"Hey, Wil, could you not throw that in the trash... or flush it either?"
I was inside the little private bathroom attached to the office in the backroom of her gift shop and could hear Pamela talking to me through the door.
I held the used rubber in front of me and wondered how to dispose of it without dropping it in the waste basket or flushing it down the toilet. I folded it, closing the open end and wrapping the whole sticky thing in toilet paper. And then, well, I did all I could do. I put it in my pocket.
When I walked back into her office I saw that Pam had gotten her clothes straightened out again and her hair brushed. She was sitting at her desk, composed and put together. It would have been hard to determine that a few minutes earlier she had been on her back on the couch in her office, blouse unbuttoned, her skirt pushed up over her hips, legs spread wide, panty-less, with me trying my level best to fuck her senseless.
"Don't worry about it, Wil," Pamela said.
"Uh, sure," I said.
I stood there not knowing what more to say.
"Should I call you after 9 tomorrow morning?"
"Yeah, guess I'll talk to you then," I said.
I left through the back door of her store as usual. Within about 15 minutes she would be unlocking the front door and flipping the "Closed" sign back to the "Yes, We're Open" side. As I walked to my van, carefully parked three blocks away so nobody would see it parked in front of her shop every Tuesday from noon to 1 PM, I tried not to dwell on how poorly today's meeting had gone. For months we had been getting together once a week for a session of intimacy. It always followed variations on a familiar routine-- kissing, fondling, and fingering-- ending in a blowjob. I was fine with every bit of that routine and marveled at how, every time, she eagerly swallowed my thick load like she was absolutely starved for it. Pam was about ten years older than me and her cocksucking skills were magical. Somehow she could delay my orgasm to the point where I was explosive. When I'd let it go she would take it all and clean up with her tongue any drops that got away.
Pamela had asked me to bring a pack of rubbers to our meeting today. Yes, they were universally called rubbers back then. We may have known the word condom, I honestly can't recall, but we never called them that. Hell, we knew that they were called prophylactics too but calling them that, or condoms, would've sounded pretty stilted. No, they were rubbers-- unless you were a Firesign Theater fan in which case you might call them safety wieners in a joking way. And rubbers were something old-fashioned to us. They were for guys who weren't fucking chicks on the pill. Which, I surmised was what Pamela's request was all about. Her husband Donnie was an old man-- hell he must be about 60! If they were still screwing ( I didn't want to think about that!) he was probably shootin' blanks. Maybe they didn't have sex anymore. Either way, he'd be pretty suspicious if she was on the pill. So, apparently, she wanted me to fuck her but she couldn't risk getting knocked up. Thus her request that I bring balloons to the party this time.
I had a recollection that there was a vending machine in the men's room of the Conoco station out by the highway. I was right, and after inserting a bunch of quarters I got my prize from the machine.
But, when it came to using one of the smelly, slippery things with her, well, nothing went right. I was excited so getting hard wasn't the problem. I fumbled around getting it out of the wrapper but got it on, finally. She looked so ready, on her back, legs open, but trying to get into her was like employing a battering ram on the castle door. She looked ready but I'd done nothing to warm her up-- no foreplay-- and by the time I figured that out... I shot in the rubber.
Things had been a lot better when she was just content to suck my cock.
I went back to the station after pitching the used rubber in a trash barrel and getting lunch at The Country Kitchen. My boss, Uncle Bobby, asked me to come to his office when I was done cutting three new commercials in the production studio. It was nearly 4PM when I sat down across from him at his desk. I was slightly concerned. I was pretty sure he was happy with my on-air performance. Plus, I'd also brought in some billing as a sales rep for the station in the afternoons. Maybe he'd figured out that I was having sex with a client-- a client who happened to be married to the CEO of our biggest account, Donnie Scoggins, owner of Scoggins Ford. Yeah, that could be a problem.
But, if Bobby knew about my fooling around with Pamela Scoggins he wasn't letting on. Instead he wanted to propose something he'd never done before. He wanted me to continue doing mornings on the station but he also wanted me to do mid-days at another station he owned, in a town 45 minutes away. He offered me a 60% raise and I could trade-out all the gasoline I needed. Of course, a 60% raise for me was a savings for him as he didn't need to hire another guy. I would keep my 6-10 AM shift on this station, drive to the other one, and do noon to 3PM there. I said I'd give it a try if he'd let me drop my Saturday morning shift. Done. He was pleased, but I got the impression that there was more to it than I could figure out.
I went to a pay phone and called Dawn at work to tell her my good news. She was happy and requested that I come stay at her place for the weekend. I told her I could be there by 3PM on Saturday.
"Good, Wil. You won't leave my house for at least 24 hours, I promise."
I laughed, "OK, Dawn."
"You know how my bedroom looks like a deserted island? Well, this weekend it will be 1801, you will be a guy who's been a castaway there for years, and I'm going to be this high society woman who gets marooned there."
"Dawn," I said, "You realize that you're crazy, don't you?"
"Imagine how I'll look, Wil. All dressed up. Doesn't it sound like fun?"
"I didn't say it didn't sound fun," I said.
I got back out to my place and jerked off thinking about Dawn... and her best friend Pamela... and Dawn.