the far corner of the
limo, Brad opened the window, grabbed Belinda's shoulders, and
guided her head outside—she was promptly sick a second time.

He couldn't resist. "See what you've done,
Sheik. You've nauseated the luscious Belinda."

Greg looked dumbfounded.

"Are you all right, Belinda?" Brad asked.

"I...thing so. Hold me for a moment. I just
need some air." A minute later, Belinda slumped back inside.

"Hope there's special dispensation, in
Toronto, for emergency littering," he said, as he threw her
pantyhose into the street.

"Greg, I'm so so-wee," said a forlorn
sounding Belinda.

The Sheik appeared to be even more miserable
than Belinda, if that was possible. "I'm the one who should be
sorry. This 's my bloody, stupid fault."

"No harm done, Belinda," Brad said. "The
Sheik's a lemon. Dump him. With what you have to offer, an upgrade
will be easy. ...But there is one thing."

"...What?"

"From now on, carry one of those
pooper-scooper bags. Pantyhose may be an effective chastity belt,
but is it fair to expect it to double as a barf bag?"

Belinda swung at him, and missed, but Sandy
caught him squarely on the shoulder. "Jerk," she purred before she
cuddled against him. "Perhaps we should go to my place—skip the
after party."

Brad was uncertain what he should do about
the limo, but the driver assured him that mishaps were common. "For
a small token of your appreciation, the limo will soon be smelling
of lilacs, or roses, or any of a half dozen other fragrances you
may desire."

"Any preference?" he asked Sandy.

"How about pine?"

"No problem," the driver said. "You kids have
a good time, but you gotta be back by two, or pay double for
overtime."

Sandy gave her hair a toss, and smiled. "That
sounds more ominous than having your coach turn into a pumpkin."
She squeezed Brad's arm, and accompanied him up the steps to the
portals of her mansion. And it was a mansion. With its eight Doric
columns it resembled the Parthenon.

Could it be that the gods are with me
tonight, he wondered? Could it be that Lucky Ducky can finally take
a night off?

Inside, Brad wrested his eyes from Sandy and
looked around. The foyer was massive. In sumptuous Rococo style,
the white paneled walls and ceiling were covered with ornate gilt
trim, gilt carvings, and gilt-edged mirrors—and there was marble
everywhere. "This is some tenement you have here. I'll bet there's
more marble in this place than there is in the Taj Mahal. Like Shan
Jahan, your father must have a favorite wife."

"He does—my mother. But he's only allowed to
have one wife, because it's my mother who owns this house, and half
of Canada."

Brad turned his attention back to Sandy. "She
shares Canada with the Indians?"

"So I've been told."

"Beauty and money. I know it's a deadly
combination, but let's get married anyway."

Brad had barely finished his proposal when
Belinda teetered over, and favored him with a wet, lingering kiss.
He was uncertain whether Belinda's newfound affection for him
stemmed from too much to drink, or from a desire to annoy Greg.

"The trouble with women," Greg said, "is you
can't live without them, and you're not allowed to kill them."

Brad and Sandy both laughed.

"We're leaving, Grasshopper," Greg continued.
"I'll send the limo back for you. Linda, you need to get some
sleep."

"I need t' get some Gashopper," she replied.
Then, clutching Greg, she wove her way back across the foyer, and
down the stairs.

"I need t' get some Gashopper," Sandy
mimicked. "I don't swim in her toilet!"

"Whaaat?"

"You know the one—'I don't swim in your
toilet, so please don't pee in my pool'. In other words, don't come
onto my date 'cause I'm not moving on yours.... Sometimes I can be
such a bitch."

She says 'bitch', like that's a bad thing,
Brad thought. Bitches can be fun. "Perhaps, Sandy," he said, "but
cheer up. As Confucius would say, 'Better a diamond with a flaw,
than a pebble without.'"

Sandy gave him a sultry smile, and a
lingering hug. "You are so sweet, but why do I suspect that you're
humoring me for a reason?"

He grinned at her. "You may be too tempting
for your own good."

"Grasshopper, I don't want to give you ideas
that may never have occurred to you, if your mind was left to
wander in the void on its own. But it's been years since Oscar
Wilde said, 'the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to
it.'"

Brad looked into Sandy's eyes, and then
couldn't stop smiling to himself. I've been handed an engraved
invitation. "Why don't we go upstairs."

As Brad and Sandy strolled up the broad
circular staircase, his hand again did what seemed to be natural
when Sandy was near—it slid down from her hip, to caress her cheeks
through her dress.

Since Sandy's allowing me to roam her
derriere without protest, I have to believe that my invitation was
correctly addressed.

Brad hoped he appeared confident, even
erudite, but he was nervous. He'd had some experience with women,
but the ultimate goal for a rookie still eluded him. And Sandy he
wanted—badly.

She's hot, she's quick, she's playful, and
apparently she's decided she likes me after all. But there are
still obstacles. I'll bet even Don Juan wasn't perfect on his first
outing.

The Sheik had told him, "If some frilly's
ignorant enough to give you a tryout, take it slowly and enjoy."
That had sounded like as good a game plan as any.

Four doors down the north-wing corridor,
there was a guest room. An ornate door opened into a sitting room,
which in turn opened into a grandiose bedroom, that was complete
with Persian rugs, Tiffany lamps, red wallpaper, hunter-green
baseboards and crown moldings. The focal point of the room was a
king-sized bed, with a massive baroque canopy.

If a guy doesn't feel like loving in this
place, he'll never feel like it. "'Will you walk into my parlor?'"
he said.

"It may be dangerous in there. Especially if
you get to be the spider."

"I don't feel like a spider. I feel more like
a trusting blue-tail fly who's being lured into a black widow's
trap."

She gave him a guileless smile. "It's
probably just my black dress that's giving you feelings of
impending doom. But hopefully you're not the kind of grasshopper
that would allow one sinister dress to stifle his creative impulses
for an entire evening."

There was a problem with the paucity of locks
on the door, but he solved it by placing the back of a chair under
the door handle. "Good," he said. "Now nobody can get in."

Sandy moved toward him. "And nobody can get
out."

"You're planning to take advantage of me?"
Brad asked.

"You mean of your inexperience." Sandy
paused.

He felt his face flush. "Hu...how did you
know?"

"In opening barricaded doors," she
continued.

"Damn you! You are a bitch!"

She laughed gleefully, and then gave him a
conciliatory smile. "Poor baby," she said. "You have to understand,
'women are like dreams—they are never the way you would like to
have them.'"

Brad was furious with himself for having
admitted to his inexperience. I'm going to have to stay awake.
Maybe Sandy is a black widow who consumes her partner following the
mating ritual. Why don't I just wear a sign around my neck?
Something like 'Still a Virgin—Need Experienced Teacher'. It
occurred to him that there are things men hate even more than
having to ask for directions. A lack of sexual experience had to be
one of them.

Actually, the two situations are similar, he
thought. In both cases you don't know what you're doing, need help,
but would immolate yourself before you'd ask for it.

He tried to think of a fitting punishment for
the too-cute-for-her-own-good Sandy. Then he remembered one.
"Sandy," he said, "'did you know that you can't breath when you
stick out your tongue?'" Sandy stuck out her tongue. "'OK so now
you know that it's possible. Problem is—now you look like a
dog.'"

A smile crossed Sandy's face and stayed.

* * *

Sandy knew better than to trifle with the
fragile male ego. Better make a concession—fast—she thought. "I'm
sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?"

"Take off your dress." Brad's tone was
assertive.

"You'll have to help me."

"No, you do it yourself."

She reached back, and unhooked the clasp on
her dress, then—with a tug on the zipper, and a shrug of her
shoulders—it was on the floor. She felt exposed and vulnerable—not
at all like a dreaded black widow would feel. It also occurred to
her that maybe women weren't like dreams after all, because Brad
had her exactly the way he wanted her.

Don't make me take off all my clothes while
you're still dressed, she prayed.

"Stay where you are and turn
around—slowly."

She knew how fantastic she looked, because
she had deliberated on her lingerie selection, just in case the
Grasshopper turned out to be better than expected. Her preference
was for all white, the Snow White virgin motif. But she knew that
nine out of ten men, if given a say, would opt for black. So she
had gone with her black bra with the push up cups, the ones that
barely covered her perky nipples as they thrust into the sheer silk
fabric. Matching black bikini panties, a black garter belt, and
black designer stockings completed her lingerie ensemble.

When she finished her turn, she stopped and
waited.

"Put your hands behind your back." She did as
she was told, and then watched Brad's eyes as they roamed over her.
He took his time, seemingly enjoying his appraisal, and her
discomfort.

"If the Lord was to strike me dead this
moment, I'd exit blissfully. You're stunning—impossibly
seductive."

She was thrilled with his assessment. "'If
it's not seductive, it's not interesting.'"

"You're definitely interesting. Now give me
your badest kiss. ...No, keep your hands behind your back." She
happily complied. She clasped her hands behind her back, tilted her
head up, and kissed him—firmly, but briefly. "Sandra," he said,
"who taught you how to kiss? Some angelic parson?"

She knew what was happening; it was payback
time for tricking him into revealing his sexual inexperience. She
tried to pull away, but he held her against him, and grinned at
her.

"If you'd just kissed the Frog Prince that
way the poor guy'd be begging you to turn him back into a frog. But
not to worry, we'll get you some toads to practice on. Although on
second thought, it hardly seems fair to turn you loose on
unsuspecting toads. You wouldn't want to be responsible for
disillusioning toads—would you?" For emphasis he pulled her hair,
forcing her to look up, and into his eyes. "Would you?" he
repeated.

"No, I wouldn't.... May I please have another
chance?" She hoped she sounded repentant.

"Why not. Everybody deserves a second chance,
even impudent black widow types."

She took off his jacket, unbuttoned his vest,
and kissed him again. Her kiss was the hungry, wanting variety.
Then her tongue started a leisurely journey around his mouth while
her hand unbuttoned his shirt, before it worked its way down his
broad chest and washboard stomach. It continued its methodical
decent until it was cupping the rise in the front of his
pants—there it rested, warm and questioning.

"Pretty proficient for an almost virgin,
wouldn't you say?"

"Marvelous, absolutely marvelous. What do you
mean, 'an almost virgin?'"

"I've only been to bed once before, so you'll
have to be gentle with me."

"No problem there. I know nitroglycerin when
I see it."

"I'm that exciting?"

"You're that dangerous," Brad said, as he
maneuvered her onto the bed. "But dangerous or not, it's time for
us to liberate you from your undies."

"Us? I thought that was your job?"

"I suppose it should be, but bras are even
trickier than pantyhose. All guys know that. Women have invented
secret ways to keep them on. They use a No-Pest-Strip or something.
The most fiendish women wear bras that do up in the front, but they
neglect to tell you. There are stories of guys committing hara-kiri
after trying everything imaginable to release a front fastener from
the back."

She laughed and hugged him. "Buck, buck,
chicken." she chided.

"I admit it. Fortunately, I've developed a
few useful moves in the area of bra removal."