On My Way Up

No, I didn't {touch} her. I didn't have to.

Gina was beside me when I got my Masters. And wearing my ring; she'd accepted my proposal that morning.

Best

Day

Ever.

In a quiet moment with the Dean at the post-convocation dinner, I asked if there would be an opportunity for my doing a doctorate. She said maybe, then, greed 'needles' quivering, mentioned casually that funding was down again that year. My offer to self-fund my research brought her out like a trout after a particularly juicy fly. Two years later, it was Dr Michael Paul Marks, PhD, magnum cum lade.

.

I'd had one scary moment, when an independent self-proclaimed hoax-buster announced that he could not duplicate my results. That charge whizzed around the halls of academia like a Roman candle. I was scheduled to do the talk show thing that week and the host, of course, ever-so-gently mentioned the challenge to my research. I smiled at the camera, told a little joke and suggested that the challenger's lukewarm results might have been due to my methods being a touch too complicated for him to understand.

After opening with that public slap to his intelligence, I immediately upped the ante by challenging him to an open trial. I would choose a pool of test subjects or, if he wished, he could. A third party of his choice would run memory tests before and after, but I would run the training. The results would be made public immediately on receipt.

He accepted - how could he not? And when U of C Berkley agreed to host the event, I knew I'd won. Amidst the shuffling of colored blocks, fluttering lights and memory exercises, I {worked} my subtle mind magic on the subjects. The results were front-page news in many places, with a measured 28% improvement in memory for the subjects. Victory was sweet...

.

Along the way, I wrote another book aimed at parents worried about their kids' school marks. Again, it was a rehash of a lot of existing books and recommendations, but even if you cut away the goo and gibberish, the 'preparatory advice' was solidly useful - get enough sleep, exercise regularly, do regular reviews of the material, start studying early and don't cram, work with a study partner and so forth. By this time, I wasn't worried that it wouldn't work. Of course it worked! And it sold, too. Heck, three states bought the book as a textbook and it got translated into seven different languages.

The book had a cover picture of Gina and I in Star Trek cosplay uniforms, wearing graduation mortarboard hats. I figured that something not-stuffy might broaden the sales appeal a bit.

And we took the photos at a convention, right? Gina was a dyed-in-the-wool Trekie and I'd bought her tickets for a Star Trek meet as a birthday present. She made the hottest Vulcan I'd ever seen. Between her figure, her smile and her essentially sprayed-on tunic and leggings, she had the immediate and full attention of every man in the hall. Including me, of course. It was a damned good thing I'd dressed in formal Vulcan robes; my reaction would've been pretty obvious in tights.

What was obvious in her costume was that there was nothing under that thin uniform but Gina. I never did see a camel-toe, but her nipples and shifting breasts had my rivetted attention. Not to mention that of every other man (and most of the women) in the place. It was more attention-getting than total nudity (and there was a fair bit of that around as well).

We wandered through the hall, chatting with a few people we knew, admiring other costumes and displays. A lot of people wanted our picture and it was hard to refuse. Some jerk tried to cut us down because real Vulcans don't hold hands. Gina leaned in and whispered something I didn't hear. Whatever it was, it worked. The kid turned scarlet and fled without a further word. Frankly, given the look on her face, I was surprised he hadn't wet himself.

The female is indeed the deadlier of the species...

At one photo stop, Gina insisted in standing right in front of me, with my arms around her. I was trying my best to look Vulcan serious when she started rubbing that delectable ass against my rock-hard erection. Lord, what a tease!

And she enjoyed it, knowing a) what she was doing to me and b) that I essentially had no way of teasing back. Such an amazing smile on her face!

No matter - I think my prolonged arousal turned her on. When we got back to the hotel room, she was all over me with something she termed a 'Vulcan body meld'.

She peeled out of her skin-tight costume in a flash - not difficult, considering - and pounced on me as soon as I'd shrugged off my robe. She pushed me onto my back on the bed and knelt on top of me.

"Pon farr is upon us, husband. Your labours have succeeded and it is now logical for your wife to please you."

Getting up, djr led me to the bath and gave me a quick, warm shower. Leaving me still slightly wet, she then led me back to the bed, which she covered with a light plastic sheet. After she laid me face-down on the bed, I could feel something warm being drizzled across my back and buttocks. When she started rubbing with her hands, it proved to be extraordinarily slippery - and there was a lot of it.

I turned my head to see Gina slathering clear goo from a bowl all over herself, like sunscreen. Seeing my gaze, she took extra time on her stunning boobs, lifting and bouncing them for me, a big grin on her face.

"Now how am I supposed to relax after that?" I smiled.

"Leave it to me, my lord," she smiled back. "I am confident that I can figure something out."

"What is it?"

"Nuru, my lord." With that, she was silent and I soon ceased to look for answers.

She began the massage by running her whole body over mine, rubbing her slippery body slowly, all the way from my heels to my neck. More and more of our bodies slid over and under each other, but it was the feeling of oily breasts working their way over my back that had me begin to breath differently.

She repeated that long, whole-body stroke over again, and again, perhaps half a dozen times. Then she repeated it with her bum, slowly sliding over me, with her strong hands hitting my softer tissue.

She then started working on my legs with hers. The hard bone of her shin rubbed deeply as it slid over my thighs.

She rolled over and slid over me on her back. It was a deeply relaxing motion, yet one I could feel it all the way down to my toes.

Gina helped me roll over and gave me a small sip of white wine (such planning on her part!) before starting all over again on my front. After slip-sliding up and down, dodging around what was now a record woody, she nudged my legs apart and sat between them before beginning to rub the soles of her feet over my chest. As she did so, I could feel her sleek thighs cradling, rubbing and squeezing my hardness between them and my abdomen.

Pulling back a bit towards my feet, she carefully but firmly began a foot-job, sliding my organ between her soles. From time to time, she paused and tickled my sack with her toes.

Throughout, she had the most loving smile on her face. As excited as I was becoming, I knew how lucky a man I really was with all that love, the warmth and generosity she was demonstrating.

Suddenly, she reversed, straddled me and resumed sliding her body along mine. Each time her face reached mine, she lingered for a sensual, loving kiss. Each time she paused, the kiss grew longer. Each time she moved back towards my feet, my stiffness was pushed backward, sandwiched between her buttocks. Each time she slid forward again, it slid between greased breasts, under her firm stomach and then between her labia.

Slowly, so very slowly, she teased and exhilarated at the same time, until I finally grasped her under her arms to keep her from sliding back down. My lips ground into hers and, apparently realizing that I would keep her up where she was, she reached for my hardness and, raising her hips slightly, aimed it at her warmth and slowly lowered herself onto me.

Worked up as I was, I knew it would not take me much time. Gina proved every bit as ready. In a few moments, she was bucking and thrashing over me to meet my upwards pounding. I couldn't help myself, grunting as a burning orgasm soared through my cock. Gina continued for just another moment before her cries stopped and she sagged against me.

My last thought before drifting off to sleep was my wondering if Mr Spock had ever been so rewarded for his successes...

* * * * *

Anyway, there I was at the grand old age of 29, a multimillionaire with a PhD in psychology, two international best-sellers to my name and a poker tournament named after me.

And Gina. Most importantly, I still had Gina. Mrs (she insisted) Sylla-Marks (I insisted) had a degree in civil engineering and an MBA. We made one hell of a team.

Had I ever told her? No, of course not. First off, would you believe someone, even your lover, mate and best friend, who told you that? Secondly, I was pretty sure that, even despite the limited and truly benign nature of the {changes} I'd made in her, she'd be seriously pissed if I had. Even more importantly (back to describing color to a blind person) I couldn't have explained it to her if I wanted to. There weren't the words.

.

Then there was the Institute. Unsurprisingly, it was mainly Gina's idea.

We picked a peaceful location just outside a small town named Cheshire. (Yeah, you recognize it now, but whoever heard of Rochester before the Mayo Clinic?) I liked small-town life, as did Gina. Costs were lower and I could see all kinds of possibilities.

I had to go out on a limb financially, but I was confident it would work out. If it came to that, I knew I could always win enough at the tables to pay off any operating losses. We billed it as a general health facility, featuring a small medical clinic with MDs, nurses, a physiotherapist, an occupational therapist and other support staff. There was a small psychology department (of course!) which did some therapy, both live-in and local. It also included a 'wellness spa', with personal trainers, a dietician, a masseuse, a gym and everything needed for guests to stay for up to two weeks before leaving feeling happier, leaner and more fit.

What? Well, hell yes, of course I {played} with their minds. Why not? The end results were real and most of them honestly left thinking it was the best money they'd ever spent, even if the methodology wasn't what they thought they saw. After a couple of years, we started running 'executive success' seminars as well, starting at $10K a pop for a weekend. They all left satisfied, too.

It was like a licence to print money.

I found myself the town's largest employer. Not only were a bunch of well-paid professionals moving into town, but the Institute needed everything from groundskeepers to secretaries to bookkeepers to janitors. We opened with 25 employees and soon were up to almost 40. A developer jumped at the need and broke ground for a new, high-end subdivision, which brought more jobs and more money to the local economy.

I won't say it wasn't work. It was hard work, far more than I had expected, but the Institute developed an enviable reputation not only locally, but nationally. We even started to get some referrals from overseas. And the money kept flying in. Gina's business smarts had us paying off our capital costs in just a couple of years.

The town schools and local youth groups learned that the Institute was generally a good touch to support special projects like camps, equipment drives and band road trips. We sponsored Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, Boys and Girls Clubs, 4H, Little League - you name it. I sponsored the high school debate team and {nudged} them into taking the state championship. We donated funds to put up basketball hoops on the local playgrounds and paid for a vacant-lot playground in one of the poorer neighbourhoods. Why not? The money was there and I could always get more. And I could {see} the improvements in the community.

I was proud of that.

What I wouldn't sponsor were cheerleaders or football teams. Lingering immature grudge, you say? Damn straight, Bubba. Basketball, yes. Tennis and badminton, yes. Even gymnastics. But I had my standards. Make a Boy Scout salute, turn it around. Now peel away the outside two fingers - no football.

I'd also joined the local social mafia - the Chamber of Commerce, Rotary, the local golf club and such. It was a way to meet more people and most of them turned out to be pretty nice. There were however some others...

One was a school principal with a tendency to get overly friendly with the female students. Nothing aggressive, nothing criminal, just a bit too close. A member of the town council with a teenage daughter mentioned his concerns to me over a drink one night and asked my insight as a shrink. I told him that I'd have a word with the principal. That one was easy; his borderline behaviour changed overnight and he became one of the best in the state. Word got around the PTA and won me the respect and gratitude of a number of parents. My drinking buddy wound up being elected as mayor a year later, which didn't do me any harm, either.

The second case was just bleak, the owner of a car dealership in the next county who had a triple-locked and soundproofed corner room in the dealership basement and a not-quite-foolproof way of disposing of body parts. Him I just stumbled over while idly {reading} people at the town fair. A few days later, I had to {ease} his maintenance manager's mind to help him sleep without nightmares. After all, it's distressing when you arrive to open up shop early one morning and find your boss has hanged himself in his office, leaving a six-page, hand-written confession on the desk. I wasn't overly proud of that one, but three families got some closure when the remains were located - and the air we all breathed got a little cleaner.

.

Gina was as pretty as ever and motherhood had left her absolutely radiant. She'd given me three kids when we were there - Emily, Peter and Gwen. I'd never realized how beautiful pregnant women can be.

Our love-making had grown less frantic, more gentle perhaps. It was, I suppose, more deeply satisfying, with none of the urgency we had had early on. That didn't mean things couldn't get frisky.

For our 15th anniversary, Gina booked us time in a resort in Sri Lanka. I didn't ask her how much it had cost, but as we walked in, the look of the place had me visualizing our bank manager rubbing his hands together.

We did the usual couple-on-vacation stuff - skin diving, sailing, fine dining, just vegging out on the beach. Whatever; it was a time to reconnect with each other, to re-establish our relationship. We made the most of it.

One of the perks the resort offered were classes on just about everything a bored vacationer could want. We were doing fine, but decided to sign up for a couples' class, which turned out to be one on sexuality.

I won't go into the details, but I eventually hired the couple running it out from under the resort. You can check them out on the syllabus on the Institute website. Suffice it to say that the seminar was aimed at reinvigorating 'married' sex, that loving, warm but perhaps not exciting sex couples wind up in after many years together.

No, it wasn't anything kinky. Rather, it focussed on the meditative and intimate aspects of lovemaking. Rather than aiming to quickly please each other, we learned - a bit - about how to prolong lovemaking, to increase the overall experience by focusing on the overall sensations.

The seminar lasted three days, about 12 hours per day start to finish. There were lectures and some classroom exercises, but all done with our clothes on. There were - of course - a couple of breaks each day for student couples to retire to their rooms and 'practise'. I can't speak for the other men there, but I needed them. I found that dropping orgasms as a goal enabled me - us - to have far more of them.

No, it wasn't at all the normal 'beast with two backs'. It was slow, very slow. I could spend close to two hours inside my love, both of us barely moving beyond kisses, nibbles and caresses. It was an amazing experience - in one sense not as exciting as some of our earlier lovemaking had been, but in another sense infinitely more bonding, more satisfying.

Once every few moments, I would give a long, slow stroke or she would clench her internal muscles. It was just enough to keep her wet and me hard. When orgasm is not an immediate goal, the entire experience changes. Tantric? I don't know, but the love seems to flow on forever. When she clenched, I could feel her entire depth. When I stroked, I concentrated on feeling the differing textures inside her as my head moved between her walls.

Our tortoise-speed lovemaking didn't stop us from keeping the other aroused. In spoon style, I could every so often feel her fingertips on my balls, stroking, rolling - nothing even close to enough to send me over, but more than enough to keep me entranced. In the same way, I kept my hands moving, caressing her skin. I kept my free hand on first one of her breasts, then the other, stroking and cupping them gently, periodically rolling and tugging on her nipples.

It was the most relaxing lovemaking I had ever experienced. And it was making love, for being loved was the principle feeling. Oh, the orgasms were amazing when we eventually decided to step up the rhythm, but it was a bonding thing as much as a physical thing. Love comes in many forms and that one was exquisite.

* * * * *

We'd settled into our new existence for a few years when my hunting-and-drinking-but-never-poker buddy the mayor was appointed by the governor to fill a sudden vacancy in the state senate. I was pleased for him - he was a straight-up guy with a sincere commitment to the people and a pretty decent vision of how to make life a little better. (No, I hadn't {touched} him. There are a lot of good people out there, always have been, I guess. The trick is identifying them.)

To my total surprise, he showed up in my office shortly before leaving for the capital with two prominent - and rival - members of the town council in tow. Like I've said, I can't read thoughts, just emotions. I could {see} that they were excited and happy when they walked in, but it came as a bolt out of the blue when he suggested that I'd be an ideal candidate to replace him and would I consider running for mayor that spring? When I asked the other two why they weren't running, they told me that the council had been notoriously gridlocked on political grounds and that, after a lot of talking, they'd decided some new blood might help. I could {see} that they meant it - looking around, they'd decided I'd be an ideal candidate. Wow. They said I was well-known, really popular, a successful businessman and respected scientist; I'd do well in politics.

To be honest, I'd never even thought about it.

* * * * *

My time as mayor was different, to be sure. Like most other people, I had cynically thought that the mayor and council held a couple of meetings a month, cut ribbons to open new bridges and spent the rest of their time chasing their secretaries and playing solitaire on their computers. I was surprised at how hard most politicians work. I spent more time behind a desk as mayor than I ever had doing post-grad studies or running a successful business.

Gina took over running the Institute. I still came in periodically to run the high-ticket seminars and 'encourage' the spa patrons, but she was The Boss. And made the profits increase still more.

But, while it was work, being mayor wasn't actually all that difficult. The town's economy had picked up, not only from the Institute, but also from other businesses which had decided to follow my lead into Cheshire. The tax base became so solid that I even managed to prune taxes a bit. OK, it helped that I was able to {discover} who in the town administrative offices was quietly siphoning off money through long-standing nepotistic service contracts. Their eight-year sentence was read out in court the same week the town controller announced a comfortable surplus for the first time in a decade. No irony, right? The voters loved me.