We met at a real estate law seminar in Philadelphia, which will never be confused for Hedonism II. I was the real estate development guy; she was the title attorney. I knew this at once because we both wore those hideous name badges that adhere to your chest that these organizers always insist the participants wear. You know the kind, the “Hello, my name is…”, which really should be followed by, “Will somebody just please shoot me now and end my misery.”

She approached me out of the blue as I stood by myself momentarily at the event’s happy hour, numbed by boredom, nursing a warm, watery beer. Her name badge stuck out a lot more prominently than my own, thanks to her ample chest. That is the one redeeming trait of those name badges, I suppose. They do allow you to stare at a woman’s breast for a disproportionately long time under the auspices of gathering personal information. And, oh boy, I was collecting personal information, all righty.

Let’s face it, when a woman approaches you at any social event, it can only be motivated by the desire for money or cock. At such a symposium, it is always because of their curiosity about your monetary status.

Not this time.

The first thing that impressed me about her (well, OK, OK, after I reviewed her chest, er, name badge) was her smile. Attorneys are not exactly renowned for their gregarious and affable personalities, as a rule, and feel free to sue me if this is an inaccurate stereotype. She never stopped smiling. Hmmm, why?

That made me nervous.

A beautiful, smiling, female attorney, flirting with me? I started to look around for Ashton Kutcher, and the “Punk’d” cameras.

Kate Clement was her name, and her job was to round up business for her firm. I had not the slightest doubt that although she was unquestionably intelligent, a law firm did not give this particular responsibility of new business development to seventy-year-old lawyers named Henry.

I’ll break down a description of her for your readers by age group. If you are fifty or older, think Ali McGraw in Love Story. If you are between thirty and fifty, picture a more voluptuous Angie Harmon. For you children of the 1980s, Jordan Brewster could be her twin.

Got the visual?

Except Kate had this impossibly sexy wisp of a silver streak of hair amidst all the other raven locks that she kept tucking behind her right ear as she tossed her head back in laughter.

Ashton, knock it off, pal. I am hip. No way this woman should be flirting with me.

I told her that I was a native Philadelphia boy myself, and had moved to DC about a decade ago after my own divorce. We discovered that her brother went to my high school, which is a game unique and indigenous to Philadelphians, sort of equivalent to the “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.” You start off by finding out what neighborhood someone is from, which leads into which high school you attended, and next thing you know, you find out you have about a dozen friends in common. Trust me, there is no other big city quite like Philly, it is how we communicate and decipher social status and heritage. For those of you who understand, no further explanation is possible. For those who do not, no explanation will suffice.

Kate was a ‘Main Liner’ originally, which meant she came from old money. So, that also said that she had the timeless, classic beauty that was handed down from generations of good, wealthy genes. Kate also did about ninety-five percent of the talking and considering that she was an attorney, a sales representative, and a woman, I figured this was just about par for the course.

There was good news and bad news for her diatribe. The unwelcome news was she was married to an airline pilot. The good news was, with each rum and coke she consumed, she became a little more vocal in her candor that she was less than enthralled with her matrimonial situation.

Another truism, students, take notes. When a woman whom you met less than an hour ago starts to tell you she is in an unhappy marriage, she is already qualifying you in her own mind as a potential paramour. This is neither a sexist theory nor a delusional hypothesis. I guarantee you that Adam became tempted to Eve only when Eve started bashing her ex. ( “The bastard’s abusive, he drinks, he gambles, and all he does is sit around on weekends with that prick the snake and watch football while I have to schlep the kids to every soccer tournament in the county.”)

Some of Kate’s cronies from her firm eventually came over and tried to whisk her away from our conversation with an invite to a private party on the convention center floor, some seven floors below where Kate and I now stood. Kate happily invited me, but the legal beagles went through the charade of acting remorseful that this party was restricted to those with private invitations. Thus, in so many unspoken words, they were telling me to fuck off.

However, I was preparing to leave anyway since I had an Amtrak ticket for the train back to Union Station in DC. I went with Kate and her throng to the elevator, and we all crammed into the small cab. I was pressed into the back wall, and the overflow crowd in the elevator forced Kate back into me.

It was not by coincidence that Kate began to slowly, almost imperceptibly, grind her backside into my crotch. Naturally, this evoked a Pavlovian involuntary response of tenting in my suit pants, which happened to hold, in all humility and no exaggeration, a seven and half-inch slab of real personal property, as they might say at a real estate seminar. Her actions went completely unnoticed by the inebriated crowd, and I took the opportunity to tender my own tease with a twitching of the stiffening muscles within my shaft, causing my spontaneous salute to slide between the crack of Kate’s ass cheeks, covered by pair of fashionable black cotton slacks.

She rocked back just slightly, and then I felt it, a warm and explorative grasp. Could it be?

I glanced down to see long, slender, perfectly manicured fingertips grazing up and down my cock, which now threatened to burst from the seams. Her touch started at my heavy testicles, cupping them ever so briefly, and then slid seductively, up, up, and up some more, to my titanium-hard manhood. She culminated her journey by tracing her thumb and index finger around the outline of my bulbous cock head, squeezing it before releasing as the doors opened on the ground floor.

I struggled to catch my breath and maintain my composure as the group stumbled out of the cab, and before Kate disappeared into the private lounge, she scurried back to request one of my business cards, which I extracted from my wallet and slipped into her palm.

Her eyes pierced into my own, and with her back turned to her fellow employees, she licked her lips just a tad and whispered, “I’d be very interested in setting up a meeting in DC very soon with your own……” She glanced down at my crotch. “…firm.”

“I’d like that very much, Ms. Clement,” I stammered.

She extended her hand formally, the same one that just seconds before had performed manual inventory on my private parts. “I look forward to seeing you soon, then, Mr. Martin. Please, do not contact me, I will be in touch.”

She peered at me intently and made an ‘X’ with her fingers across her tits. “Cross my heart.”

Two weeks later, I received a simple e-mail, the one that I had been eagerly waiting for after setting a personal 2-week record for masturbation sessions.

“John, I will be arriving at Union Station at 5:25 on Thursday. I will be staying at the Hay-Adams that evening, and do not have any appointments until late the following morning. I was hoping that you would know a valet who could pick me up and recommend and escort me to one of those wonderful restaurants in Georgetown? Regards, Kate.”

My reply was equally succinct.

“Kate, fortunately, I know just the valet and escort who would be honored by your presence. I have taken the liberty of procuring reservations at Filomena’s for seven o’clock. Would that be acceptable? RSVP, John.”

At five-twenty-four on Thursday, there was a man with a barely concealed seven-and-a-half-inch hard-on who looked a lot like me anxiously pacing in the waiting area at Union Station gate C-4.

This same man felt his ego and his cock shrivel simultaneously when Kate exited the train with three other men. Worse, she was dressed like a librarian. Well, no, she was dressed like all the female attorneys that I was accustomed to. Her hair was bunched up in a disheveled bun, she wore no make-up and a pair of granny reading glasses, and her outfit looked like it may have been leftover from Kelly McGillis’ Amish wardrobe in the movie “Witness,” a gray skirt that almost reached the ankles and a pale, loose blouse that was buttoned to the neck.

She was buried in conversation with one of the men. Obviously, fellow lawyers ( betrayed by their own lawyer uniforms, straight from the Wingtips ‘R’ Us catalog) and excused herself when she saw me standing with what was undoubtedly a forlorn and disbelieving look on my countenance.

She walked towards me briskly and extended her hand cordially, but distantly. Before I could speak, she spoke quickly, getting out the opening remarks first like any good lawyer. “I’m sorry, this was not the plan, I found out this morning that these associates of mine would be on this train with me, so I can’t blow my cover. But nothing is changed, please play along with me now and I will meet you in the lobby bar of my hotel in an hour. You won’t be disappointed.”

She made a big production of calling after me as she walked away as quickly as she had approached me, “So nice to see you again, Mr. Martin! I look forward to our appointment!”

An hour later, I was seated in the corner of the plush Off The Record Bar in the Hay-Adams, an apt name for a cocktail lounge that was located in virtually the shadow of the White House just blocks away. I silently cursed my luck and set the odds as long that I would ever see my ‘appointment’ again. My once proud and mighty seven-and-a-half-inch greeting present had now taken on the shape and texture of a frightened turtle as I sadly sucked on the straw twirling in my DiSaronno on the rocks.

My hopes and erection were resurrected as one when I saw the lovely vision walk through the door.

Before it becomes a butterfly, a caterpillar goes through a growth stage during which it is called a “chrysalis.” On the surface, it may not look like much is happening. Still, the delicate chrysalis process changes the fuzzy caterpillar into an awesome butterfly with wings of intricate designs and intense colors.

What my eyes saw before I was every bit as miraculous as that beautiful act of nature. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light in the bar, I could see the spectacular butterfly clearly as she peered into the dark to search for me.

Kate’s silky, raven hair cascaded down over her breasts, which were defying all laws of gravity, pushing upward beneath a purple satin blouse that had at least three buttons undone, displaying the milky white and freckled skin below her neckline and her lean, slender legs seemed to stretch up to the ceiling of the bar in a stream of ebony. Tight black miniskirt, black stockings, 4-inch black stiletto heels that resulted in her lithe frame easily exceeding six-feet-tall.

The brightest of cherry red lipstick covered her full lips, which exploded into a flash of pearl white teeth as she saw me, her crystal blue eyes sparkling merrily, and her perfect tits bounced seductively as she walked towards me with a confident purpose. If she were on webcam at that moment, Kate would have stopped traffic around the Beltway faster that a Presidential motorcade. The room of almost exclusively older men came to a complete hush as the clicking of her heels on the hardwood floor was the only audible sound other than the drawl from the darkened corner of a man who resembled Newt Gingrich, “Day-um,” followed by a soft, complimentary wolf whistle.

Kate acted as if she was impervious to the reaction that her entrance had evoked as she slunk into the leather barstool next to mine, rubbing her sculpted legs against my thighs as she did so, revealing the lacy tops of her thigh highs. My own transformation was now complete as well, my below-the-waist turtle soon magically reinstated in an instant into a steel anaconda. (My apologies to National Geographic for the analogies.)

She kissed me softly on the cheek and rested her hand dangerously high on my own leg, the back of her palm grazing my erection for just a fleeting nanosecond, long enough to let me know it was not accidental, and brought the straw of my drink up to her lips, as her tongue snaked out of her mouth and extracted an ice cube from the bottom of the thick glass. She dangled it seductively and then pushed it between her lips and leaned over and slid it gently into my own mouth, our lips finally touching for the first time.

Pre-cum leaked and covered my cock tip in a slippery, thin glaze.

Not to be outdone, I reached into the glass and scoped out two amaretto-flavored ice cubes of my own, holding one in each hand. With the back of my palms, I eased Kate’s thighs apart, turning her stool towards me, which served the dual purpose of now having her back to most of the rest of the bar, her legs now hidden from direct view, much to the dismay of the collection of admirers scattered throughout the room.

I parted her legs wide enough to ascertain that she did indeed have panties on, and they were a light lavender hue and silky. I slid one ice cube along her thigh, starting at the top of her stocking and inching upward as she shuddered, biting her lip tersely to keep from crying out. On the other hand, I placed the rapidly melting cube flat on the palm of my hand. I took my index finger and slid her panties to the side, briefly exposing her slit, which I was somewhat surprised to see was covered by thick, dark, and robust curls of pubic hair, like a slit of steaming java. With my fingertip, I eased the cube directly onto her clit and closed the panties over the hub.

I half-expected to hear a squeal similar to that of a teapot boiling over as the cold ice mixed with the warm, sticky, humid molecules within her cunt to form vaginal steam, a meteorological phenomenon. Kate squirmed on her seat and groaned, softly, almost inaudibly, and her thighs clenched together as she rocked back and forth in her chair, the cold liquid streaming back down onto her inner thighs, and the veins in her neck clamped against her skin and her eyes rolled back into her forehead.

Mr. Ice Cube meets Ms. Mini-Orgasm. Pleased to meet you, Ms. ‘O’.

When Kate finally re-entered the earth’s atmosphere after her pussy’s brief departure into orgasmic Elysium, her blue eyes were still glassy, and her gaze was lubricious, prurient, salacious. “Jesus Christ, I had an intuition you would be a sexual freak. I may have met my match. Let’s go to dinner and use that as more foreplay before I jump on your big cock right here.”

We walked arm-in-arm to the front lobby while valet fetched my car, affording the lucky bastards who did not go for my vehicle to catch an eyeful as Kate clung on my elbow. While waiting, she nibbled on my ear, staining my lobe a ruby red, and whispered, “Do you know how much I masturbated these last two weeks, imagining my dream cock, yours, was filling all of my holes?” That sentence will undoubtedly keep and become indelible in a man’s memory.

I’ll fast forward a bit and just cover some of the highlights of the conversation at our romantic dinner because I don’t know about you, but at this point, I’m just about ready to wank off myself, and hopefully so are you, dear reader.

Kate revealed that although she had consistently tried to seduce her husband, they hadn’t had sex in six months because her husband “was clinically depressed and didn’t crave sex any longer.” Not to make light of a man’s depression, but do not want to fuck Kate every waking minute would be a reason for depression in and of itself. She also pledged that she wouldn’t shave her pussy until she had sex again, and that was why she packed a razor, shaving cream, and scissors in her travel bag, and asked me to do the honors in the morning. I’d be less than a gentleman if I declined, right?

Among other topics, we discussed her favorite position (“doggy, because it can get so deep”); where she preferred a man to cum (“on my face, and next, um, probably the streak of gray in my hair, it would blend in, and I could use the protein”); her most recurring fantasy (“to be gang banged on a beach under the moon and stars”); how she wanted to be fucked tonight (“hard, fast, and rough, all night, completely uninhibited”); her feelings about the dirty talk (“the filthier, the better, makes me soaked”); her thoughts about anal sex (“only tried it once, but tonight will make twice, I know you’ll know just what to do”); her dabbles in lesbianism two decades ago as a young fashion model in New York City (“I always wanted them to lick my pussy. First, I was kind of selfish that way”); and, last but not least, why she chose me to end her soon-to-expire sexual hiatus (“because you’re cute, smart, and I’ve always wanted a cock that huge”).

If this was Family Feud and Richard Dawson had been moderating, he would have lauded Kate for having all ‘number one’ answers.

Um, garcon? Check, por favor, ahora?

We finally reached the exit of the restaurant. We found ourselves immediately locked in a passionate embrace and kiss right on the vibrant sidewalk of Wisconsin Avenue, utterly oblivious to the passersby and their catcalls, our tongues dancing passionately into each other’s mouths, addicted to our sexual chemistry now, consumed by complete and unabashed lustful desire.

We stumbled and groped our way across the street and down the ramp of the parking garage to my car. Before I even slid Kate into the passenger seat, her skirt was bunched up to her waist. As she reached over to unlock my driver side door, she literally leaped across the divider and into my arms, stomach up, as I unbuttoned the remaining buttons of her satin, purple blouse and undid the clasp of her matching purple bra, exposing cocoa-colored nipples that were the shape and texture of Crayola crayon points. But infinitely more edible.

Her kisses were delectable, scrumptious, heavenly, exhilarating, serving as a magic elixir of life for my eternally hard cock. She frantically groped and squirmed for my cock, which was by now probably poking holes into her backbone. Still, I grabbed each of her wrists and led her own hands to my preferred destination, for the time being at least, one hand to match mine on her perfectly sized firm tits, and the other flicking her own clit while three of my fingers performed a spelunking exercise within her cunt walls.

Now, this next sentence is not at all meant to be self-aggrandizing. Still, I’ve had the pleasure over many years of having been with many beautiful and sexually expressive women, and the sensation that I experienced that night while exploring Kate’s pussy was something that has no basis for comparison.

Kate’s was the tightest, most talented, and expressive vagina that I had ever felt. Her vulva, or the ‘double doors’ as I call them, were softy distended and thick, mahogany brown, and velvety.

Yet, most exquisitely, the muscle tone within her walls was beyond compare. As three of my digits danced and explored within her, she rapidly contracted her muscles as forcefully as possible, literally clenching my fingers buried deep within her with a vice-like vaginal grip. Each time she released, the convulsion would be accompanied by a small spurt of liquid nectar, and her abdominal and buttock muscles would move in synchronicity with her cunt. I couldn’t wait any longer to get back to the hotel and feel this magnificent miracle of nature wrapped around my dick for the duration of the night and morning. I reluctantly pushed her up and started the ignition while Kate still writhed from the aftershock of one of her countless explosions. I watched, mesmerized, as her gaping cunt pulsed and gleaned when I extracted my saturated fingers.