"Hey, 'Nessa, sweet tits, why dontcha come on over here and suck my dick for me?"
I ignored him and kept walking toward the driveway. "Fuck off, Denny, you perv." It had gotten to be a regular thing, the way he talked to me, and I kept thinking maybe I should tell my dad about it. Denny owed Dad big time for letting him move into the garage apartment - what used to be the "chauffeur's quarters," back in the days when the house's owners would have had a live-in driver - after his latest woman kicked his ass to the curb a couple of months ago, and I didn't think Dad would be thrilled about his old buddy Den talking to his darling daughter like that.
He only did it when no one else was around to hear it, though, and to be honest even if I did complain I wasn't all that sure that Dad wouldn't just tell me to ignore him, and not actually do or say anything to make Denny stop. Kind of sad that he wouldn't take his daughter's side, but he and Denny went way back.
He'd been my dad's foreman since I was a kid, and the two of them were thick as thieves. I figured Dad kept Denny around mostly to remind him of the good old days, before Dad got respectable, when they'd worked construction together while Dad was building the company. I supposed Denny must have been good at his job, since the business was doing so well, and Dad seemed to trust him, but he definitely didn't fit in with the crowd Dad ran with now.
I, on the other hand, had been raised to be part of Dad's new image. Private schools and tennis instruction, starting back before we could even really afford either; deportment lessons (which basically means learning what fork to eat with, and to keep your knees together when you sit down so nobody gets an up-skirt shot), and of course making friends at his precious country club. Dad had gotten a hair transplant and dental veneers, and a new wife with fake boobs and a year-round tan. He seemed happy enough with his move up the social ladder, but I'd found him camped out with Denny by the pool over beers enough evenings to know there was still a good bit of the hardhat left in the executive.
If it made him happy to keep in touch with his roots, I didn't want to do anything to ruin that for him. So I put up with Denny's bullshit and hoped he wasn't going to become a permanent fixture around the place.
There was not one single refined or suave thing about Denny Cavanaugh. He was 6'2" of hard, lean muscle, with a tiny bit of thickening around his waist, a head full of shaggy black hair just starting to gray a little at the temples, and icy blue eyes that seemed to burn through my clothes like a laser. He was crude and rude and an all-around obnoxious jackass, and most of the time I really hated his guts.
The fact that I also regularly fantasized about him fucking me senseless probably meant I had some major mental health issues.
The idea should have grossed me out - the man was something like fifteen years older than me, and he wasn't even close to being my type. Even if I hadn't been with my boyfriend Henry for almost two years, there were plenty of other young guys around that I would have gone out with, guys who were good-looking, and liked a lot of the same things I did, said the right things and treated me decently, whose parents probably had as much money as mine or more... The "right" kind of guy. Everything Denny wasn't.
Maybe it was just because he
was
completely inappropriate, but when I went to bed and reached for my vibrator, it wasn't clean-cut guys like Henry that invaded my brain and got me wet - it was Denny the beast.
Denny, covered in sweat and grime at the end of a work day and looking like some kind of feral animal, bending me over the nearest table, ripping my panties off and shoving his cock into me.
Denny, with his hands easily twice the size of mine, and those long thick fingers like bratwurst.I don't know what it is about hands that gets me so hot, but the thought of his big meaty digits thrusting and twisting between my legs made me flood my panties every time.
In my fantasies Denny rutted into me from behind, mauling my tits and spewing some filth in my ear, or he fucked me up against a wall with my legs wrapped around his waist and his jeans in a heap around his ankles. In every image I was helpless, struggling and impaled on his huge cock as he pumped me... I came so loudly sometimes it surprised me that my stepmother Lorna hadn't been startled straight out of her three G&T haze and come running to make sure I wasn't being murdered.
Tonight I didn't have time to indulge either my own horny hallucinations or Denny's lewd commentary. I was already going to be late to dinner at the club, and I'd have to be extra sweet and cooperative to make up for the lapse.
Daddy was hosting some business associates for dinner, something about the big riverfront development that was in the works, and I had promised to make an appearance and be polite. I called Henry as soon as I knew about it and made sure he'd be there, so I could at least have an out once I'd done my daughterly duty and made nice with the bigwigs.
The whole country club scene was a huge bore most of the time, but since I graduated Dartmouth in June Dad had been insisting that I make an appearance at least once a week "for networking." In other words, sucking up to important people who might give me a job. I was more into enjoying myself for the summer, after sixteen years of school.
Dad took it personally when I acted my age instead of like a forty-something corporate drone; he had firm ideas about proper behavior and if I didn't conform he thought it reflected badly on him. These little confabs at the club were all designed to help score him some big contract or otherwise advance his quest to be King of the Builders, and he always wanted to show me off like evidence that he was high-class enough to roll with the big boys.
Look, here's my daughter with her Ivy League education, I'm a self-made man but I value the same things you do.
It made me feel a little like a sideshow freak, but I knew it was important to him, so I played along.
The outfit I picked needed to be a compromise between the business dinner and the Friday night fun that would follow - classy, yet tight enough to show off the goods when I got to dancing later. For that matter, I'd seen the way some of Dad's business associates looked at me, and if this crew was the same maybe a little sexiness would improve the negotiations.
I settled on an off-white Lycra sheath, cut straight across the top and low enough to show off plenty of cleavage, with wide shoulder straps to hold it up and built-in cups so I didn't have to bother with a bra, not that my perky girls really needed one. The dress stopped about halfway down my thighs, molded so tightly to my body I couldn't have fit a sheet of paper between the fabric and my skin. My underwear options were reduced to a thong, pale pink and lacy. From the look I got in the mirror, it looked like I wasn't wearing anything underneath it. Probably because, really - I wasn't.
My curly red hair was up off my neck, in deference to the heat and humidity, and I'd loosely caught it in a clip that let it cascade down the back of my head in ringlets while still leaving my nape exposed. I opted for just a small pair of gold hoop earrings and the slender gold wristwatch my mom had given me for college graduation, and on my feet a little pair of white strappy sandals with gold buckles and 4" heels that made me stick out my boobs and ass just to keep my balance.
