adventuresofpebblebeach

Here’s how the “The Adventures of Pebble Beach” starts…from page one! Enjoy!

Chapter 1

The Vice President of the Republic Group was grinding away, his red hot ramrod stuffed between Pebble Beach’s slim thighs. He was panting and puffing, and the sweat poured from his brow. He was an ugly, disgusting toad – the type of man Pebble would never have considered going to bed with. How she ended up here, with him deep inside her, was something she couldn’t quite figure out. She didn’t want to remember his face with the friendly eyes behind the toad-like grin or the idiotic sexist comments he was always making when he wasn’t pinching her ass or grabbing her tits.
How can I do it?
How can I sink so low?
What’s got into me anyway?
This isn’t like me at all.
Not at all.
Pebble Beach you see was a good, nice, honorable, hardworking woman.
This will surely screw up my career.
Nobody ever goes to bed with their boss and gets away with it, unless their brains are fluff and all they’ve got going for them is body. Of course this had to happen to Pebble just when everything was going great and she was finally making good money. Just like Pebble Beach.
No sense of proportion, my mother would say.
None whatsoever…
And a razzmatazz to you too!
If Pebble Beach could climax with the Vice President of the Republic Group, then she could climax with anybody, a dirty dog included. She thought he was making an awful lot of noise for a Vice President as he grabbed her tits.
Too hard!
Squeezing her nipples till they hurt. Of course that was when her cunt caught fire.
My nipples hurt!
Holy shit!
Suddenly she wanted it, too. Wanted it bad – and wanted him. Wanted him to come and wanted to come with him, no matter how toady-looking he was.
Who cares about his face anyway!
Or toads at this point in the game.
It’s his cock I want…
Cock, cock, cock….
Come on man, what d’ya waiting for kiddo!
She forgot the wart on his nose, too, and the fact that his name was Einar Bro. A name she considered quite idiotic, and especially considering the fact that she thought he was the most unattractive man she’d ever met in her life. Of course that was when one other minor detail popped up: Einar was her boss. She worked for the bloody toad. Or up until tonight, she did. You see, he’d invited her out for dinner, which had happened before, only before she’d been able to withstand his advances and talk about business, and stay cool. The Republic Group you understand was a booming Danish ad agency, skyrocketing right up to the clouds, and Pebble Beach was their star American copywriter. She knew the score and he knew the score and just about everybody else in the business knew it, too.
Einar needed her, he needed her smart, tight English copy to meet the growing demands of European companies scrambling to go international in the global marketplace of the 21st century. And Pebble, darling Pebble, was talented enough to deliver what Einar needed to keep those heavenly cash registers at Republic headquarters humming. And what’s more, Pebble mostly enjoyed knowing he knew.
Mostly, that is.
So even if he mostly really wanted to slip his hands under her sweater, he managed to control himself most of the time. She wasn’t that young either, but she was pretty. And most of the time, she did her level best to head him off.
At least until tonight.
Tonight, she failed miserably, and there he was grinding away while her cunt turned from lukewarm to red hot. She’d already forgotten the majestic room he took her to at the Hotel D’Angleterre.
How did I end up here?
Did I drink too much?
She couldn’t remember how she got from the bar to the room.
My mind’s a blank.
Look at that pretty ceiling, will ya?
What am I, some kind of bimbo?
I mean I’m supposed to be a woman with brains!
Brains, ya understand!
Not just some dumb cunt…
Her breathing quickened…
Oh God, dear God, if only his prick was a little longer and a little thicker, you know… wider…. more filling that is… a little more like Albert’s… just a little more… oh God, you understand what I mean, I mean… if only he wasn’t so short and fat… and had a little more muscle on his body… just a little more, it would make all this a lot more, well you know… fun, you know, and less embarrassing when I wake up later, oh God, can’t you move me a little closer, you know to the less cash/more dash department and pronto…
The trouble was, Pebble wanted his sweaty little piece of meat and wanted it bad. So bad that suddenly it didn’t matter anymore that he didn’t have broad shoulders like Albert and firm muscles and all that stuff that usually got her off… old Einar was grinding away… grinding and grinding and grinding. And no matter his title, face or stature, the old boy had finally reached Pebble’s sweet spot…
“Please,” Pebble was moaning, “please hurry up…” She almost forgot his name, her love juices gushing now, the tension building, the heat of her body booming.
Suddenly Pebble loved life, liked who she was, and thought Einar Bro, in spite of his face, his millions and his turdy title, had what it takes. He had that mysterious piece of meat she loved and dreamed of and, “Oh God Einar, now,” but Einar had broken his rhythm, which was the rhythm of life itself, the rhythm she loved so much, to put his ravenous mouth to one of her taunt nipples…
Which was when or why Pebble Beach woke up, all alone in her bed, bathed in sweat – a dream of an orgasm only an inch away.
God, the sweetness of sex!
And not wasting time to analyze the bed-partner of her dream, Pebble finished off the job herself, groaning loudly in her empty bed.
Hope to God Adam and Jon are sleeping soundly tonight… Adam and Jon were her kids, you see. Pebble being a single parent.
When it was over, she just lay there, stoned on comfort.
Am I ever going to grow up?
You see, Pebble Beach was not newly-wed, but newly-divorced and not as gorgeous as she used to be. She was also more than a bit over 40, and all alone in her bed in Copenhagen, Denmark, of all places.
Pebble Beach, or Pebble, as they sometimes call her, was, or is, as you may have guessed, the name of your average insecure woman in her 40s. You’ll find her living in most big cities around the world today, and since she was born during the 60s, she’s probably something like 43 today, or God forbid, 45. She wasn’t a knock-out either, not in any language. But somehow, with a little help from Lancôme, a decent haircut, and some color out of a tube, she occasionally got away with being sensational.
Especially if the lighting’s right kiddo – or the party’s getting on… either age-wise or booze-wise!
Well at least I’m being honest with myself.
Pebble was sitting up in her empty bed now, holding her head, looking around her dark, empty bedroom; still hoping that maybe she’d find a man tucked away somewhere.
It sure is awful being lonely.
Why did I have to fall in love with a man who lives so far away? I could’ve just as well picked the accountant down the street for all the fun I’m having…
But she laughed anyway, having just divorced her husband, and pushed her newly-highlighted hair back from her forehead. And being almost brave, she didn’t cry. After all, what would have been the point? She’d just given herself one damned good orgasm, considering she was all alone, and she figured, all things being equal, good orgasms never hurt.