The Arrangement

“Here’s my expense report, Ms. DiPesto!” said Henry. Erin Bouvier didn’t even look up. She didn’t appreciate the joke, since she didn’t think she looked like Agnes DiPesto from Moonlighting. She did have very large eyes. There was, she supposed, some association. But she was also an odd duck. She liked period clothing. These days, she wore her salt and pepper hair in a wing cut. She favored wrap dresses, ribbed hose and ankle strap high heels. She told the curious she just liked different styles. She saw it in a magazine. Simple as that. Henry saw more, Henry liked her. While friends at work were always a bonus, she hoped he wouldn’t act on it. He wasn’t bad looking; she just never dated anyone from work. Especially right now. This afternoon, she shuffled Henry’s expense report for his trip to Chicago into a folder with all the others. She’d be doing them before the end of the week. She swallowed a vitamin, then drank the rest of a large bottle of water down, then went to the water cooler and filled it again. “How much water do you drink in a day? Where do you put it?” said Candace, the slut from across the hall. “I’m a camel,” Erin said, without looking up. Candace was sleeping with her boss. Not Candace’s boss, a bull dyke who was actually very friendly to Erin, but Erin’s boss, a conceited prick who considered himself God’s Gift. Erin looked on this as a bad situation waiting to evolve. And she had something to lose. She’d fought her way up from secretary to accounting clerk. Candace was the kind of woman who competed with all women. C’mon, UPS, said Erin, under her breath. The afternoon was wearing on. As she got back to her desk, the intercom lit up. “Erin, this is Sylvia. You have a package up here,” she said. “Thanks, Sylvia, I’ll come up,” she replied, turning on her heel to click click click up the hall to the receptionist. Sylvia was on the phone, on her headset, and other lights were blinking. The reception area was empty. She pointed at the UPS envelope on her desk. The UPS man was piling other packages in the chair next to Sylvia’s desk and proffering the clipboard for her signature. Erin took her package, mouthed thanks to Sylvia, and then went back down the hallway, click, click, and click. She opened the envelope quickly, took out the plain, white envelope inside and crammed it in her purse in one, smooth motion. She drank down half her water, and then went in the bathroom with her purse. Inside, she went in a stall, locked the door and sat. She didn’t pull her dress up or her panties down. She felt the urge. She controlled it. She opened her purse, took out the badly crumpled envelope she’d crammed in the top, opened it and unfolded a piece of paper.
“Sandman Motel. Room Seven. Five O’clock. No Air Conditioning,” said the neatly penciled invitation. A key fell out of the envelope and onto the tile floor. The bathroom door opened as she reached for the key and she recognized Candace’s tiny, high–heeled mantraps. “What’s that?” Said Candace, the feet coming so quickly over, a well manicured, high maintenance hand reaching suddenly to the tiles where the key on its ring with its plastic fob had but a moment ago been. Erin crammed the key and letter back in her purse, put the purse on the little shelf on the door, then whooshed her skirt up and off her butt, leaving her soft, round bottom to descend on the seat, straining her old, yellowed, lace underwear. She had a passing thought about just letting some fly, through her old panties, but pulled up. Her soft, well upholstered fuzzy thing rose up in the crotch of her panties, and as her lips slid past the silk crotch onto the seam and lace, she felt it, got a little warm, felt a little girl juice lubricate her lips. “Is that you, Erin? If I drank as much water as you, I’d be in here all the time!” she said, her lilting, always playful sing–song voice starting in front of the door, then going to the side as she entered a stall, the little, high heeled feet moving quickly, step, step, step, stepping until they fronted the commode, then they clip clap about–faced, pointing out. Candace pulled the door shut with a terrific bang which shook all the dividers and made Erin jump off the seat, then settle her soft, round ass back down. From the next stall, after a whoosh of skirt and a snapping of elastic, there came the sound of a garden hose, full force, in the toilet. Erin got up and zipped her purse shut after cramming the note and the key down into its nether reaches. She pulled on the door’s slide and tried to pull her dress down simultaneously, a feat that almost sent the purse rolling off the shelf. The water music followed her out, silenced only by the door’s closing. She made it back to her desk, looked at the clock and saw it was 4:25. She locked her desk, shut down her computer and turned to leave five minutes early. “Didn’t your momma teach you to wash your hands?” She ignored Candace’s question, popped the moment she opened the bathroom door, to stalk out. Candace was five two and 105. Erin was five nine and 185. At this particular moment, she wanted to pop Candace. What was she saying to her boss? You couldn’t turn your back on a person like that in the office. In the space of that thought, she traversed the hallway; the reception area and she found she had opened the front door. “Goodnight, Erin,” said Sylvia from the reception desk. “Goodnight, Sylvia,” Erin turned and replied, a genuinely friendly, soft, contralto. It was so different from her usual office voice even Sylvia noticed and smiled a winning smile as the tinted door closed, leaving Sylvia in the curtained, air– conditioned reception room, and Erin in the blazing light and heat. Erin walked to her car, her leather high heels making clopping and dragging sounds on the half–melted asphalt. She got in and lowered all the electric windows. It was an old car, but the A/C worked fine and would have taken the interior from 130 degrees to a comfortable 70 in five minutes, but she drove off with the windows down instead, as she’d been commanded. At the first traffic light, she turned the A/C on, but still left the windows down. She could feel what the hot seat was doing to her back, her ass, her thighs, but at least her face didn’t have to suffer. She passed the Sandman at five to five. Almost out of town, out of the way, once a stopover for tourists before expressways, dead palm trees now graced the shabby front of it. Someone filled in the pool with mud and put a bird– bath in the middle at some point. “Color TV by RCA” still hung crookedly out front, under the Sandman sign. She drove past it and turned on the next street. She passed by the back, stopped at the stop sign, and then drove on. Somewhere on the next block, she turned around, drove back, then parked between two other cars in back of a convenience store that fronted on the next street. She pressed the button and all the windows went back up. She got out. When she stood up, she had to pull up strongly. A panicky look crossed her face, just for a moment. She felt her pubic hair pull where it’d gone through the lace of her panties. Her lips, now slick, sliding along the soft, silky insert in the crotch, wet, wetting it, the hair stuck on her soft, curvy inner thighs pulling free, a slight breeze up her dress cooling the sweat between her legs, she grimaced. She pulled her dress off her back and legs, where it stuck, and out of the crack of her ass. After pulling her dress straight, she locked her door and clip clopped across the worn, potholed road. She stepped behind a seven–foot high wooden fence that obscured the gap in the cinderblock wall that ran between the two rows of rooms at the Sandman. They were numbered with great thought by someone back in the 1940’s. One through seven were on one side. Eight through 14 were on the other, such that room number one was opposite room 14 at the front and seven and eight faced each other at the rear. She stepped to the door of number seven and unzipped her purse. The key was where she put it, lost way down in the nether reaches of her purse, so she had to rummage. While she rummaged, she stepped anxiously from one, high–heeled foot to the other, making clap–scratching sounds on the flagstone in front of the door. Finally she found the key. She pulled it out of her purse with a nervous jerk, stuck it in the lock, twisted, opened, and stepped quickly inside. The inside was dark. She looked on the old, RCA TV on its metal stand just to the left of the door and saw a small, potted plant atop it. White periwinkles. She pushed the door closed behind her. It was totally dark. Her eyes weren’t adjusted. Someone grabbed her from behind. An arm wrapped around her waist like a python. A hand descended across her mouth. Hot breath blew on her cheek; a bony cheek with five o’clock shadow scraped her soft face. Another bone pressed her soft bottom. Pushed her forward so her heels came off the floor a fraction. “No fuss,” whispered a male voice in her ear. “OHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” She said. “I said be quiet!” The voice said, still whispering. “OHHHH, NO!” She said through his fingers, and she felt it begin to happen. Her lips, sumptuous, wet, surrounded by a soft nest of hair, went down into the warm, fragrant, femaleness of the satiny crotch of her worn, lace panties, and spurted an ounce of yellow that went through, dripping on her soft, curvy white inner thighs. The cock in the pants of her assailant pushed her soft, full ass and she stumbled forward, spurted again, and then lost it. “OHHHHHHHHHHH!” She said, bending. His cock pressed her cheek some more, shoving gently. She pissed so hard, so suddenly, she wet the front of her dress voluminously with a jet of piss that went through the satiny crotch of her panties and spread out over the lap of her dress. Then there was so much it shooshed back and off the back end of the soft, wet, silkiness and wet the back of her dress. She pissed down her legs; puddled on the floor, wet the trousers of the man holding her from behind. Then a hand spanked her fat veranda. Hard. “OHHHHH!” She said, and he spanked her ass again. “OHHHHH! AAAuuugh!” She said. “Walk to the bathroom, cunt,” the voice commanded. She fell out of his arms and undulated to the bathroom like a truculent camel. “Walk back here,” said the man. She strutted back, eyes wide, lips apart, hips swiveling. “Take my pants off,” he commanded. She went on her knees, removed his belt, unbuttoned, unzipped. They fell around his ankles. She kissed his cock through his briefs, a momentary, breathy presence of her lips on the head of his cock, through the material, and then she stood up again. He stepped out of his pants and pulled her skirt up. He pulled her panties down, going down on his knees to finish, taking them off her, raising one foot, then the other. He stood up and looked at them. Then he handed them to her. “In the bathtub,” he said. She went in the bathroom and threw her pissy, messy lace panties where he commanded, and then she grabbed some TP, wiped quickly, threw it in the toilet, and then stalked back to him. He grabbed her, threw her on the bed, pulled out his cock and showed it to her. Then he pushed her up the bed, parted her legs, and entered. “Oh, no! NO! You’re not wearing any protection! Greg! We can’t! You mustn’t finish in me! Ejaculate on my legs!” Greg paid no attention. He went into her to the hilt. Pushed her up to the headboard until her head bonked it and all the joints of the bed squeaked and cracked. He shoved her legs wide apart. She wrapped them around him. He felt the gritty leather of her high–heeled shoes on his hard, round ass, the heels poking his thighs. She felt her toenails scrape the soft leather of the insides of her shoes as she curled her toes, running her stockings at the toe. She tried to pull up. He grabbed the wide planes of the top of her magnificent ass and hauled her down, impaling her on his cock. He felt a garter snap under his hand. He rose up, and then entered her one, last time to the hilt, from a high angle. She screamed, fish faced, and came, hard. He gushed in her. She turned her head away suddenly. He buried his face in the hair at the nape of her neck. She pushed her pelvis up at him, raising him, as he pulsed, spasmed, filled her inside with a warm, wet, salty lake she undeniably welcomed with all the enthusiasm her flesh could muster. And he kept pushing every now and again, erratically, unpredictably, keeping her going until she was done, finished, exhausted, a sumptuous, sweaty, conquered, happy woman, breathing softly, sighing, chuckling a little, crying almost. Greg realized she’d shredded his back again and made a mental note that he had to find an alternative to strap style tee shirts she would agree to. Or make her file her nails. After a while, he arose and went in the bathroom. She snored softly, her hair sprayed out around her head on the pillow. He looked in the bath at the yellow, deteriorating silk panties with a little mess in them. He swirled them in the toilet, then put them in the sink in the soapy, warm water. He hung her faded, dry clean only dress on a hanger, took it to the shower and ran the shower on it until it was clean. He hung it on the rod. He rinsed himself off in the shower and put on shorts and sandals. Outside, he went through the wall in the back and got her other clothes out of her car for her. ********** “Next time, a model of the Titanic,” he said. She lay there, eating crackers, getting crumbs in the sullen sheets, and looking towards the TV, which was turned off. The comment came because she was actually looking at the periwinkles in the pot. They’d worked it out– never at either one’s home. But they needed signals. Just in case. If the periwinkles hadn’t been there, she would have backed out fast, pepper spray in hand. “Will you go down on me?” She asked, coy. “You’re no iceberg.” “Better see I never want to become one.” “As if,” he said, finger tracing around her breast, almost but never quite touching her aureole, then, “Motel venue still adds excitement for you?” “Yes.” “More excited than, say, coming over to my place, where we could cook and spend the whole evening together?” “Wait … a couple weeks, OK?” She asked. Her daughter’s birthday was coming up shortly. “Ok…” he said, clearly perplexed, but content to wait. She changed the subject, and he rejoined the banter gladly. “You like the undies?” “Yes, they were grand!” “You like lace on a lady’s derriere.” “Not always. Sometimes, plain old Love Pats are good.” “You’re joking!” “No, I like what’s in them, not the panties themselves. And I like variety. Wear some Love Pats. Wash them in some bleach, then I can tear them off you.” “Yeah, I’d be a cheap date! Hey, do you want me to wear some tight pants instead of skirts and dresses?” “Only if they’re hot pants. Slacks take too long to get off, and tight ones take even longer.” “Just as well. I’m embarrassed about my bottom.” “You’re a lovely, shapely woman. You’re not supposed to have a small bottom. Men are.” “Why, thank you, sir! Say, did I say the right things for you when I came in?” This was an understatement. She was so convincing. “Yeah, I’ll say! I almost came in my BVDs,” he replied. “I’d like to see you come in your BVDs.” “Well, one day, why don’t you just keep licking me through them? Finish the job.” “Only if you’ve showered and they’re just put on clean.” “Oh, its OK if my sweaty cock goes in your vagina…” “My hoo hoo doesn’t have any taste buds … Bud…” He laughed. She laughed a dark, contralto, musical laugh that tugged his heartstrings. “You naughty lady.” “Glad you realized that. I might do a lot of things with you, but I’m always a lady.” “Ever wear white gloves?” “Next time,” she said, and he felt his heart race. When Alfred Hitchcock spoke of Grace Kelly, he said it all. They lay together and watched some news. Bad news. Unstable world, nukes, terrorists, unemployment, stagnant economy, no more social security lockbox, the world economy, the euro dollar … their fingers found the off button on the ancient, stained remote together. They napped for a while in each other’s arms. ********** He lounged on the bed in jean shorts, a polo pony tee. She came out of the bathroom in a white blouse and taut skirt, the ankle strap heels, no hose. She primped her wing cut, got a small mirror out of her large purse and tried to put on lipstick and got some on one of her many straight, white teeth that made it hard for her to close her mouth. She had a weak chin and constantly tried to thrust it out to compensate. This made her look like pigeon–woman applying makeup. “Where do you think you’re going?” He asked. “I need to visit my husband.” “No stockings?” “I ran them.” “Don’t you carry an extra pair?” “I didn’t know I was going to scrape my toes through them.” “And that skirt.” “I like wearing taunt skirts, they make me feel very feminine.” Her ass and thighs looked like a map of Africa in that skirt if you looked at her from the side. A mild speech impediment sometimes got the better of her and some words changed. In this case, taut changed to taunt. He liked it very much. He rose to the occasion. He got off the bed and pushed her into the wall. “What do you think you’re doing?” She said, stuffy. “You’re not wearing any underwear,” he said, and he pulled her taut skirt up to her hips, revealing her dark triangle, wet, with a splash of cream on her creamy white thighs. “Oh, no … “ She began, but he pulled his zipper down and his cock swung out, large, stiffening, rising. “Ohhhhh … “ She gasped, and her muscular legs went into motion, moon walking her high heels frantically up the old, ornate, wooden baseboard. She looked at the ceiling, while the palms of her hands explored the warped veneer of the wall. When she felt his large, hot head begin to part her lips; she put one, high–heeled foot on the bedside table. She barely got it there before he went up in her like an ascending piston, smoothly pushing up until his pubic hair ground into hers and she felt her other foot almost come off the ground. “Oh, God, NO!” She said, turning her head to one side, her sure fire sign to him. He felt her spasm and fall towards him, holding him, her fingers finding his back and her nails gripping. “Ah … AH … AAAAugh!” She screeched in his ear. His cock jumped inside her, spurted, pushed, hosed in her. She clamped down on him and felt her breath leaving, her sight dimming, the room going dark and her hearing condensing to a roaring, rushing sound within her ears. ********** Erin arrived at the nursing home at eight. The nurse at the front desk watched a vivacious, glowing woman in a white blouse and a tight, off white skirt make her way through the lobby and up the north wing. She knew Erin Bouvier from her many visits and they smiled briefly from across the lobby. She would go to room 125 and sit with her comatose husband for a while, then go home. Drunk driver. No insurance. Mark Bouvier would never die. He also would never wake up, everything in his head dead above the medulla. He’d had his fifteen minutes and more on the local news in a legal battle over withdrawing his feeding tube. His parents won. But the HMO wanted the money from Erin. She surrendered and filed for bankruptcy. Now she lived in a cheap apartment with her daughter. Ten minutes later, Greg Stafford arrived and went to the south wing after a brief word with the nurse. His wife was dying of heart disease. Slowly. A heart attack a year and a half ago had deprived her brain of oxygen for more than 10 minutes before Greg found her, called 911 and commenced CPR. This evening, he wondered if he’d want to continue living in this town after she passed, he so associated it with his wife. The nurse watched one leave at 10 something. The other stayed until one in the morning, way past visiting hours, and they’d either been crying or they were in need of a good night’s sleep. The nurse barely noticed, she continued reading the National Perspirer. One afternoon, a couple months back, the same nurse had gone to the cafeteria and seen Greg Stafford and Erin Bouvier, who were deep in conversation ahead of her in the line. They took their coffee at a table for two, their heads close together until they left. But that was months ago, and since she’d never seen them together again, the nurse didn’t remember it, even when someone asked her about it and showed her a beat up photo of Erin. ********** I met Erin’s husband’s mother at a Starbuck’s in the mall. She bought a large, double whipped latte with vanilla flavoring and cinnamon sprinkles. I grabbed their basic cuppa joe, black, and handed her the photographs. Erin in a wrap dress and ankle strap heels, leaving work in her old car; Erin arriving home on an average evening at dusk. Erin arriving at work; Erin coming and going at the nursing home. With her daughter six nights; alone on one other; Erin going to the grocery store with her daughter. Erin waving as her daughter went off in some soccer mom’s car to a pajama party. “Nothing but a normal mom and her daughter living their life,” I volunteered. “I still don’t think that woman’s a fit mother. That apartment house where she’s moved isn’t a good environment for children to grow up; it looks sleazy! I’m sure she’s broken her marriage vows in front of my granddaughter; I feel it in my bones! She’s told me Erin comes home real late sometimes! One time she told me Erin told her a cockamamie story about a guy at her office bringing her home because she had car trouble. Car trouble, my left ear! How come you haven’t got any pictures of her inside the office?” I avoided asking her why she might’ve given up a lovely house and moved to an apartment. Instead, I confined myself to answering the woman’s question: Why didn’t I take pictures of her at work through the window? “She is an accounting clerk who used to be a secretary. She probably still has to answer the phone when the secretary’s out. She doesn’t rate a window.” Erin’s husband’s mother couldn’t get her son back, so she was trying to take a granddaughter who would soon be old enough that the judge would have to ask her what she wanted. “I want you to follow her for another week,” the old lady said, pushing a check across the table that covered this week and the next, twice what I expected. She shoved her lower lip out and pouted. She was angry I’d dug no dirt for her. And time was running out quickly. “OK!” I said, stuffing the check into my pocket without hesitation. When I got home, I collected the pictures from the Sandman, all outside shots, her coming and going, a man going into the trunk of her old car for some dry cleaning, and put them on the coffee table, along with the negatives. I fed everything through the shredder. Then I poured myself a cold one.
Erich Too