Conclave by Clayton Stillwater

Author:Clayton Stillwater
Language: eng
Format: epub

Squeaky Clean

One night, I was walking past the Conclave Office when Russell Parker stepped out and flagged me down.

“Grant, would you mind delivering a message to the DuBois cottage?”

“Sure. No problem.”

I took the slip of paper and set off. I didn’t mind running the errand because I was curious about the DuBois place. Maurice DuBois was a local guy who became a lawyer in Chicago. I don’t know exactly what he specialized in, but whatever it was, it obviously paid well. He lived in one of the swanky Northshore suburbs, but just to show us what a bigshot he was he bought the old Hewlitt cottage, tore it down, and built something twice as big and grand to replace it. The Conclave Board was pissed, because it was wildly out of scale with the other cottages, and he didn’t bother to get permission. He told them to sue him if they didn’t like it, knowing full well that they wouldn’t do anything so rude.

I knocked on the door, and Jackie DuBois answered. Her face fell when she saw me. I handed her the note and scanned her body. She was short but well padded: big breasts, big thighs. Curly red-orange hair. Sexy outfit: a white dress barely longer than a T-shirt, and sporty gold sandals. She read the note, and her face darkened.

“It seems my asshole husband is stuck in the city and won’t be coming tonight.”

“That’s too bad,” I said politely. She wasn’t wearing a bra; I could see her nipples through the thin material.

“Too bad for me. It’s good for him. He can see his girlfriend.”

I didn’t know what to say. Family quarrels were none of my business. I turned to go, and she grabbed my arm. “You seem like a nice boy. How about a drink?”

That was another violation of Conclave rules. No alcohol on the grounds. But I was curious about the new cottage, so I let her drag me inside.

Jackie (she insisted I call her that, instead of Mrs. DuBois) seemed eager to chat. She was an outsider (from Grosse Pointe, no less) and this was her first time at the Conclave. She didn’t know anyone, and since Maurice DuBois was not exactly popular, people were not going out of their way to make friends.

I sat in a chair while she stood at the bar making drinks. In addition to good legs, she had a stunning ass. She brought me my drink, and sat down across from me and crossed her legs. Thanks to the shortness of her skirt, I got a pretty good view of her white panties. At first I politely looked away, but when she kept exposing herself I realized it was deliberate. She was flirting in retaliation for what she thought her husband was doing. OK by me. I sipped my Black Russian and enjoyed the show.

“Have you been to the Conclave before?” she asked.

“Every summer since I was born. My great-grandparents helped found it.”

“How come no one will talk to me?” she pouted .

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