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For Services Rendered

By: JohnRussell



Please do not copy or repost without the authors permission.

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It was 4:55PM on a Friday afternoon when the phone rang on Bob Prescott's desk. He considered letting the machine pick it up, he was just preparing to walk out the door and enjoy a quiet dinner alone at his favorite steakhouse. But on the third ring he thought better of it and lifted the receiver, "Prescott NetWorx, this is Bob."

"Oh! Uh, hi, my name is, uh, Jennie Sands. Your company does websites for businesses?" asked the timid female voice on the other end of the line.

"Correct," replied Bob. In fact Bob had managed to make quite a comfortable living for himself managing websites and networks for several large local businesses ... it was a decent living, and provided him with the luxury of working from home. "Is your company seeking to establish a web presence?"

"It's not so much a company as, like, a work-from-home kind of business," the voice said, sounding rather timid and inexperienced. Bob had heard this kind of voice plenty of times, it was usually people who had no idea of the costs necessary to start up a REAL business, and they always balked at his rates. He really SHOULD have let the machine pick it up.

"Well Jennie, I'm sure you can find yourself a free hosting provider online who can handle your business ... We generally only handle larger corporate accounts," Bob offered, and was about to hang up when the voice took on a tone of desperation.

"Please, um, Bob is it? I don't know anything about this online stuff and I REALLY need to get this website up quick, can I at least meet with you and see if we can't work something out?" Something in her pleading tone sounded incredibly sexy to Bob, and he allowed his single male mind to override his business mind for a moment.

"I'm about to leave the office for the night," he said, hearing an exasperated sigh before he continued, "but if you want to discuss it over dinner, I'll be at the Silverado steakhouse at 6PM." The ball was in her court now, and hell, even if she was 70 years old or butt-ugly, at least he'd have some company at dinner for a change.

"Oh! I, um, have to meet with a client myself first, can we possibly make it at eight?" she inquired. No, she's definitely not 70 years old ... and she doesn't sound butt-ugly, Bob mused. 

"Ok, eight o'clock it is. When you get there, just ask the hostess to take you to Booth 17." Bob was a creature of habit (and an excellent tipper), and the staff at the Silverado knew it. Booth 17 was always prepared and ready for him at 6PM on Fridays. It was in the far corner and offered him a commanding view of the entire restaurant (not to mention its very attractive wait staff). He called the Silverado and asked Holly the hostess to change his usual reservation from six to eight o'clock for tonight, and have the booth set for two. Holly gave him some good-natured teasing about having a "hot date", and assured him all would be taken care of.

Bob arrived at the restaurant promptly at 7:50, dressed sharply in a crisp white shirt, black pants and colorful tie. This was not unusual, he always dressed up a bit to go to the Silverado. It was his weekly "treat" for himself, a nice atmosphere and a good steak dinner as reward for the week's work. He looked as if he could own the place, his 6'4" frame was maybe just a little round in the middle (probably from all those steak dinners, but he wasn't about to give them up), but he was certainly a handsome man, with short dark hair and piercing grey eyes. However, being 42 and single, and keeping odd hours at his home office (he always did his best work late at night), he didn't get out much, and he always looked forward to Fridays at the Silverado. He weaved his somewhat imposing figure through the tangle of people waiting in the front of the restaurant to the hostess stand, where Holly greeted him with a warm smile. 

Holly was a sharp little blonde (Bob always found that contradiction in terms amusing), always to be found at the Hostess stand on Fridays, where she kept the crowds moving in and out swiftly and efficiently. Unlike the wait staff who had to wear the required uniform, as hostess Holly had more wardrobe freedom, and tonight it was the classic "little black dress", the kind where you were sure if she bent over, her ass would pop out of the bottom, her breasts would pop out of the top, or more likely both. There was a persistent rumour around town that job applicants for the Silverado were required to submit full length photos with their applications, and indeed every one of the hostesses and wait staff looked like they could do runway modeling in their spare time. This was another reason Bob liked to treat himself to dinner here.

Holly WAS sharp, and knew that Bob would show up 10 minutes early (he always did) and had made sure the booth would be prepared in time. She looked around as Bob approached through the crowd. "Where's your guest, Bob?" She seemed eager to meet Bob's "hot date", and in fact she was. She had always wondered why someone like Bob was always eating alone, he was a nice guy (although way too old for HER of course), and she was curious to meet his "catch". Or maybe it was just a male friend? She hadn't thought of that... but Bob never seemed to bring any male friends out to dinner with him either.

"She'll be arriving shortly ... she knows to ask for my booth," replied Bob, confirming Holly's suspicions as he followed her shapely and barely-covered ass to the corner table, smiling inwardly at the chagrined looks from the crowd, some of which had been waiting close to an hour for a table only to see him whisked immediately to a preferred booth. Should've made reservations, suckers.

The two were met at the booth by Sara, one of the wait staff. Sara was a fiery redhead who was already carrying Bob's drink (a tall vodka and cranberry), and a large Shrimp Cocktail, his preferred appetizer. She sidled into the booth next to him, giving him an exquisite view inside the silver button-down shirt which was part of the Silverado's waitress uniform. Bob noticed it was unbuttoned three buttons down, and wondered idly if that too was part of the "uniform" requirements, but at the moment wasn't overly concerned, he knew Sara at least was always unbuttoned enough to leave no question as to the color of her lingerie (today was hunter green) when she sat next to him to take his order. This part of the job was NOT customary, but Sara was no dummy, she knew Bob was always good for a $50 tab and a 30% tip, so she didn't mind making him feel as welcome as possible, and always made sure she worked the Smoking section on Friday nights so she'd be sure to get his table. "What's it gonna be tonight, Bob?" She hadn't offered a menu, but they both knew he didn't need one.

"Nothing just yet," said Bob, indicating the second place setting at the table. "I'll wait til my guest arrives, and she'll need a menu I think." Sara perked noticeably at the mention of a "she" guest as well, and Bob did not fail to notice the swell of her chest as she did so. 

Mentally computing the size of the tip on a double bill at Bob's table, she made sure to lean towards him as she slid out of the booth, her shirt flapping almost obscenely open in front of him. "Alrighty then, you know if you need anything, it's already on its way. I'll come back when your company arrives," and left him with a wink and a flare of short ruffled skirt as she turned to go.

Bob took his time with his appetizer, checking his watch as it ticked by 8PM, 8:15, 8:30 ... he was about to call Sara over to place his order alone when Holly approached with another young woman in tow. Dumbstruck he dropped his last shrimp into his cocktail sauce, nearly splattering his white shirt.

The girl on the phone had said she was coming form a business meeting, but she looked more like she was ready for a night at the club. She was a full head shorter than Holly, about 5'2", and her straight blond hair trailed midway down her backless and midriff-baring red halter top. She wore painted-on white hot pants that made it clear to anyone observant (and Bob certainly was) that she couldn't possibly be wearing panties beneath. The rhinestone stud in her pierced navel glinted from the spotlight over the table.

Bob stood from the booth carefully, hoping to avoid any attention to his instantaneous erection. "You must be Jennie?" he stammered. "I'm Bob Prescott," he managed to say, extending his hand.

The blond took his hand rather awkwardly, shaking it timidly. "Yes, I'm Jennie Smith. I'm SO sorry for keeping you waiting so long, but, um, my appointment ran longer than expected."

No problem, thought Bob ... no problem at ALL. "Please, have a seat, and we can get dinner started and discuss business." He wondered exactly what kind of business Jennie Smith could be starting, but figured he would find out soon enough.

No sooner had Holly disappeared from the table than Sara was there with a fresh drink for Bob and a menu for Jennie. She took Jennie's drink order ("Just a Coke please, I'm not 21 yet") and whisked away immediately to get it, forgoing the witty repartee with Bob but being sure to stop for an animated discussion with Holly on the side before returning with the drink and to take their dinner orders.

Once dinner had been ordered, Bob figured it was up to him to begin the negotiations. "So Jennie, you're needing web design work?"

"Yes," replied Jennie, "and I know absolutely nothing about domains or hosting or email or any of that stuff, I just got a computer for my birthday last month and I can barely get it to do anything." 

Oh God, thought Bob, this is going to be even worse than I thought. Why did I let myself get talked into even having this meeting? One glance up from his drink answered his question as his cock gave a lurch admiring the girl's smooth flat tan tummy and barely contained breasts, which he now also noticed were braless and at erect attention. "And what kind of business is it that you're starting up?"

At this question Jennie's tan features turned a distinct shade of pink. "Well, um, I guess you could say its, like, entertainment? It's kind of like, umm ..." she faltered, then leaned forward and whispered in a much lower tone, "I'm a freelance escort for discreet gentlemen who desire companionship." Bob could tell from the way the large words rolled effortlessly from her mouth as opposed to her previous speech that that particular line was well-rehearsed.

Well, this explained the outfit and the "business appointment" ... Bob found his mind reeling as he considered the fact that she had just made him wait two hours for dinner so she could go fuck some stranger for money, and that she rushed straight from getting her pussy plowed to grab dinner with him. The next question popped out of his mouth without thinking, "And how much do you charge for your, um, services?"

At this she turned an even darker shade of pink. "Well, um, it depends on what kind of appointment it is, but, well, my rates usually start at like $200 an hour."

"And you want to advertise your services on a website?"

"Well, I thought I could, like, get more customers maybe if they were able to like find me online and stuff." She replied rather meekly.

Being an older, single man, Bob was aware of exactly the kind of websites where escorts could be found, and had even availed himself of their services form time to time. But never had he encountered one quite so young or quite so stunningly attractive as the one he was now having dinner with. Because of this, however, he also knew that these girls were often desperate for money as well, and once again the business side of his brain kicked in and reminded him there was no way this girl could possibly afford his services. He remembered the site he had found his last "companion" at, a local site where all the "working" girls in town had listings, and gave Jennie the name.

"Oh, I've heard of them," she replied. "I used to babysit for one of their girls when she had, um, appointments ... she's the one who suggested I might be able to make some extra money this way. But when I talked to the lady that ran the site, she wanted like $200 a month just to put my picture up there and then wanted another $50 for every booking I got through their site! I don't really have enough, er, customers yet to afford that, and I really don't know if I want to pay that much of my money to someone who isn't even doing anything to help me, I mean, I'd just be another picture with all those other girls, right? And I thought maybe something that was just my own would be better." The long ramble seemed to leave her thirsty, as she then quickly drained her Coke. Sara was on the spot with another one, and tried to linger to catch some of the table conversation, but both Bob and Jennie remained silent until she left somewhat frustrated.

"Well, did you call anyone else to inquire about rates? My design services are not cheap, which is why I have mostly larger corporate clients." Bob was trying to let her down easy. His rates for web design started at $200 an HOUR, not $200 a month ... much the same as her own, he realized.

At this the blond slumped a bit in her seat, rather crestfallen. "I called a few other places, but none of them would handle, like, an adult kind of business. But I really need to get a website up because I don't have , like, any regular customers yet, you know? It's only people who, you know, heard about me, like from one of their friends. I only have a couple appointments a month, and that's not even enough to cover my rent and school stuff, so I've been having to work at the convenience store on the midnight shift to over the rest, and I like totally hate that fucking job and I want to do this full time so I can have spending money and like, time for myself. And the new semester starts in like two weeks and I don't have money for books or anything yet."

Bob took this all in as he watched the girls chest heaving with her deep breaths, the nipples poking out like pencil erasers (now that she mentioned school, the analogy came to him), her doe eyes pleading silently as her full lips rambled. His erection threatened to tear a hole in his pants. He composed himself, and thought long and hard before replying, his words chosen very carefully. 

"Well Jennie, my web design rates also happen to start at $200 an hour." Her hopeful, pleading look changed instantly to one of utter defeat, and she was about to stammer out an apology for wasting his time when he continued. "But clearly you don't have that to offer. However, you DO have something to offer of equal value, don't you?" He allowed this last bit to sink in, watching as the blond puzzled it out in her mind.

"So you're saying, like, maybe we could, um, trade?" she looked at him rather wide-eyed, not sure if that's what he was implying or not, but sincerely hoping it was ... it wouldn't cost her anything then but her time, and she wouldn't have to give anyone any of the money she made from her other clients.

"Yes, Jennie, I'm saying we could arrange a trade. Many businesses make arrangements like that, where it saves both businesses money because they both have something the other needs, it's like the old barter system. You've heard the old saying, 'An eye for an eye?' I'm proposing an hour for an hour. For each hour of work I spend designing your website or teaching you how to use it, you could pay me not in money but with an hour of your 'appointment' time." Now that he had said it and laid the offer flat out on the table, he realized how ridiculous he sounded. But a look at the girl's face also told him that it just might work. He began once again to think about the barely clothed body sitting across from him, and how it would look naked and impaled on his now throbbing and leaking prick.

"Wow, you'd really do that for me?" Jennie's eyes were now lit up like Times Square.

"Yes," said Bob noticing that he was somewhat short of breath and his voice had deepened considerably, "I would be willing to do that for you, Jennie."

"That is like SO totally awesome!" she squealed, turning the heads of several neighboring tables as well as Sara who was on her way with the dinner plates just in time to see Jennie leap up and lean over the table to plant a lipstick-laden kiss on Bob Prescott's cheek, wrapping her arms around his shoulders..

Sara had to clear her throat to get their attention. Jennie startled and quickly sat back down, her face passing right by pink and turning deep red in embarrassment noticing all the people staring. Sara placed the plates down in front of them and gave Bob a great view and then a snide wink. "I hope the dinner is as 'totally awesome' as whatever you just said to her, Bob," she winked as she went to retrieve another round of drink refills. Jennie continued to blush scarlet.

"If it's as awesome as the server and the service, I'm sure we'll be delighted," Bob quipped, eliciting a giggle form Sara and putting Jennie a bit more at ease. They proceeded to eat dinner at a leisurely pace, now that the "negotiations" had taken place and concluded successfully. It wasn't until they were sharing a huge slice of chocolate mousse cake that Jennie returned to the subject of their meeting.

"So, like, how soon could we get the website up do you think?" she asked, her eagerness and nervousness again beginning to show.

"Well, I'm not adverse to working weekends," Bob mused, "but we'll need to go over what exactly you're going to want to post online ... Rates and contact information I assume, but if you really want to 'sell the product', so to speak, you'll need pictures too. Do you have any already shot?" he asked, already anticipating the answer.

"Ohmigod, no, I like, never even thought of that, shit!" The doe eyes were back, and she was a deer in the headlights. "I don't have ANYthing at all really ... do you do stuff like that too?"

"As a matter of fact I do, I often have to take pictures of various products for the company websites I maintain, so my spare bedroom is a makeshift photo studio, with all the lighting and stuff I need. I imagine if I can make an antique lamp look sexy, I can do pretty well with you," he winked.

"And I could, like, trade for the pictures the same way?"

"We can discuss that when the time comes, but I'm sure we can work out something acceptable."

"How soon?"

"Well, if you can come by tomorrow afternoon for the photo shoot we can have your site up and running by Monday."

"Ohmigod, you're like, my HERO!" she squealed, reaching over to kiss him again, leaving a matching lipstick mark on his other cheek and almost dipping her ample 34C chest in the chocolate mousse cake, again drawing the attention of several other diners.

Bob's cock was threatening to lift the table off the floor. He knew that setting up the website would take four or five hours solid work, and the girl's kiss and the softness of her body against his, even in this awkward position, had his mind racing with the dirtiest kind of thoughts about how he would be extracting his "payment". He again let his lower brain take over as he asked, "Do you think you have time to make a 'down payment' tonight? It's going to be a busy weekend for both of us."

"Oh, you mean like, now?" she looked a bit distressed, and Bob just knew in his mind that now that it came down to it, she was going to balk. He sighed as his fantasies of having his way with the tasty morsel across the booth from him evaporated away. Then Jennie perked back up and said, "Well, I was supposed to hang out with my friends Missy and April tonight, we were gonna try and sneak in to one of the bars where like, Missy knows this bouncer, I think she like gives him blowjobs in the back or something. But I can tell them I have work to do and can't make it. Cause this is like, work right?"


For Services Rendered



Ransome Farrell easily convinced Ingrid she needed accompanying him up to the Falls. Beyond shocking him, she agreed faster than he suggested it. 

Farrell wondered whether she could ever be thrown off kilter. Ingrid was the coolest customer he'd met. And after one month of almost exclusive dating on his part, Farrell truly believed he'd meet no one else who'd ever occupy that spot. 

She staked him during their first day in some grind class. That both college juniors regarded this course as GPA filler pleased him immensely. 

Ingrid made all the advances, which strangely flattered him. Light complexioned, freckled, her 20-year-old curves emphasizing femininity, wildly flowing wheat-colored hair, Ingrid wasn't the sort of female he considered his "type." Farrell gravitated towards Mexicanas. The browner the skin, the more mink-like the hair, the better. All that, and they had to be lively. Exude heat, too.

Ingrid issued cool. If not by touch, then certainly attitudinally. Frankly, Ingrid wasn't the sort of woman he chased, but her short pursuit intrigued him. 

Both lived on campus long before dormitories were reformatted into suites or modules. She stayed in one of the older North Drive residences. In fact a little more than a decade separated setting the last cornerstone from territorial days. Three sturdy structures hunkered along that campus drive. 

Three coeds shared common rooms. Or precisely three women made do with three desks, chairs, whatever storage fit and a daybed. At night they repaired to barracks-style bedding. 

Primitive and impersonal as conditions were remembered decades later, the configuration created readily available fuck-spots. Those untended common rooms promoted rampant promiscuity. 

Long before he and Ingrid began their Mystery Dances, Farrell was familiar with North Drive daybed mattresses. During his previous four semesters, Farrell had dipped his dick in each building.

He'd witnessed the elaborate codes girls went through securing anticipated balling. Watching these preparations verged on laughable conspiracies. Give him the universal guys' signal: tie around doorknob or pilfered "occupado" tag on same. 

Never mattered what common room based which female trio, the disparate girls always maintained one trait: they kept their lairs museum-quality tidy. They smelled better than most men's rooms, too! 

The two qualities amazed him. Three guys quartered in the same space would've formed a jungle. 

Clashing females aside, women maintained one constant. Prominent reminders of home. Hard pressed as Farrell would've been locating such mementos in a male dorm room, including his own, women formed genealogical shrines. How many forever grinning grandparents, proud mothers, beaming fathers, smirking siblings -- pets even! -- had watched his bare ass humping their grandchildren, daughters, or sisters? 

Farrell realized these performances his closest to ever fucking on any stadium 50-yard line.

Until mid-October their American Southwest college town sizzled on the desert griddle. Fortunately, there were two nearby aquatic respites: the Sweetwater Tubs and the Falls. The former were aboveground redwood Jacuzzis sprinkled throughout scrubland far from casual eyes or sensitive ears. Nighttime desert air amplified women's squeals especially well. Easterners and other greenhorns preferred the Sweetwater Tubs. 

The Falls refreshed those ramping hills northeast of town. There the less bashful skinny-dipped in and frolicked under winter runoff greening an awfully narrow strip threading down the mountain. 

Mostly buckle-bunnies and rednecks flocked to the Falls. Few out-of-state collegians dared reveal themselves to the anonymous appraisal of indiscriminate eyes. After two years Ingrid was one of the rare city-bred girls who'd accompanied him. "Cultivated" women were leery, while senoritas mistook such flesh flaunting as sinful. Not that the latter minded fucking under blue sky. Escorted into secluded spots or the Tubs their brown bodies ached and writhed with hardwired feral delight. However, more than one set of eyes observing their unbridled exaltations either intimidated or embarrassed las muchachas. 

Farrell blamed catechism taken too seriously. 

Sane couples visited the Falls at day. Those hardy few nighttime adventurers risked disturbing mountain cats or coyotes hunting easy prey slaking its thirst. 

That first afternoon there Ingrid disrobed as if the few other bathers also playing hooky from real life cavorted behind screens instead of unabashed view. Desert sun brushed her skin. Fair as she was, tan gradients darkening her face and limbs weren't jarring. Long strong sun left its effects but hadn't striped Ingrid lobster and ghostly. 

Presented such clarity, they stared at another for the longest instance. Sunlight emphasized her small nipples shy mauve crowns as well as her bow lips. Pure nakedness gave Ingrid a more solid appearance. 

Her own glance drank in his tawny boldness. Always lean, Farrell was now cut, hardened by an obligatory summer humping at boot camp. Despite the new manliness, he felt no different. Yet something about his posture, his demeanor, both he heard improved, someone who returned less angry, more crafty, changed others' perception of him. 

Somehow Farrell knew that had he met Ingrid last semester, squired her to the Falls then, she would be nowhere near as enthralled. She started slightly when his fingers clasped hers. More than his presence, Farrell's touch conveyed strength.

Having chilled under the Falls, they walked off the shock. Steps led around rock outcroppings then behind dense blue palo verde which revived purpose and imaginations. 

He spread what he could of their blanket, rolling the remnant against the rocky concave. The pair's boots thudded dully while the few clothes they'd worn muffled into quick silence upon dusty leather. Farrell followed her recline. The subsequent embraces and kisses were hotter than the day itself. 

His hands found Ingrid's hair still damp. A disturbed nest framed her face. Water wicked from his high and tight, Farrell's new hairstyle from basic. By touch no one never would've known he'd been drenched under the Falls. 

The course muff between Ingrid's thighs revealed its secret beneath his steady fingering. Once her dew slicked his fingertips, Farrell trailed kisses from her lips down her torso where light musk mingled among those curls. He tongued Ingrid until her sex blossomed into tender glistening ruffles. 

Again, willingly surrendering to the moment he'd conjured, she seemingly forgot Farrell was there. Ingrid's hips rocked to singular beats. She kneaded her own breasts and gnawed her lips deeper pink. Good that her eyelids were closed because he doubted she clearly saw anyway. 

Farrell's raging boner demanded satisfaction. He rolled onto her body. Ingrid's legs instinctively opened, rose, hips adjusting for his bulk, its anticipated lovely violence. Each moaned with his first stroke. She spoke. As always. He didn't understand the utterances summoned. Again, as always. Nor would he ever. Doing so would've required a lifetime. Their togetherness was already measured. 

The warder awoke him during the middle of sexual frenzy. 

The dim Buenos Aires holding cell was bad reality. Overnight Farrell's back had tightened on the unforgiving steel bench, a pointed reminder his body closer to 50 than 20. He'd rested his head upon shoes covered by dress shirt. An a-shirt served as layer between metal and flesh. Tying his shoes made him wish he'd worn loafers. 

Farrell and Mick, who mirrored how he felt, trudged behind the warder. Along this desultory walk, Mick quizzed Farrell. 

"Say, er, you were doing all kinds of twisting and turning. Bad dreams?" 

"I was thinking of the one that got away." 

Surprised, Mick asked, "You fish!?" 

The turnkey led them through the precinct's least populated warrens where they were remanded into an office. The door nameplate read "Captain Stinelli." Ordered to sit, they sat in supple leather. Shortly thereafter the captain joined them.

Stinelli was too well-groomed and too well-dressed for a cop. His complexion radiated spa treatments, his hair barbered near perfection, fingernails not only clipped but buffed, while his suit might've been an Argentine knockoff, it was an expertly tailored copy of expensive Italian rig. No need to study Stinelli's feet. Farrell expected he wore thin-soled shoes with buttery uppers. Even without moldering his two visitors would've been raggedly in comparison. 

The captain alighted behind his desk and smiled. Bright teeth darkened his smooth face. He inquired whether they'd eaten. Farrell's "no" genuinely dismayed him. Stinelli reached for his phone, cooed commands then rested the receiver in its cradle. Heaven and earth moved, he smiled once again. 

Stinelli spoke. Farrell translated his Spanish for Mick. 

"Gentlemen, contrary to appearances you're not under arrest. I don't know how you came to be in that apartment -- and now no one really cares." Specifically addressing Farrell, Stinelli said, "By the way a mutual friend of ours in the Foreign Ministry alerted me about you. Particularly your situation. There won't be any official public thanks, but it's in our nature to demonstrate great appreciation for such immense favors. You understand?" 

Farrell nodded. Knuckles rapped the office door. Stinelli bade entry. Lovely, dark, ripe, exceeding her blouse's and skirt's stitching while tottering on heels better suited for nightclubbing, a secretary entered bearing a tray larded with coffee pot, cups and a plate heaped with medialunas. 

The gracious officer holding the door leered. Her skirt's tightness forced an awkward curtsy when she set the rattling goods on Stinelli's desk. The farther she bent the clearer the outline of her lacy tanga. Mick winked at Farrell. After she minced out, Stinelli insisted his guests partake. Ravenously they fell on the food and drink. Stronger than he liked, Farrell nonetheless gulped his coffee while Stinelli continued. 

"Both criminals are in custody. The one you so kindly apprehended quickly surrendered his surviving partner." 

"No doubt owing to persuasive police questioning," Farrell said. 

Stinelli shrugged. "Methods aren't as hamstrung here as in America. All those rules! How does anybody get anything done there?" 

Farrell said, "It's like kabuki." 

Whether he grasped the Japanese stage manner or not, Stinelli nodded. "Both criminals have been quite forthcoming. Volumes and volumes. A lot of open cases will be closed before this day ends. To you our gratitude will be limitless." 

Stinelli opened his desk top drawer. Out came their passports. He placed the identities before them. Swallowing the last of their coffee and swiping pastry for the road, Farrell and Mick collected their get out of jail cards then skedaddled. 

Despite only having been "detainees," immersion into early afternoon sun awarded Farrell a fuller sense of freedom. Vacant taxis idled along a nearby curb. They strolled towards the rank's first. 

"When that copper said no limits on Argie thanks, what do you think he meant?" Mick asked.

Farrell snorted. "In your case severe reductions in mordita and more mamacitas." 

The ride delivered Mick first. Their handshake was firm and Farrell's thanks wasn't profuse though honest. Mick accepted the latter with manly modesty. 

"I owe you a beer," Farrell said.

Grinning, Mick answered, "You owe me a lot of beers!"

Returned to his own apartment, Farrell stripped then stood under the shower, as scalding as he could endure. Not so much to scour away "jail," but to loosen his back. 

He toweled off and skipped a necessary shave for slumber. Overcome by exhaustion, this bed swaddled him with the sort of heavenly comfort he'd once ascribed to his old service racks after field maneuvers or deployments. 

A ringing phone jarred him into bedroom shadows. The bedside clock showed he'd drifted through hours of serious sleep. Farrell answered his phone. Chipper, well-rested, Adriana. She called just to ascertain a few things. Easter Weekend so long, had he forgotten her? More importantly, did he still want her? 

He noted she hadn't yet matured enough to fully cloak insecurity behind the requisite mask of female indifference. 

Farrell lied about the first, made up for it through the second. Adriana, her routine, would resume in two hours or less. Before hanging up, he asked her to run an errand. Fortunately for Farrell, he resided near one of Buenos Aires rare 24-hour apothecaries. 

Two hours later Adriana hovered over him. Darker. Farrell wondered how many hours hadn't she spent on the beach. He couldn't wait to lick her tan lines. But first the ministering he required.

Adriana had fetched liniment for him. Although prolonged showering had loosened him, sleep had undone those benefits. Farrell rolled onto his stomach. His folded arms mashed stacked pillows and cushioned his chin. 

Adriana rubbed heat-seeping cream from Farrell's shoulders to his buttocks. She massaged gently though thoroughly. Perhaps it was his imagination, but Farrell thought Adriana exercised peculiar intensity among his hindquarters. Fingers in these masses soothed extremely well. Not only did he feel himself getting hard, but his balls started tightening. 

Despite inciting his manhood, her actions nevertheless made him doze. Before succumbing entirely, Farrell forgot any guilt about lack of inquiry concerning her Easter Weekend. 

Autera phoned him the first week of April. Usually Farrell initiated contact. Rather than their accustomed rendezvous in San Telmo, Autera chose a Calle Paraguay café. Unlike the San Telmo spot's decidedly relaxed environment, the new choice aptly mirrored its Microcentro pulse. 

In these dense Buenos Aires blocks business crushed gentility. If it weren't for street corner empanada vendors, North Americans could've been excused for believing themselves in any big Stateside city. 

Hulking structures above squeezed foot and vehicular traffic jams below. From ground level window fronts familiar international retailers appealed to common vanity. No boutique hotels charmed here, but impersonal hoteliers geared towards expense account travelers. 

Despite the glorious afternoon, shawls or sweaters covered apparently more anemic Porteñas' shapely shoulders. The early autumn date aside, the season pushed its transformation. Dead leaves increasingly scattered underfoot. Evenings, chill teased bare skin. 

Though they sat in sunshine, Autera kept on his suit jacket. The unassuming civil servant announced delivery of good news. Autera sipped Malbec. Farrell drank beer. 

"No doubt you have been watching or reading about the magnificent art recoveries the police have made," Autera stated.

Farrell smirked. "Sure have. La policia are outright gangbusters. I bet the collectors are astounded." 

Dropping into confidentially, Autera said, "What hasn't been released yet is the provenance of certain works." 

Instantly piqued, Farrell nodded for him to continued.

"There are owners, then there were rightful owners. Many of the recovered pieces are on the plundered art registry." 

In post-World War II confusion numerous antiquities and canvasses stolen by Nazis simply vanished. Some the war consumed. Others joined secret collections. Only within the last decade had the art community begun concerted efforts to unearth and repatriate such booty to its true owners, their successors or claimant nations. 

"I guess some of those Rat Line transplants arrived carrying more than desires of burying their old lives," Farrell suggested. 

Autera smirked at the other's impishness. A consequence of the war, the Rat Line funneled Nazis out of allied conquered occupied Europe. The escape network routed highly-sought axis officers and officials into the Middle East and throughout South America. Particularly in Argentina. A distinction the Argentines imperfectly disdained. Evading justice, or as the absconders saw it, victors' vengeance, they secreted themselves in remote areas or adopted rigorous public virtue. 

"Perhaps you are correct, Senor Farrell. Nonetheless the sudden discoveries will honor our proud country. It's just the sort of, how you say, polish, Argentina deserves." 

"Good for Argentina," Farrell said, "but how did you get those shady owners to relinquish their claims?" 

Indignant, Autera said, "The Republic of Argentina is a democracy! We gave them a choice! Either receive notoriety or accept generous thanks!"

Farrell laughed. "Well. When you put it like that ..." 

"And now a token of our thanks to you, senor." Autera reached into his suit jacket and presented one purple and gold embossed Argentine passport. He slid the document toward Farrell. Skeptically the American opened it. Scanning what proved one quite legitimate identification he could now claim dual citizenship. 

"No oath necessary," Autera said. "Just sign."

Farrell plucked a pen from his pants pocket and scrawled his signature. 

Blandly, Autera wished him congratulations and welcome. "Indirectly as you have, you've provided our country a great service. Although your State Department vexes us, returning long-lost property to Europeans and Jews gives us a proverbial 'leg up.'" 

"And it justifies telling State to go fuck itself," Farrell said. 

Autera shrugged. "Many in the Foreign Ministry share that opinion, but proper diplomacy won't allow saying it. We prefer to show it." 

Farrell thanked Autera, who mildly absorbed the kindness as his due. 

"Now," the Argentine said, "the other piece of news. Your boss, Senor Quinn, will be arriving in the capital next week." 

"Roddy Quinn!? In Buenos Aires!? What for!?" 

"An offer of a raise perhaps," Autera said. 

Over the week Roderick Quinn's impending visit gnawed at Farrell. Possibilities of incredibly bad news hollowed his mind. He placed nothing past the mendacity of this current administration. After all if it could sacrifice brave and true thousands to faulty ideology, several specific targets merited even less compassion. 

That week Farrell fucked Adriana and Sofia intending to rip them apart. The drive behind his cock was mercilessly focused. Both women wound up tender. Especially Adriana. Having boned her so roughly Farrell sensed her resentment. Imposed upon as she likely felt, Adriana endured him with a stoicism he at any other time should've admired. 

Had Farrell esteemed her higher, he might've explained circumstances behind his conduct. But such a step could've falsely raised her hopes. Their roles were established. Treating Adriana above her station was the surest steps toward "complications." 

The day came. A Sunday. Quinn sent word where and when they were to meet. On the way Farrell occupied his thoughts with "what's next" not "what's worse." 

Farrell rode the subte south to Independencia. Walking east from that metro stop bland blocks livened into loud, congested Defensa. Sundays, Porteños promenaded along this narrow thoroughfare. Up and down diversions from music, tableaux vivants, marionette shows to alpaca rides for children interrupted the humdrum. 

At Plaza Dorrego vendors had set up shop, attracting hordes to their pampas bazaar. Which was where Quinn insisted they meet. Or where Quinn spotted him first. 

"Bryce!" 

The Bronx cut through the din clearly. Regardless of who barked his given name Farrell would've turned. Other than family and boyhood friends, he rarely heard it. Quinn's age, 67, and position, to which Farrell deferred, permitted him its possessive use. Otherwise since his first freshman beer and bullshit blast after Registration Day, strangers now dormmates seized on the unearthing of his mother's maiden name serving as his middle one. Therefore, Bryce surrendered to Ransome. 




For Services Rendered



Smiling vulpine features below barbered silver bobbed towards Farrell on a big-city strut. Quinn's was the stride of someone who'd spent his early life jamming himself onto the No. 4, then shoving his way off subway stations below 59th Street. He wore glad rags better suited for Caribbean beaches than any autumnal Tropic of Capricorn city. His lizard skin slip-ons had been dyed an unnaturally intense green. 

Behind Quinn hovered two slabs of local gun-toting muscle. Good tailoring hid their weapons from casual eyes. One holstered his piece against his hip, the other slung it in a harness. 

Quinn grabbed Farrell's hand between his still callused own and pumped. Afterwards he pummeled that arm back into its shoulder socket. Above thin lips showing lots of teeth, Quinn inspected Farrell and happily found him fit. 

"They been treating you well down here!" 

Farrell said, "The natives are friendly." 

"The natives like to fuck," Quinn said. "Especially if you're a white man." 

He laughed at his own aside as Farrell cringed slightly. Quinn tilted his head at the bodyguards and gestured up Defensa. One man walked several steps ahead to bookend their client. Before proceeding Farrell noticed one tanned long drink of water joining the procession. The requisite three steps in Quinn's wake, this slender, tall, sharp-faced, bosomy, bored brunette swayed on stilt legs further lengthened by impossible heels. Farrell turned and saw Quinn regarding him. 

Farrell said, "I bet she looks good in white." 

"Screw that! She looks better out of white with me on her," Quinn said. 

"When did you take up mountain climbing, Mr. Quinn?" 

"If I ever had fear of heights, she's the kind of girl who got me over it quick. She's my Andes protégé. Some local trim estatico to show me sights. Thing is what she shows I already seen. I think her skill is in presentation."

"Like an old gift in new wrapping?" 

"Bryce, I been crawling around her and fucking both of us silly the last three nights. Her pussy's so good my dick wants to switch nationalities." 

"Mr. Quinn, tell your fortunate friend to hold off on the delirium. In a day you'll see someone better." 

"No shit!?" Quinn said. "You been tappin' a lot of this stuff, huh? Shit! No wonder you look great." 

They strolled past antique shops cramming both sides of Defensa's tired pastel walls. 

"Thank God I didn't bring my wife," Quinn said. "Else I would've needed bags of money and then get ready for writer's cramp from so many pages of customs declarations. By the way Claire send her regards. To you, Moira and Coyne." 

Moira was Quinn's personal secretary, Coyne his chauffer. Like Farrell, the same truth or perjury conundrum also dispatched them temporarily abroad. As had the sweet, yielding impetus herself, Quinn's dalliance.

Claire, the high school sweetheart who became Mrs. Quinn, no doubt suspected her husband somewhat less than faithful. However, accusations without proof apparently meant nothing to her. As long as Quinn crept discretely, keeping their outward wedded propriety untarnished, she sustained her end of the charade. 

Farrell suggested lunch. Quinn agreed. Steps led into DesNivel, Farrell's favorite parilla. Quinn asked Farrell to vouch for the restaurant. 

"One of the best in town," Farrell immediately replied.

"Good! We ate Italian last night. The food made me think all the paisans who could cook landed in North America."

The establishment's simple décor and homely liveliness appealed to Quinn. Better, the grill advertised just as patrons entered. 

Fanfare did not herald them inside. Nor were there acclamations of false bonhomie. Farrell was merely received as a familiar face. A lazy nod from El Gordo sprawling across two bar stools sufficed. Quinn approved of the fat man's flicker of recognition. Presumably the owner, he blatted commands.

The Americans shared a table. Quinn's "protégé" sat with his bodyguards, ignored all-around. Gardel continuously serenaded them from the all-Gardel FM station. The deified Argentine singer maintained a properly corrupting ambiance. 

Studying the menu, Farrell and Quinn drained big beer bottles. The mozo scrunched up his face when Quinn ordered. He spoke Spanish proficiently. However, he tended toward Puerto Rican inflections. Layering that between his Bronx accent and Farrell sympathized with the waiter's difficulties. 

Plates requested and privacy somewhat guaranteed until their salads arrived, Quinn commandeered conversation. First he thanked Farrell for his sacrifice. Boardroom large now as he was, the older man retained pure street values. He prized loyalty above all. That and not telling tales out of school. 

Without mentioning it, both knew him deeply indebted to the trio who'd fled on his behalf. What demands from them could ever be considered too outrageous? 

Second, the underlying reason behind Quinn's visit. Not just to Farrell's hideout but also those of his secretary and chauffer. 

"Grand jury has been dismissed," Quinn said. "No testimony. No corroboration. No indictments." 

Farrell was pleasantly dumbfounded. "Didn't that thing have months to go? And wonder if they impanel another one?" 

"Two reasons why I say 'yes,' then 'no,'" Quinn said. "One. Your exile is over because the feds have goat shit to hang their hats on. Okay. They can indict ham sandwiches. But again: No meat. No bread. No sandwich. An empty plate won't do.

"Two. Dumbass finally wised up. He's only president, not king. No matter who wins in November, his sorry ass is out in January. Him asking and catching favors gets a lot tougher with 'ex-' in front of his name. It's not enough knowing which side your bread is buttered; you need to know who's doing the buttering." 

"So," Farrell said, "you're donating fewer coloring books to his library." 

"If I send any -- which I fucking won't! -- they'll already be colored in! Fuck him! Fuck them all!" 

The waiter dropped off their salads and left. Subdued, Quinn spoke. 

"Another reason I'm here, Bryce, is something I gotta ask you." 

While Farrell chewed greens, swallowed and digested possibilities, Quinn flagged the mozo for two more beers. Quinn continued when their cold ones were refreshed. 

"The company has trouble in Solipaz. You know we have factories there. No trouble with production. Inside the fence Grady runs a tight ship. He makes that top hum. Outside the gate, well, we got World War-fucking-III. We didn't cause it but we're getting dumped on anyhow."

In the Mexican city of Solipaz, as well as other sizable border towns, series of gruesome murders stained the desert. Discounting drug turf war casualties, slaughtered women ratcheted homicide figures. The second group's murders scythed one gory swath around Solipaz over years. 

Exasperated, Quinn said, "And of course the only reason any Americans pay attention to this shit is because of the movie."

"Movie?" Farrell asked. "What movie?" 

"They're shooting it now," Quinn said. "In Solipaz. A movie about dead, poor working women. Oh, yeah, I think they were exploited, too. One way or another, not only will it be a weepy but we'll catch shit because even though we have nothing to do with this, we're convenient bad guys. Bryce, I know it may be presumptuous but I've had a file sent to your inbox. I hoped you might wanna take a look at it." 

"Naturally, Mr. Quinn, I'll open it tomorrow." 

"Good-good," Quinn said. "Like I said, Grady is aces inside the facility. Outside, the local grandees see him as one gringo feo. Not only doesn't he speak Spanish, but he skipped the Dale Carnegie course, too. The animosity is so bad that if he was on fire none of them would pee on him to put it out. Bryce ... you're from that part of the country...." 

There were 150 crooked, spottily-paved miles between Solipaz, Mexico, and his Arizona hometown. Yet comparing desert measurements against Eastern mileages, the two Western locales must've seemed a Sunday drive apart while the fairly straight lanes connecting New York City and Albany comprised an arduous trek. At least that's how Farrell surmised how Easterners such as his boss viewed the respective destinations. The hired man held off chuckling.

"Certainly Mr. Quinn. I'd be happy to go down there and see what can be done."

Relieved, Quinn brayed, "Beautiful!" 

Generously, the boss gave Farrell four days to conclude his Buenos Aires affairs. Problems discarded, time compressed, task assigned and accepted, the waiter returned at a fine interlude.

Quinn appraised the marvelously seared piece of beef set before him. He grasped knife and fork, cut a chunk, popped the morsel in his mouth and savored. The gourmand's verdict: 

"Now that's one great fucking steak!" 

Monday morning Farrell walked into a different office. Last time within these walls he was a pariah. Overnight he became the magnet drawing iron filings. Suitemates who'd previously avoided him now buddied up to him. Although he understood why they feared his prior incarnation, their miraculous smiley about-faces incensed him. Only his condition had changed. He remained the same.

Away from office adulation, Farrell downloaded the Solipaz file and skimmed. He didn't know which was worse, the body count or the savagery. Someone had noted, surely not Quinn, photographs augmenting this file were forbidden to be electronically disseminated. He must wait until reaching Solipaz before staring at chromatic horror.

That suited him fine. Farrell printed out a hard copy for Friday's flight north. Stuck in a tube and undisturbed at 35,000 feet promised the perfect reading conditions. 

Job on hold until next Monday, he leaned back in his chair. There, he contemplated how to inform two "friends" of his imminent departure. In their own ways Adriana and Sofia had become dependent on him. Despite all his female entanglements before Argentina, not one had ever ceded him such control. Now he juggled two. When it rained ... 

Later during night's small hours, Farrell consciously prolonged foreplay with Adriana. As if by doing so he might embed her skin texture, scent, in memory. 

In bed she saddled atop him face-to-face. His cock rose angrily between them. Farrell's tongue lingered on and frequently revisited Adriana's nipples. His palms circuited her arms, back, waist, though slower than usual. More attuned this evening, his fingers crawled purposefully across her ass or cupped firm breasts. Inquisitive fingers renewed discovery upon Adriana's cheeks, along her neck. Soft black hair blanketed the backs of his hands. 

She submitted fully under his kind touch. His embraces carried muscular almost desperate fervor. Adriana confused, tensed in his arms. 

Farrell stretched the woman out in bed. He immersed his face in Adriana's sex. Arms corded around her thighs fixed him in a fleshy vise. His tongue explored, unfolded, teased as if it were their first eager moment of intimacy. Farrell toyed with Adriana until she weakened. Then he mounted her.

Head lolling to the side, eyes shut, mouth agape, breath deeply drawn, Adriana let him fuck her beyond all previous indescribable waking dreams. She rocked harder than Farrell. When she came she came strongly, endlessly. 

Afterwards, elated, Adriana hugged him. Not her accustomed reward but a gesture unleashed from within. Some special place she likely denied existed. A place all women intended solely bequeathing upon "that one true man."

Regret at having exposed such vulnerability nevertheless couldn't stave his vanity by having coaxed it to her surface. Farrell's contrite kisses presaged eventual forgiveness. 

Their next day unfurled as had dozens before. Except table conversation turned towards business.

Farrell gave her the news. He didn't know what to expect. Often intimate they weren't close. Had they been more than cordial fuck-buddies, his departure might've occasioned small remorse. Or if their connection had soured, minor joy. 

Adriana swallowed his leaving with an equanimity approaching cold-blooded. No tears. No pleading. No questions. Just rapid calculations. She displayed a mercantile nature which would've been SOP in any corporate boardroom. But she was a kinder cutthroat. 

Adriana couched her severance request in gentle yet straightforward terms. She calmly listed her value to him over their months together. And while acknowledging the benefits she'd already derived from spending nights at his address, Adriana showed how he'd reaped greater profit through her regular attendance in his bed. Weighting her argument as she had, yes, Farrell decided, he owed her more. 

She wanted a truck. An open-sided one. For her father and brother. The vehicle could widen the family's money-making opportunities, thereby improving its whole living standard.

Admittedly when Adriana broached compensation, Farrell thought more along jewelry and cash. Easily absorbed expenses aside, those awards would've cheapened her in his eyes. Uncommon as her request was, a diesel five speed with rear dual bogies, it made sense. That truck could lead towards better tomorrows.

Farrell would miss Adriana. She was one of the rare level-headed women he'd ever fucked. How soon until she acquired another norteamericano? He hoped that lucky gringo aware of the good deal he laid.

Conscientious and thrifty as Adriana proved, Farrell readied himself for Sofia to break the bank on all limits of good taste. He owed the party queen and her merry retinue one last night out. If an earlier night surprised them, it little deterred them. 

Erroneously Farrell believed Tuesday night might offer less frenzied clubbing. He was wrong. While new faces populated the usual places, they represented the same sort of people. A just as drunkenly loud procession wasted the evening away then diminished into an early morning pair. 

Farrell empathized with his building doorman. Between Adriana often arriving at 4, or him escorting Sofia in around 5 (or 6) other mornings, the poor man must've suffered on-the-job sleep deprivation. 

The American would miss the easy variety of two eminently different women. Adriana's rounded femininity was plush against Sofia's antic angularity. Stateside such indulgence might've suggested gluttony rather than satiety. It would be tough reentering a society that excused the first and condemned the second. Materially lacking as they were, at least the Argentines kept their priorities properly ordered. 

Autumn weather heated Sofia. She'd behaved impatiently all evening, caroming among curt, petulant and dismissive. When the night ended Farrell had trouble deciding who'd been aggravated the most, Sofia or her friends.

Back at his apartment Sofia was primed and ready before the elevator ascended. Her kisses devoured him. Arms around his torso became light gauge steel bands. Sofia's pressing body staggered him. 

Behind the door, they only partially disrobed and failed reaching the bedroom. Farrell lifted her skirt before snapping off her tanga while letting slacks and boxers clog atop his shoes. Her back flattened against the wall, both shuddered crazily from his reckless thrusting. 

Before Farrell impaled Sofia she fished a rubber out of her clutch bag. Quick nimble fingers capped his cock. Sofia's slit was drier than either liked, making Farrell's initial stabs more painful than pleasurable. Soon enough friction gave way to physiology. Moistened, Sofia stopped gritting her teeth and started mouthing deeply drawn incantations. 

After her head's final few upward jolts, Farrell pinned her thin sagging shoulders with his own and slid out of leather and cloth. Ankles now unencumbered, Farrell scooped up Sofia's fragile bundle then carted it into the bedroom. There as morning grayed the black Buenos Aires horizon, they recuperated sufficiently enough for less compulsive, more thorough sex. 

When Farrell woke he grinned at the bright mid-afternoon hour. Another acquired Buenos Aires habit he'd soon forfeit. Sofia draped across his chest. Asleep she purred. Her transition from fury into lamb froze his movements. He preferred leaving the scene undisturbed a bit longer. 

Finally Sofia awakened. Gradually orienting herself, her out of sorts expression eased into one reflecting nameless delight. Sofia smiled at him just because she could. Farrell rued the paucity of such arousals. 

They showered then drank coffee at an absurdly late daytime hour. Sofia prattled broadly about his possibly financing several skiing trips. As she informed, Argentina's ski season lasted from June until September. His South American coquette became a living brochure for three Andes resorts, Penitentes, Las Lenas and Cavihue. He let her promote unabated. By her nature and his permissiveness in that regard they'd wasted little time in mundane conversation. 

Her direct question regarding "their" winter ended Sofia's ignorance. 

Sofia passed long moments in contemplation. Her dismay alternated with being crestfallen. He knew his farewell would relegate her back to the oversubscribed sex-bartering ranks of Porteña opportunists. She orbited around his star and glowed -- as had her coterie. Not only had Farrell yanked them out of drudgery but also stoked their anticipation. Random chance had enriched them. The same caprice would restore their natural states. 

Returning to unrelieved tedium would seem, would be, a particularly perverse torture. Especially after generous flashes of the high life. 

The ride to Sofia's family villa passed in strained quiet. During the ride she chain-smoked. The fumes irritated him. She must've known they would. Farrell kept his trap shut. He wanted no distraught woman eruptions. If possible, they should break with their dignity intact. Besides, Sofia could be a bitch. He sure as shit wouldn't miss that. 

Neither Farrell nor Sofia moved once the remise curbed at her gate. Autumn's denuded tree branches exposed more of the fatigued estate. Less obstructed, sight clearer under better light, it seemed only hope supported the pile. 

The driver turned to his passengers. He saw two stone-still people sitting apart. They either waited for absolution or glibness. Realizing none of it his business, the driver faced forward again. Sofia broke their verbal stalemate. 

"I saw us going farther." 

Farrell could only imagine the 21-year-old's fantasy. Probably the usual dream ending in white lace and happy jackpots ever after. 

"No," Farrell said. "Real life intrudes again." 

Lips pursed, brown eyes cast down, Sofia nodded reluctantly. She squeezed his hand, leaned into him and left a dry peck on his cheek, then exited the remise. Never having done so previously, Farrell declined accompanying Sofia to her door. In his view the gesture merely would've postponed their inevitability. Nor was she type of lover one needlessly sentimentalized. 

Sofia hadn't bothered putting on her heels at his apartment. She walked from his life barefoot; from his address into her own. He watched her narrow back recede through rusty gate bars until the vestibule door closed on them. On Argentina. 

-30-



For Services Rendered



(Best read while soaking in a warm tub)

*

The boredom of her life had simply become too much. The kids had all left the house for college and her days were seemingly endless. Sure, she had tried to cultivate some hobbies, but nothing seemed able to maintain her interest. She had begun to spend hours surfing the net, mindlessly following links until she lost all track of the thread that she had started with. She did some online shopping and had found several unique items that she purchased, but she knew that she couldn't continue with this or her husband would be furious about all the money she had spent. 

Her husband...that was a whole topic in itself. Lately he'd been traveling a lot for business. It just didn't seem fair that he was gone so much now that she really needed him. He talked about taking her on his trips, but lately he'd been traveling to Japan and she just wasn't comfortable being on her own in such a strange environment. So she stayed home.

It was during one of his particularly long trips when it all started. She sat down at the computer prepared to wile away several hours surfing the web. She accidentally opened her daughter's web browser and didn't notice the error until she clicked on the bookmarks and recognized that they weren't her own. "What the hell," she thought to herself, "one links as good as another," and clicked absentmindedly on the first link in the list. The screen flashed in front of her and she found herself staring at an online chatroom called "Teentalk". A message on the screen said "logged in as Crunchymunchems." She just watched at first. It all seemed so ridiculous to her with short comments flying by in what seemed like a foreign language. "This isn't chat," she thought to herself, "this is name calling." She watched and read the comments that went by. "It really is 'teentalk'," she said. Then she noticed a button near the top of the screen… "choose another chatroom." Using the mouse she eased the pointer over this button and clicked. The screen flashed again and she found herself presented with a long list of additional chatrooms that were available. She quickly glanced down the list. It read:

007's

Abracadabra

All my children

All 4 one

Beanie Babies

Bedroom1

Bedroom2

Bedroom3

… and the list went on and on. She scrolled quickly down the list, surprised that there could be so many different chatrooms. She released the mouse and the scrolling stopped. There at the top of the list was the category… "Forty-something". 

A small smile broke on her lips and she bit her lower lip as she moused over the "Forty-something" link and clicked. Immediately the screen began to fill with lines of message. Unlike the teentalk page, the messages consisted of whole sentences. Patti read the progression of messages and surmised that there was a discussion going on about the virtues of 70's rock versus modern rock. She continued to read and was amused by some of the comments. However, 70's rock was not her area of expertise and she didn't feel compelled to participate. She clicked the "back" button on her browser and was returned to the middle of the long list of chatrooms. The "Forty-something" link was now darkened, indicating that she had already visited that link. Directly below it were the bright letters that spelled out "Forty-something horny."

She blushed slightly and, once again biting her lip, eased the pointer over this new link and pressed down on the mouse button. The screen changed immediately, but it didn't fill with lines of message, instead it was mostly blank. At the top of the screen it said "Crunchymunchems has joined". She stared at the screen for a moment, but nothing happened. Then she saw some text in the lower corner… it read "# of users in chatroom: 1." "Figures," she said to herself, "if you're forty-something you've gotten over being horny."

She was just about to exit the chatroom when the screen flashed… "SF327 has joined". Then the screen was still. She waited… she didn't know why, but she waited.

"SF327: Anybody here?" popped up on the screen.

A small shot of adrenaline coursed through Patti's system, almost as if she were afraid of being seen through the screen. She laughed off the reaction, remembering the great anonymity afforded by the internet. There was a box at the bottom of the screen labeled "type your message here." She put the mouse over the box and clicked. Then she typed. "hi" and pressed return. The top of the screen changed to show her response. 

"Crunchymunchems: hi." She smiled… it was her first time using a chatroom and it was kind of exciting to think that there was another live person looking at her words. 

"SF327: Hi. I like the name. Mean anything special?"

She got comfortable in her chair and scooted up to the keyboard. She began to type.

"Crunchymunchems: It's my daughter's account, actually."

"SF327: Oh."

There was a pause. Then another message. 

"SF327: You're not supposed to tell me that until after you've determined that I'm a dirty old man preying on young girls."

She wasn't quite sure how to answer. While she considered how to respond, the screen flashed again.

"SF327: That was a joke."

"SF327: I'm not."

She smiled and a small spirit awoke in her.

"Crunchymunchems: Not what?… a dirtly old man, OR, preying on young girls."

"SF327: Very good. Now you're in the spirit (I think)."

"Crunchymunchems: Well what ARE you then?"

"SF327: Kind of out of place, I think. It's my first time in chatrooms and after a quick visit to 'Britney Spears Rocks,' I thought I'd look for something more age appropriate."

"Crunchymunchems: It's my first time too."

"SF327: What are the odds?"

"Crunchymunchems: I went into the "Forty-Something" room first, but it wasn't exactly my cup of tea."

"SF327: Oh yeah… I went there too… I think the fact that the Rolling Stones are mostly still alive is achievement enough. Who cares how they compare with Sump41 or whatever."

"Crunchymunchems: Exactly!"

"SF327: You mentioned your daughter… are you the mom or the dad?"

"Crunchymunchems: Mom"

"SF327: So Mom (he said with some relief) what brought you into this (horny) room? (the forty-something Man asked)"

She paused.

"Crunchymunchems: Not sure. Curiosity I guess. You?"

"SF327: Wishful thinking mostly. It's been so long since … I guess I was curious too."

"Crunchymunchems: Long since what? (She asked with a smirk)"

"SF327: My wife died four years ago and I kinda lost interest."

"Crunchymunchems: I'm sorry. What happened?"

What then transpired was a two hour series of exchanges where Patti learned more about a middle aged man whom she knew by the moniker SF327 and who had lost his wife and only recently found himself alone when his kids had also left for college. He had three daughters who babied him and were constantly trying to get him to go out with women. They lived in the same large city where he was apparently a very successful business man.

Patti also explained her situation, characterizing her marriage as "happy," but saying that there just wasn't the same spark in it, at least physically, anymore. 

"Crunchymunchems: Which brings me as close as I think I'll ever get to explaining why I'm in the horny 40s room."

"SF327: You sound like a great gal. I'm sure the spark will return for you and your husband."

"Crunchymunchems: Thanks. I hope you find a woman and can 'get physical' sometime soon."

"SF327: Hell, I'd be happy just to see a naked woman at this point, much less touch her."

Patti felt a twinge of excitement in her loins. 

"Crunchymunchems: I hear there's plenty of porn on the internet."

"SF327: Yeah, I've seen it. Just isn't the same as the real thing."

Patti again felt a spark between her legs as she continued.

"Crunchymunchems: What would you want to see?"

"SF327: Breasts, thighs, you know, a NAKED woman!"

"Crunchymunchems: What would you want her to look like... or to be doing?"

"SF327: I dunno. Haven't given it much thought."

"Crunchymunchems: Maybe you should."

"SF327: Okay."

"Crunchymunchems: It's getting late, I better go."

"SF327: Thanks Crunchymunchems (Mom). This has been the most social thing I've done in a long time."

"Crunchymunchems: Same for me. Good luck with your 'thinking.'"

"SF327: Thanks. See ya."

Patti closed the web browser and squeezed her legs together. Her imagination had already kicked in and there was no denying the wetness there. She slipped off to her bedroom and pulled her favorite vibrator out of the bedside table. She threw herself down on the bed and quickly shed her pants and panties. She was already breathing heavy when the plastic tip of the vibrator came into contact with the sensitive skin surrounding her pussy. It took less than a minute to reach orgasm and her body continued to quiver as she left the vibrator pressed against her clit. 

Her thoughts returned to the chat session and she began to fantasize wild thoughts. Her body erupted in a second orgasm, even more forceful than the first. She moaned audibly as she threw her head back in pleasure. She shut the vibrator off and her body slowly returned to a less charged state. She shed her remaining clothes and threw a robe around her naked body. She couldn't deny the tingling feeling that continued to permeate her skin as she walked to the kitchen and fixed herself a snack.

That night she had trouble sleeping. Her mind was racing with incoherent thoughts and she passed in and out of dreams all through the night. She awoke at one point to find herself laying on her stomach, her legs spread wide and her ass reaching upward as if seeking to be touched by something. She drew a deep breath and gripped the sheets in frustration. She sat up and switched on the television. There was an infomercial playing, but it faded into the background as her brain began to focus on one thought. 

She awoke the next day and bounced out of bed. She was surprised at how awake she felt, despite having slept so few hours. Just before falling asleep she had come to a decision. It was amazing how quickly she fell asleep after that and she had slept deeply. She showered and noticed for the first time in a long time how the warm water caressed her hardened nipples. She paid special attention to them and it sent rippling waves of pleasure through her. 

She dressed, styled her hair, and put on her makeup. When she left the bedroom she headed straight to the computer and switched it on. She once again logged on to her daughter's browser, but this time when she clicked on the link to the chat site, she simply noted the location and then closed down the browser. She then opened her own browser and typed in the address for the website. A window she had never seen opened up before her asking her to log-in. Without hesitation she clicked on the link that said "Create new account."

Five minutes later she was the proud owner of the handle "Showgrlll" with the password "spreadme!" She smiled broadly and then saved the website to her bookmarks. She closed down the computer and with a renewed sense of purpose she went to the mall to shop for some new clothes.

She returned home at five o'clock and it took her two trips to the car to unload all the bags she had accumulated throughout the day. She had spent an inordinate amount of time in Victoria's Secret and had ended up spending hundreds of dollars on new bras and panties. 

She casually walked by the computer and flipped the power switch on. She began to prepare dinner for herself when the phone rang. It was her husband calling from Tokyo. It was early morning there and he had just awoken and was preparing to leave for his business meetings. They chatted briefly about her shopping spree and his sushi dinner of the previous evening. He commented on the perkiness in her voice. She shrugged it off and wished him well in his meetings. 

After hanging up she went over to the computer and logged herself on. She opened the internet and clicked on the link to the chatroom website. She logged in as "Showgrlll" and felt a slight rush as she typed "spreadme!" into the password box. She then went to the "Forty something horny" chatroom and logged in. Tonight there were five other people in the room, but scanning the list of participants she could see that SF327 was not among them. She smiled. She hadn't expected to see him back so soon. A sudden feeling of disappointment overcame her. "What if he never comes back?" she thought. She shrugged. "Not much I can do about it, is there?"

She fixed dinner and returned to the computer where she could see that the chatroom was once again empty, save for her. While she was watching, a second person entered the room and she heard a quiet "bing" from the computer speaker. She reached to the mouse and clicked on the volume control. She increased the volume, almost to the maximum. When the person who had just entered the room exited, there was another loud "BING." "Good," she thought as she headed for the TV remote, "now I'll be able to tell when someone joins."

She fixed her dinner and watched reruns of Friends, checking the computer whenever the "BING" alerted her to someone's presence. She chatted casually with one or two people in the chatroom during the evening, but it was mostly meaningless stuff. One guy came in and immediately started making vulgar demands of her. She ignored him and he eventually went away. 

She continued to watch TV until she felt it was time to sleep. She logged off the computer and had a sound sleep. 

The next day she awoke with the same energy she had experienced the day before. She put on some of the new clothes that she had bought at the mall the day before. She wore a satin and lace bra that looked pretty on her and had the effect of pushing her already ample breasts up and together to create a very provocative display of cleavage. She chose a rather low-cut sweater to wear over it and it led to tiny tingles of anticipation as she went about her daily business. 

She spent most of the day doing volunteer work at the library. Several people commented on her cheery disposition and falsely assumed that her husband had returned from his travels. When evening came she once again logged into the chat site and went about preparing her dinner. She opened a bottle of wine and poured herself a large glass that she sipped from as she cooked. She chose to prepare a meal of pasta and vegetables and was pleased with the final product. The computer sounded several times during the course of her cooking, but she never saw the handle SF327 appear, so she continued to ignore it. By the time she had finished eating, the wineglass was nearly empty and despite her better judgment, she refilled it. Something inside her told her that it might be a good time to lose some inhibitions.

She cleaned up her dishes and had settled down in front of the computer to check her e-mail when the computer "BINGED" once again. She closed the e-mail program and looked at the website. She looked at the top of the screen. There it was in bright white letters… SF327. Her heart caught in her throat and she fumbled with the mouse. She quickly clicked on the text entry box and typed in "hi" followed by return.

"Showgrlll: Hi."

"SF327: Hi."

"Showgrlll: It's me."

"SF327: Me who?"

"Showgrlll: Crunchymunchems Mom."

"SF327: Oh… Hi! Got your own name now?"

She blushed at the memory of the password.

"Showgrlll: Yep. How you doing?"

"SF327: I've been thinking."

"Showgrlll: Yeah, about what?"

"SF327: About what you said the other night."

There was a pause. Finally she hastily wrote:

"Showgrlll: And………"

"SF327: Well, you sure you want to hear this?"

"Showgrlll: Positive!"

"SF327: Okay then. You remember what you asked me?"

"Showgrlll: What (specifically) do you want to see."

"SF327: Right. Well…"

Just then her computer "BINGED" loudly and she saw that "Hornydude" had entered the room. Her screen flashed with a new message.

"Hornydude: Who's up for a fuck?"

"Oh Christ," she said aloud. This was the rude guy from the previous night.

"Showgrlll: Just ignore him."

"Hornydude: Fuck you!"

She felt her anger building, after having waited patiently and been so close to hearing what SF327 had been thinking. Suddenly a new window popped up on her screen. Inside there was a short message.

"SF327: Let's try this."

She stared at the window, unsure what had happened. It was similar to the main window, but slightly smaller. It seemed to have come from nowhere. She clicked on the lower box in the new window and typed.

"Showgrlll: What's this?"

"SF327: It's a private message window. Only you and I can come in here. My daughter told me about it when I told her about the other night."

"Showgrlll: I didn't know you could do that… very cool!"

"SF327: At least it gets us away from fuckdude."

"Showgrlll: Good. Now where were we? •)"

"SF327: You wanted specifics."

"Showgrlll: Every detail."

"SF327: Stop me anytime. But remember, this is fantasy, okay?"

"Showgrlll: Okay."

"SF327: I'm kinda into voluptuous women, so she would have fairly large breasts and nice round hips."

"Showgrlll: What size breasts are we talkin'?"

"SF327: I dunno really. My wife was 38D I think and that was perfect."

Patti felt a true surge of adrenaline coursing through her body. She typed.

"Showgrlll: I'm 40D. (Just by the way)"

"SF327: Even better. (Just FYI)"

"Showgrlll: What else?"

"SF327: I really like tan lines."

"Showgrlll: Okay. And…" 

"SF327: In my searching on the internet I came across a lot of piercings."

"Showgrlll: Ouch"

"SF327: Yeah, maybe, but it's my fantasy, right?"

"Showgrlll: Sorry… keep going."

"SF327: Anyway, she would have rings hanging from her nipples. There would be a small bead hanging on each ring that she could play with that would gently tease her nipples."

"Showgrlll: Sounds good when you put it that way."

"SF327: Then she'd have a navel ring too, or maybe a tattoo around her navel. I'm not sure."

"Showgrlll: I don't have any body piercings or a tattoo. Always been scared to do it."

"SF327: Don't be scared. They're very sexy."

"Showgrlll: What else?"

"SF327: I'd love to see her stretch her arms over her head, so that her breasts stand out from her chest and the rings dangle from her nipples."

"Showgrlll: Mmmmmm… It sounds exciting. What would you tell her to do?"

"SF327: I dunno. I didn't think about that. I guess I'd like to see her touch herself."

She typed the following sentence: "I could never touch myself of my own free will. It's just too forbidden," but caught herself and changed it.

"Showgrlll: A woman won't just touch herself of her own free will. It's just too forbidden."

"SF327: What do you mean 'forbidden?'"

"Showgrlll: Subconsciously we can't think that we're sexy or that touching ourselves is a turn-on for others."

"SF327: But it IS such a turn-on."

"Showgrlll: Did your wife used to throw herself at you?"

"SF327: No, not exactly."

"Showgrlll: You had to coax it out of her, right?"

"SF327: Yeah, I guess that's how you could put it."

"Showgrlll: Did you ever force her to do anything?"

"SF327: What do you mean?"

"Showgrlll: Like when you're laying in bed and kissing, did you ever spread her legs for her… or offer her your cock to suck… you know, you take charge and let her know what she's supposed to do."

"SF327: Sure, sometimes. Most of the time, I guess."

"Showgrlll: It's the guilt that gets us. We're 'bad girls' or 'sluts' if we do these things of our own volition. But if we HAVE TO (because you make us) then it's okay."




For Services Rendered



"SF327: Gee, I didn't know that."

"Showgrlll: We like it when you men take charge and 'make' us dirty."

"SF327: Oh."

"Showgrlll: So what would you have her do? Remember, you're in charge."

"SF327: Okay. In that case I'd tell her to get down on all fours with her ass toward me. I'd want to see her pussy between her legs, with her breasts swinging below her stomach."

Patti was feeling the wetness between her legs again.

"Showgrlll: Then what?"

"SF327: I'd tell her to run her fingers back along her pussy and over her clit."

"Showgrlll: Is her pussy wet?" Her own was almost running with wetness now.

"SF327: Yeah, it's glistening in the light, like dew on spring grass."

"Showgrlll: And…."

"SF327: I tell her to slip one of her fingers into her pussy. To get it nice and wet so I can hear it sloshing around." 

Patti noticed that she was involuntarily squeezing her thighs together repeatedly. Her breathing was getting deeper too.

"Showgrlll: Tell me what else to do." She didn't even catch the mistaken use of the word 'me.' His response was immediate.

"SF327: Suck the finger. Taste your own pussy juices..."

He paused and there was no response from Patti. She was busily undoing the buttons of her pants and working her fingers into her panties. She felt the slickness of her secretions as her finger made its way down the outside slit of her pussy. She was beginning to pant with excitement. She wasn't paying attention to the screen, which was still. Almost 15 seconds passed as she began to work her finger between her wet lips. She glanced back at the screen and a new message appeared.

"SF327: Sorry… I went too far, didn't I? I didn't mean 'you', I was just getting a little carried away."

Her finger stopped its probing of her pussy as she realized that he couldn't know what she was thinking. She quickly pulled her hand back out of her pants and began to type.

"Showgrlll: No, no… it wasn't you. I was… well, … let's just say I was getting a little carried away here."

There was a pause. 

"SF327: Oh. You sure you're okay with this?"

She sat back for a minute, her pussy was pleading for attention, she could feel the wetness almost dripping into her panties. She took a deep breath and began to type:

"Showgrlll: What if we were to meet?"

There was another long pause.

"SF327: You sure? … You mean it?"

"Showgrlll: I haven't been this horny in a long time. All I can think about is 'displaying' myself for you."

"SF327: Wow. That's incredible."

"Showgrlll: I'm not exactly a model, you understand."

"SF327: That makes no difference to me, I'm not exactly Richard Gere either."

Suddenly a thought hit her.

"Showgrlll: I've got an idea. What do you say that we meet in a bar somewhere in the city? It gives us each a chance to see if we're okay with each other personally before we move on to anything else."

"SF327: That sounds like a good idea."

"Showgrlll: How about tomorrow night? We can meet at the Marriott hotel downtown… there's a bar way up near the top floor."

"SF327: That sounds good. How about 7pm?"

"Showgrlll: See you there."

"SF327: How will I know you?"

She pondered that for a second… then began to type… "I'm 45 and about 5'2" with red hair and I'll be wearing," she thought about what she'd wear. But before she could decide, her screen flashed and there was a picture displayed on her screen.

"SF327: This is me with my one of my daughters."

She stared at the picture. There was a middle aged man, slightly balding, with a reasonably large build, with his arm around a young pretty girl. He had a gentle smile and it put her at ease.

"SF327: There. Now you know what I look like. You can still back out now!"

She cleared what she had been typing and started again.

"Showgrlll: I like what I see. I'll be there. 7pm."

"SF327: Okay!"

"Showgrlll: Bye."

"SF327: Bye for now." 

She continued to sit at the computer for several minutes. Her thoughts were racing. Her heart was beating so fast. What had she just done! Would she really go through with it? She still felt the tingling between her legs that told her that she would. She shut down the computer and went back to the bedroom for another round with her trusty vibrator. 

When she awoke the next day, she felt more energetic than ever before. As she prepared to go to the library for more volunteer work she couldn't help wishing that time would pass faster. She seemed almost absent-minded to the other workers at the library that day. Her thoughts were elsewhere. When she finally glanced at her watch and saw that it was already 5pm she about jumped with excitement and headed for home.

She showered and carefully picked out a dress to wear. First she put on a pair of new silky black panties that were slightly more high cut than what she would normally wear. Then she picked out a black lace bra that provided her with ample cleavage. The dress was not exactly racy, but it was rather low cut in the front and exposed a good deal of her back as well. It came down to about her knees and was made of a velvety soft black fabric. It felt almost decadent against her skin and added to her excitement. 

She fixed her hair and applied her make-up and then checked herself in the mirror. It had been a long time since she'd cared so much about how she looked. She had to admit that she liked what she saw. She felt 10 years younger and the unfamiliar stirring between her legs was something she had feared was long gone. Just as she was about to leave, something standing in the closet caught her attention. She slid the closet door open slightly wider. Standing in the corner, leaning against the wall there was a small souvenir baseball bat. It wasn't normal size, but rather only about 18 inches long and perhaps one to two inches in diameter. The bat was painted white and had a large GIANTS logo on it. She remembered her husband buying it when they'd gone to a Giants game a few years ago. She remembered the sly grin on his face when he'd bought it and she suspected that he had some devious intent at the time. However, he'd never done anything with it and she figured that he'd probably lost track of it once it got into the closet. Her brain sparked and she felt a surge of adrenaline once again surge through her. She smiled and reached for the bat. She picked it up and with a mischievous grin carried it out of the room with her. "I am Showgrlll, after all," she muttered to herself.

Thirty minutes later she stepped out of the cab and entered the Marriott hotel. She made her way to the elevator and found herself alone for the long ride up to the top. Her brain was awash with thoughts as the elevator rose floor by floor. She felt so unsure, so guilty, but yet so alive. The stirring in her loins was being replaced by a pulse thumping beat in her temple. "What was she doing?!!!"

When the elevator stopped and the doors opened, she froze momentarily. Finally she took a deep breath and stepped out. She was surrounded by dim, yet comfortable lights. She could hear the hubbub of many people talking in somewhat hushed conversations. She looked around. There were several groupings of chairs and couches where groups of people sat and chatted sociably. She could hear occasional laughs as a punch line to a joke was delivered. She gripped the bat in her hand and scanned the room. He was pretty easy to spot. He was the only person who seemed to be alone in the large room. Against the far wall he sat at a small table, an empty chair across from him. He was sipping from a glass of wine and looking somewhat conspicuous in his nervous state. A sheepish smile spread across her lips and she walked toward him. 

He watched her from the first step, although he tried not to stare. He glanced away when she looked directly at him. Only when she was about ten feet from him did he finally look her in the eye. He smiled and she felt reassured. Something inside her told her that he was kind and gentle. Her instincts were seldom wrong. He rose to greet her and awkwardly offered his hand. She stopped short and took his hand.

"I'm Tom," he said.

"Patti," she said.

"You look beautiful," he said with a somewhat awkward tone.

She blushed, although he couldn't see it.

"Thanks," she said, and leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.

"Would you like to sit and have a drink," he asked, indicating the empty chair.

"I may need at least one," she said as she sat down.

"What's with the bat?" he asked. "Insurance in case I turn out to be a thug?"

She laughed, realizing how it might have looked to him. "No silly. It's… it's just something I thought I might … use … later." She put stress on the word use.

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

She leaned in close to his ear. "I am Showgrlll, and I thought you might want to tell me what to do with it… later."

He sat stunned as the words sank in. There was a sudden flow of blood that went from his head to his crotch, leaving him slightly light-headed for just a moment.

"Ahhhhhh….," was all he could manage to say.

She winked knowingly at him as she sat back in her chair. She felt absolutely depraved, and it felt good.

They ordered her a drink and sat comfortably and chatted for almost an hour. She began to feel perfectly comfortable with this man and he with her. The conversation centered mostly on their lives and only occasionally alluded to the subject that had brought them here.

Handing him her bat, Patti excused herself at one point to go to the bathroom. She noticed how Tom's eyes followed her every move. Halfway to the bathroom she turned around and caught him admiring her still. His eyebrows lifted and he smiled in approval. She blushed once again as she turned and headed for the bathroom.

As she walked back from the restroom, Tom was absentmindedly tapping the bat into one palm, as if measuring its weight and balance. He stood up upon seeing her and she acknowledged his politeness with another quick peck on the cheek. Every action he took helped to put her at ease and make her feel more comfortable.

"You know," he began, "I thought some more about what you said about letting go."

"Letting go?"

"You know, being allowed to let go of your inhibitions and the guilt."

"Oh, yeah," she nodded.

"I got an idea, see," he shifted, suddenly less comfortable in his chair. "And please don't take this the wrong way," he paused.

"It's okay... go ahead," she could clearly see he was nervous.

He forced a smile and looked meekly at her. "What if you were paid to do something? I mean," he went on quickly, "what if you felt obligated, because it was like part of a job you had agreed to do?" He looked expectantly at her, his smile waning as if fearing her reaction.

She thought to herself about it. "If I accepted payment for something, I'd be obligated to hold up my end ... I would, wouldn't I?" she thought to herself. She began to smile and he suddenly felt much lighter. She looked him in the eye and nodded slowly.

"But how do we-," she began, but he interrupted by holding up a hand.

"With something like this," he said pulling a folded piece of paper from his inside coat pocket and presenting it to her.

She opened it and read:

I, ______________________ do hereby agree to provide modeling services to Thomas Donovan for the sum of $_________.

Signed: ________________________

Date: ________________________

She beamed and felt another twinge of excitement. She looked back at him and saw the excitement on his face. 

"Gee," she mocked, "if only I had a pen."

He calmly reached into his coat again and presented her with a pen. 

Her hand shook slightly as she reached for the pen. He noticed and pulled back momentarily. "I don't want to force you if you're not ready," he said gently.

She smiled at him. "I am a little nervous," she admitted, "but," her eye caught sight of the bat in Tom's other hand and she gently took hold of his hand and guided the bat under the hem of her dress and upward along her inner thigh. "but I've never been more ready," she said as their eyes met. 

They held each others gaze for what felt like an eternity. Then in a slow and authoritative tone Tom said, "Then sign the contract and we'll get going."

A huge grin broke out on Patti's face and she quickly grabbed the pen and filled in the blanks on the contract and signed it.

He took the contract from her and examined it. "First rule of business," he said, matter of factly, holding out the contract, "is to make sure the contract is complete before you sign it."

She looked at him quizzically. He smiled and raised his eyebrows, "The money amount isn't filled in." He looked up toward the ceiling in a contemplative gesture before quickly setting the pen to the paper and writing something.

He began to fold the paper and put it back into his pocket when she made a playful grab for it.

"What did you write?" she asked as he quickly pulled the paper away from her reach.

"Ah-ah," he scolded. "Are you sure you want to know this?" She paused. He went on, "If it's a disappointingly small amount, you're unlikely to feel much obligation, right? Hardly compelling to really overcome those guilt feelings, eh?"

He gave her a serious look. She was thinking about what he'd said. Then a sudden thought hit her. "But what if it's not a trivial amount," she said with some concern in her voice.

"I dunno," he said. "Are you likely to feel a higher level of obligation if it's a somewhat higher amount?"

She looked at him with a smile that acknowledged that he had her in a compromising spot.

"Well, would you?" he asked.

"I guess it would depend on just how much money we were talking about," she replied rather meekly.

"What would it take, for example, to compel you to, uh," he paused and she followed his gaze down to the bat which he still held against her thigh.

She looked up, her face flush with warmth. She could feel the warmth between her thighs as well.

"Umm," she hesitated, thinking, swinging her hips from side to side like an embarrassed schoolgirl. Her eyes avoided his as she tried to think of how to respond. Finally she rested her gaze on his. "That's pretty... uh, dirty...," she said in an explanatory tone. He nodded in gentle agreement. "That might take, uh, ...," she paused and thought. She was getting excited by the sheer thought of displaying herself nude to this man and she didn't want to ruin the mood by over guessing the amount he had written down. That would spoil it.

"What would it take?" he asked gently.

She looked him directly in the eye, but she spoke hesitatingly, "It might take … one … hundred," she said haltingly, and immediately noted the amusement in his eyes. "No!… Two hundred dollars at least!" she said defiantly. He looked a bit more serious now.

"Wow, two hundred, huh?" he said as if weighing a purchase. "And that is pretty dirty, yeah." 

She nodded, feeling that perhaps she had turned the tables, at least for the moment.

"Hmmmm…," he said, rubbing his chin. He opened the paper and looked at it again. "Okay, then what could I possibly get for this?" he said, holding the contract up for her to see.

She tried to quickly focus her eyes on the document, but it was difficult in the low light. Finally her eyes came into focus and she saw what he had written… it said, "$1,000.00"

She gasped. "What… You can't… Possibly…"

"Oh I can… and I did," he said firmly. "Now let's get out of here. I think you owe me some work."

She looked at him with a resigned, yet excited look. She bounced out of her chair and followed his gesture toward the elevator. Her mind was running rampant with thoughts and she felt an unfamiliar fluttering in her stomach… something she hadn't felt in many years.

When they reached the elevator she turned and asked him, "Where are we going?"

"I took the liberty of getting a room here in the hotel."

"Feeling pretty confident, were we?" she chided.

"Not really, but a good business man is always prepared." 

"I guess," she said mockingly, motioning toward the contract which was now back in his pocket.

They proceeded down to the 14th floor where he led the way down the hall to a corner door. When he opened the door she was amazed to find that he had rented a large suite for the night. The first room was like a living room, filled with a large couch and several soft cushions arranged in front of a television. She could see beyond that that there was a dining room with a table large enough to seat eight people. To the right was a door leading into a bedroom. 

She heard the door close behind her and turned to look at him. "Well I suppose you'd like me to get to work?" she asked nervously.

"We'll get to that," he said, smiling. "Come look in here," he said heading off toward the bedroom. 

She felt her heart skip a beat at the thought of heading straight into the bedroom. But she reminded herself that Tom had been great so far and she shouldn't be so nervous.

"C'mon, don't worry," he said from the doorway, nodding toward one side of the bedroom. She followed and he led her through the bedroom and into the bathroom. It was huge. She laughed at the thought that her own living room would easily have fit into the size of this bathroom. There was a raised Jacuzzi tub on one side and it was surrounded by at least three dozen candles, which he was dutifully lighting. The water was bubbling and looked inviting. 

"I thought you might want to relax a little first, before you, uh… work," he said, indicating the tub. "There's some towels right here, a robe over here, and I've even provided you with some reading material," he indicated a small folder on the counter. He walked over to her. "Patti, I really want to thank you for even getting to this point. It's renewed my hope. It sounds stupid, but it feels good just to be horny again."

She smiled at him lovingly. "I understand. Thank you, too."

He stroked her cheek and walked to the door of the bathroom. "Take all the time you want," he said, "I'll just be relaxing out here. And oh, I have a small gift for you here," he said, indicating a small box on the counter. "Maybe you'll remember…," he said with a sly smile. 

"Okay, thanks," she said with a questioning look and a frail wave. He closed the door and she found herself alone. She looked around the room. There were candles everywhere and the sound of the bubbling tub filled the room. She walked over to the folder and picked it up. Inside were several printed pages bound together with a clip. The title read "For Services Rendered" and underneath that it said "Best read in a warm tub". 

She smiled… "this man was definitely a planner" she thought to herself. She took the folder and set it down next to the tub. Then she shrugged and began to take off her clothes. She settled into the water and the warmth enveloped her as she felt her muscles begin to relax. There was some kind of bath oil in the water and it made her skin feel so smooth. She closed her eyes and tried to let go of the tension that had built up. There was still a gentle throbbing between her legs and she couldn't ignore it. She thought about what had happened and what she had done and the excitement only grew. Then she remembered the folder and reached for it.

She began reading. It was the story of a man and a woman who had met on the internet. She smiled as she read... it was a stylized version of the story of Patti and Tom. But it was really happening! "I wonder how it ends?!" she thought to herself. She quickly flipped ahead to the last page and began reading...




For Services Rendered



Their eyes locked together, his eyes seeing straight into the deepest, most hidden core of her lust. The thick eight inch synthetic phallus which had felt so lifelike in her hand was now firmly fixed by its suction cup base to the seat of the chair. The head was poised at the entrance to her pussy as she squatted over it. It glistened with wetness from having made brief contact with her slick labia.

Her legs trembled as she straddled the seat in an effort to simply hold her body above the instrument that would bring her the ultimate release. She could feel the cock head starting to force her lips apart as she involuntarily began to allow her body to sink down. She was breathing deeply, but irregularly, due to her level of excitement.

His face was only inches from hers as he began to issue his final instructions. "You've done everything I've asked," he whispered to her. He could see her eyes were glazing over with animal lust. He could smell her sex as it permeated the room, her juices flowing liberally down her thighs. "You've earned every dollar." Her eyes followed his as he spoke. "Now just one last thing," he said softly.

"Yessss…," she moaned.

He gently held her face in his hands and held her gaze. "Now,…" he purposely paused.

"Unnngggggg…yessssss!!!" she pleaded. She was sweating, her skin glistening. 

He smiled lovingly at her, taking in the erotic vision of this naked woman before him, her legs spread wide, her body oozing sexual energy. "I want to watch you cum…" he commanded firmly as he gently released her and her body began to sink and accept the dildo into her throbbing cunt. 

"AAAAHHHHHH… GODDDDDDDDDDDD!!!" she screamed in the purest animal passion, throwing her head back. Her legs jerked spasmodically as she sank down on the thick shaft. Finally her legs failed her and she dropped, accepting the entire eight inch length into her pussy. Fireworks exploded in her head as every nerve ending in her body was attuned to the pleasure between her legs. She shook uncontrollably and would have fallen to the ground if he had not held her in place atop the deeply penetrating shaft. 

He gently cupped her face in his hands and looking directly into her eyes, witnessed the level of ecstasy that he had helped to orchestrate. He shared in her satisfaction … and for the first time in a long time, he felt once again like a man.



For Services Rendered



It was very humbling for Megan to walk up to Gerald. Megan was the typical cheerleader who used her looks to get ahead in life. She had shoulder length black hair that she usually kept down except for cheerleading activities and white almost pale skin that only needed a little makeup to accentuate. The part of her that guys enjoyed looking at wasn't her innocent looking face, but was the way she stretched out her t-shirts or cheerleading tops with her tits. She was slightly more gifted than some of her cheerleading counterparts and the jealousy over them was the only reason she wasn't voted head cheerleader. On this humbling day, she wore just a simple white t-shirt with a pair of seductively tight blue jeans as she walked closer to Gerald's locker. 

As much as Megan used her looks to get ahead, Gerald was known to abuse his knowledge for similar reasons. There was a rumor going around school that Gerald used his intellect to con a Science Teacher into giving him a blow job during one lunch period simply due to a wager over a science experiment. Although it was merely a rumor, the simple thought of Gerald's ability to manipulate any situation was scary enough to protect him from the typical bullying a geeky eighteen year old would go through. He stood at his locker ready to grab his Physics text when Megan spoke up. 

"Gerald?" she said almost fearfully. He turned towards her. 

"Hi, Megan, what do you want?" Gerald's voice sounded to the point and direct. Before the rumor started, Gerald was always the guy the cheerleaders and popular people went to for academic help. He helped so many football players and dingy broads pass without receiving as much as a thank you that the rumor was a welcomed blockade. He looked at Megan's face and saw the same look in her face that she wanted something. 

"Simply put, I know you passed Mr. Albert's Trig class a few years ago and he is kicking my ass right now. Can I have you tutor me? I'll pay whatever you think its worth if you do." Megan closed her mouth abruptly as she thought about the words she just said and had her thoughts turned into a perverted direction. She attempted to read Gerald's face, but it was facing towards his locker as he grabbed a spiral. 

"When's his next quiz?" Gerald asked almost emotionlessly. Megan swallowed hard before answering. 

"Friday. I am barely cruising at a D average right now and I have to maintain a C to remain on the squad. So that gives us three days to help me understand the material before the quiz. Like I said, I can pay you how much you think your help is worth within reason." She ensured that she measured out her words more carefully just in case Gerald was going to con her. If Megan knew what was going through Gerald's mind at that moment, she would have probably ran. 

"Fine, I'll do it. You want to meet me at my house?" 

"Actually, you can come by my house. It's a little easier since I know you were there before when I had that party a few years back. Can you be there this afternoon?" Megan asked feeling confident that having home advantage would keep Gerald away from any hopes. 

Gerald said unwavering, "What time should I be there?" 

Megan responded, "Practice is over at 5:30, so perhaps 7:00 so we can both make sure we have dinner?"   

"Seven will be fine. I'll be there. Just one condition though." At Gerald's words, Megan started having images going through her mind of having to wear her cheerleading outfit with no panties or perhaps Gerald making her wear even less. 

"What is it?" 

"No word of this to anyone. The last thing I need is to have the entire football team playing security for you while we do math. My intentions are to help you and that's it. Any other evil thoughts you may have in your mind are yours and yours alone, understand?"

"Crystal clear, just math," Megan agreed. As she walked away trying to piece out what she was thinking, Gerald looked in the bottom of his locker for his "special bag." Inside were not only a bag of cable ties, but also his Polaroid camera as well as a few knick knacks that he used to play with his Science Teacher booty call. The only thing Gerald regretted about the possibilities was that he would have to act more deviously at Megan's house. He knew both of her parents would be home and it would take some act of Fate to give him the opportunity. He smiled as he slipped the bag of tricks into his backpack. He would get to spend the next period with his Science Teacher and he needed a good blow job. 

Megan didn't worry the rest of the school day. As she dressed for practice, she looked in her gym locker for a spare set of underwear and found none. It was then she cursed herself for not bringing in her spares she kept in there. As she went through practice wearing her sweatpants, she felt the fabric slightly rubbing her clit. Needless to say, by the time she made it to her car to drive home, she was already turned on and wishing she had the time to call Seth for a quick fuck. Her boyfriend was always horny it seemed and even though he had his own virtual harem to service him, he always made time for his number one when she needed him. Unfortunately, the combination of traffic and road construction didn't get her home until a quarter til seven. As she went up to the house, she noticed that her parent's car was not there. 

It was then Megan began to panic. Not only was her pussy in need of a quick fix, but the safety net she thought she had was gone and Gerald was going to be there any minute. Quickly, she unlocked her door and ran into her room where she found her small egg. Ever since she turned eighteen, she and her friends would go into the Adult novelty store and check out different things. She took the egg and slid it into her pussy to start buzzing it in an effort for a quick release. Based on Gerald's reputation and the rumor, Megan surmised that she had to be totally cold in order to keep Gerald out of her pants. Sadly, with her heightened stress level, the egg was ineffective and the ringing of the doorbell startled her. She slid back into her jeans without underwear and walked downstairs where Gerald stood at the door. 

As Megan bade him to enter, she saw the note her parent's put on the door letting her know that they were going out to dinner and would be back late. The news was a shock to Megan as she quickly realized that not only were her parents not going to be home soon in case something happened, but that Gerald probably read the note also. Her mind began reeling though possible scenarios as Gerald caught her attention. In his hand was a black bag and Gerald looked at her like she had seen a ghost or something. 

"Should we do this later?" Gerald asked secretly hoping Megan would tell him to stay. 

"No, you're fine," she said with a fake smile on her face. "I just was in a rush to get home and didn't see the note."

"Is it their anniversary or something?" Gerald asked. Megan stopped. He did read the note. She panicked. 

"N-N-N-no. Just a dinner. They do that sometimes. Let's go to the dining room so we can do this," she recovered. As they walked by, Megan was afraid that Gerald could smell her arousal and that he may be up to something. As they sat down, Gerald stayed a few feet away from Megan as she reached for her bag and realized she left it in her room. 

"I'll be right back," she said apologetically as she walked up the stairs and went into her room. There was her book bag next to her egg that was in plain sight. She threw the egg into her bag and took the bag down not thinking about what could happen. As she neared the table, she saw Gerald looking through a notebook. As she edged closer, Gerald closed it before smiling at Megan. 

"Ready?" he asked.

"Okay," she said less than enthusiastic. As she grabbed her Math book from her bag, she carefully maneuvered the bag so that Gerald couldn't see inside of it. The next hour became a study group as Megan worked on her Math and Gerald worked in his notebook hiding the contents from Megan's view. Gerald knew that in order to trap Megan, she would have to make the first move. It was soon an hour later and Megan had a concept of what she was doing when she looked over one more time at Gerald looking in his notebook. 

"You working on a project too?" she asked. 

"Personal project. I am putting together a scrapbook, but it's private," he replied knowing what she was going to say next. 

"How personal?"

"Well, it gets into my private life and I don't want to shock you." He laid out the trap, so he waited to see if she would fall for it. 

"Oh, okay," she responded before she went back to her homework. Gerald then put the book down.

"Where's your bathroom?" he asked. 

Megan pointed towards the back of the house. "Down that hall and on the left." 

After he left, she grabbed the notebook and looked in. The pictures she saw scared her. They were various pictures of breasts of various sizes covered in cum. None of them stood out until she saw Stacy's breasts in a shot. Stacy was her best friend and she wore purple pierced barbells in her nipples. There were her breasts with a copious amount of semen on them. Megan was stunned. 

"What are you doing?" Gerald yelled. Megan freaked and closed the book. She then turned and saw Gerald's face twisted in rage. As Megan was ready to speak, Gerald spoke first.

"I knew your curiosity would get you and that you'd look in there. I also bet you recognized a few pictures in there as well, like your pal Stacy and Pamela the head cheerleader? My goal tonight was to just help you with your Math just like them. They tried to win me over with sex just so they didn't have to pay. It worked for them except I took snap shots of the results. That's why I started a scrapbook so that I had leverage on them if they ever tried anything. Now, you ruined it because now you know their secret too. Now I'm going to have to buy your silence."

Megan was stone. She was afraid something was going to happen and it looked like her worse fears were coming true. As she opened her mouth to speak, she looked down and saw Gerald's cock already out of his slacks erect. Megan was unsure what to do. She then found her voice. 

"Your secret is safe. I won't say anything."

"Not good enough. I don't trust you. Here's what we'll do. You are going on your knees now and suck me off and I am going to cum on your tits like the others. Then I'll take a picture when I am done. This will remain a secret as long as you don't tell your boyfriend or anyone else for that matter. If you refuse, I will tell every girl in that book that you know and you'll be ostracized. You know how bad it feels to be ignored, to be treated as an outcast?"

Megan was pondering her options. She didn't want to lose Stacy as a friend nor did she want to suck that geeky cock which was already glistening with precum. She obediently went down to her knees and started weakly licking his cock before he pushed her head back. 

"You think a few licks are going to make me cum? Looks like I'll have to take more drastic measures," he said as he went for his bag. He grabbed a few of the plastic cable ties and brought them over. Megan spoke up first. 

"Look, I'll do what you want, but can we at least go to my room in case my parents come home?" Gerald smiled. It was going directly as planned. 

"Go," he said as he followed her upstairs. He watched her ass as it bounced a little while she ran to her room. Once there, Megan was already on her knees before Gerald entered. He walked over to the bed and grabbed a pillow. 

"Put this under your knees," he commanded. Megan did as she was told before Gerald undid his pants button and allowed them to fall. He walked closer to her as his cock bobbed before he was within reach. Megan was distracted for a moment when she saw the cock slide into view. She realized that Gerald was slightly longer than Seth and why all those girls allowed themselves to be taken by him. 

"Take off your shirt and your bra," he commanded. Megan knowing that she was powerless to stop him complied and soon her voluptuous rack was in view. Gerald had seen Megan in her tops and her cheerleading outfit and thought that the breasts were enhanced by artificial means. When he saw the beautiful large areolas and the nipples already stiffened before him, he had to catch himself before he lost control of the situation. Megan sat there obediently waiting for Gerald's next instruction. Gerald moved closer to Megan's lips. As she opened them expectantly, he stopped.   

"Wait," he said as he grabbed the plastic cable ties from his slacks pocket. He then went behind Megan and began to strap her hands together as she sat there powerlessly. The view from behind was exquisite as Gerald noticed Megan's back and its flawless skin. As he looked over her shoulder, he could still see the tips of her tits. Megan was starting to breathe normally as Gerald moved around and began to rub his cock over her face. Megan opened her mouth reflexively. Gerald smiled his toothy grin before he slowly slid his cock into her open mouth. 

Megan's mouth closed on him and Gerald moaned loudly from the feeling. Megan's blue eyes looked up at Gerald as she sucked slowly up and down his shaft. In her past, she was known to use her hands while she looked at the target to get him to shoot faster. Because her hands were secured, she had to depend solely on her mouth to perform. Megan looked up at Gerald's face as Gerald looked up towards her Stucco ceiling. Gerald was losing control quickly as Megan's sucking along with her eyes staring at him was driving him towards the edge. 

Gerald pulled his cock back and began to shoot salvos onto her breasts. Megan smiled realizing her picture was going to be finished soon, but then remembered the yearning between her legs. Megan always got turned on by watching a man cum and she knew she would have to ask Gerald to do something she hadn't counted on. As he flashed the Polaroid camera, Megan opened her mouth. 

"Gerald, can you do me a favor?" 



For Services Rendered



That was all the encouragement Bob needed. He began bucking wildly, fucking that nineteen-year-old ass for all he was worth. Jennie furiously rubbed her clit as his cock probed her over and over, their bodies making obscene slapping sounds as they came together again and again, Bob burying his cock to the hilt with every stroke.

"Oh fuck Jennie," Bob grunted, "I'm gonna cum right up your slutty little ass!"

"Yessss cum up my ass! I wan to feel you twitching so fucking deep inside me!"

Bob shuddered and his legs went weak, almost buckling under him, as his second orgasm wracked him, he felt his cock emptying his second deposit of the night into the condom as he kept himself buried deep inside his conquest.

The twitching of Bob' cock in places where Jennie had never felt a cock before, along with her hand brought her to a third shuddering orgasm and she felt conflicting sensations of pleasure and pain as her pussy contracted around her fingers andher sphincter tried to eject the invading and unyielding intruder buried deep within her.

Spent with the effort, they remained frozen in time for several minutes, as Bob's erection waned and he slid slowly out of the blond's tortured asshole. They both let out an audible gasp when it made a popping sound upon its exit. The two were covered in sweat, and breathing raggedly.

Bob managed to find his legs again and went to the kitchen to get them both tall glasses of water. When he returned, Jennie was in the bathroom washing his dried cum from her face. "Thank you," she offered as she gratefully accepted the water. 

"Thank YOU," said Bob, as he quickly drained his own glass and refilled it from the bathroom tap. "I don't remember the last time I went twice in one night." Jennie beamed at the compliment.

"So, you think I'll be able to pay off the rest of my website this way?" she asked, the somewhat ditzy tone returning to her voice as she grabbed her handbag and pulled out her makeup kit to repair the damage.

"Absolutely," Bob said "... I think I would plan on being here a little longer after tomorrow's photo session."

"Is there anything special I should bring?"

"I'd bring your bag of toys, and whatever sexy lingerie or outfits you happen to have," he replied. "We'll probably want to get a few photos of you in each so we can pick the best ones for the website."

Jennie got giddy again at the prospect of her own website. "I'll bring everything I've got, maybe you can help me pick!" She got dressed once again in the skimpy halter top and hot pants, and then looked at her watch. "Ohmigod! It's one in the morning! I guess I really did kind of muck things up by being so late for dinner, I'm sorry. I promise I'll be on time tomorrow!"

"2PM Jennie, and don't be late! I'll need to spend all weekend getting everything set up if you want to be online by Monday."

"I'll be here!" she said, as he led her to the door.

"Oh wait!" Bob said, just before opening the door to walk her out to her car. "I almost forgot..." He whisked back into the office and grabbed some kind of notebook out of his desk, making some scribbles in it and then tearing a piece off, which he brought back to the door and handed to her.

"What's this?" she asked.

"A receipt," Bob replied. "... for $400.00. That is your proof that you've paid me for 2 hours worth of web design," he added with a wink.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, reading the receipt, "... 'For Services Rendered'"

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This is my first Literotica submission ... comments and suggestions are welcome! I will reply personally to all signed feedback.