Michael and Susan

Unabsorbed, Michael gazed at the TV, vaguely following the carnival bright colors of the game but oblivious to the score. Which teams were playing? He was bored.
It was Saturday and rain brushed at the window.
A murmur of voices from the street idled through the glass, diffuse in the traffic noise. They drew his attention more than the TV and gradually his focus shifted to them, striving to separate male from female, even to catch an essence of what they said. This was not idle neighbor gossip, no. There was earnestness about the voices– instructing, planning, and plotting even.
Salesmen!
His attention complete, Michael positioned himself so he could observe a small group of individuals standing huddled against the weather by a car. He watched as they allocated their prey with street–guide and marker. You do this– I’ll sell that. Michael idly speculated as to who was the manager and who were managed. There were two obviously junior members of the team. One, a gawky youth with a disinterested air, was probably just a student augmenting his grant; but the other…he lifted himself a little higher so he could see more clearly…oh, yes, the other one was a much more intriguing proposition!
The girl had made every attempt to dress well, but the money was obviously not there. Her briefcase was a cheaper and much–too–heavy plastic brand. Her grey coat, smart though it was, only thinly covered her shivering back. Beneath a woolen hat and framed by wet wisps of blonde hair her small features were set in a tense, abstracted gaze which said clearly how little she wanted to be here. She nibbled her lower lip while the others talked, contributing not one word of her own. And she was never still.
Eventually the most managerial–looking member of the team took her shoulder and waved at Michael’s terrace and the little band of canvassers straggled unwillingly apart. Last and most unwilling was the girl. For a moment or so she didn’t go anywhere at all: she just looked up and down her allotted span of housing, dithering and nibbling at a full and quite tempting lower lip. Michael studied that face as it turned towards his house. Pale, a little vapid. Nice though, with even features and large blue eyes. He wondered – would she come to his door first?
At last she moved and – yes, advanced towards his door. His door– there was a clack of heels approaching. Michael had just enough time.
He bustled through to the kitchen: coffee, some cake…through to the lounge, flicking his TV into darkness. Silence reigned in the house. The knock, when it came, was so soft he might well have missed it. In an agony of anticipation he counted to ten. Then he opened the door.
“Hello, I’m from South–Western Glazing,” said the girl in a wavering voice; “Are you the owner of the house?” She was actually quite tall, swaying on his doorstep with the heavy case balancing her weight, which, stork–like, she thrust all upon her right foot. As she spoke she swapped feet. “I wonder if I might have a moment of your time?” It wasn’t really a question.
“You’re a double glazing salesperson, aren’t you?” Michael fixed her with his steeliest stare. “I don’t really think I’m interested, thank you.”
“If that were true I wouldn’t blame you…” The retort was practiced, mechanical; “But I’m not here to sell you anything. We were just visiting this neighborhood…” the tall girl rambled on, drawing just as much attention from Michael as had the football game in its time: he had no interest at all in double glazing.
“Come in!” He said suddenly. Then, in admonition: “And wipe your feet…” And, as the girl seemed caught by surprise: “I was about to have some coffee. You can entertain me with your “spiel.”
The girl met Michael’s eyes for the first time. She saw satin and steel. She smiled nervously as she stepped inside, and Michael liked her smile. “You are wet!” he exclaimed, as if ignorant of the rain that beat upon his porch. “Take your coat off – you must be soaked!”
“We are looking for people from this neighborhood who would like to help us to advertise our products…” The girl launched herself determinedly into her sales pitch.
“Yes, yes,” said Michael: “What’s your name?” He was helping her from her saturated coat, draping the garment over the hallstand. As she bent her head forward he was reminded how exciting the sight of a woman’s neck could be. One little mole was sitting on pure peach skin. “Would you like a towel?”
“Thank you, no.” (This although her straggled hair was dripping steadily from beneath the woolen hat.) Michael took the hat. “You look like a Marion.” He provoked.
“Susan Preston.” Susan held out a business–like hand. “And you are?”
“Dry.” Michael grinned at her. “I’m Michael. Come and sit down!”
He led the way to his back room; a small, warm place with armchairs and a very old Chinese carpet. Experiencing its intimacy Susan looked around for something to admire but found nothing. There was just that close, cosseted feeling. She almost purred. “It’s a nice room,” she said: meaning it. They settled into chairs, she began to unpack her laptop. “Imagine what this room would be like if you…”
“Coffee?” Was she surprised that there was a second cup poured? “Oh, my wife was going to have some but she decided otherwise. You’re very welcome. Sugar, Milk?”
Susan assented lamely. How could she admit that a drink was the very last thing she wanted right now? So he had a wife. Selling points! “Would…your wife; like to join us?”
“Not right now. She’s otherwise engaged.” The coat, removed, had revealed a thin lemon–yellow mini–dress. A badly cut bra disturbed nicely flowing lines, which hinted at small but neatly contoured breasts, capped by chill–hardened nipples. Susan’s overcoat had barely resisted the rain, allowing her shoulders to become wet. Michael had to tear his gaze from the glistening rivulets that fell from her hair and glistened on the fair skin of her neck. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a towel?” He repeated.
“Oh. OK. Yes, that’s really kind of you. Yes, I will.” Susan demurred. She watched the man leave the room. He was slim, tall, and well dressed: his clothes – these furnishings – were good. Michael was obviously well enough off. And the single–glazed window confirmed he could be persuaded to buy. Yet there was something comforting, even melodic, in the soft beat of the rain upon that single glass. In spite of herself, Susan found herself relaxing; allowing the cozy embrace of her chair, and the room, envelop her. Then a bladder–tingling twinge of reality caught her sharply, bringing her to shift quickly forward in the chair and confronting her with the dire necessity of her condition. God, how she really hated the rain!
“Hope this helps?” Michael was standing over her, proffering a red towel.
“Thank you.” Susan dabbed at her hair and neck, embarrassed at herself. But the towel was warm and very soft, so she found herself snuggling into the fibers, pressing them to her. “I’m sorry!” she tried to pass the towel back.
“No, no. Carry on!” Michael refused it. “I made it warm for you – please enjoy it!”
So, aware of Michael’s full attention, Susan continued stroking the towel across places long since dried. Was she playing to a fantasy? Why should that thought even interest her? All right, yes. It did interest her. He interested her…
“You didn’t tell me your full name?” She began: “Mr…?”
“Michael. Please call me Michael?”
“Ok. Michael. Well Michael, suppose a reputable home improvement company – one of the top five in the country– were to come to you with a very special offer…” Susan heard her own words as if someone else was speaking. Mechanical words tumbling out of a barrel, words she had learned from the booklet she kept losing. Two hours! The average presentation took two hours! However would she last that long? How would she concentrate? Couldn’t ask for the loo – far too unprofessional – but oh god what else? Grimly crossing her legs, she ploughed on:
“Installation would be a selection of windows and doors from our very special San Marino range, fitted to our very highest standard. Let me show you…”
Now she had to bend forward, grab the brochure from her case. Well, here goes…
Michael watched, approving, as Susan managed to reach the case while her long legs stayed firmly crossed. How long would she delay the inevitable question?
“Finish your coffee;” he urged, cruelly. And while he studied the pictures in her brochure, she meekly did.
Michael studied the literature for a long time. After a while, when he was sure the girl’s presentation had come to an unscheduled halt, he looked up. What he saw confirmed his suspicion. Susan was sitting tensely at the edge of her seat. Her eyes were filling and half–closed, her lips clamped firmly shut. She was utterly desperate.
“You alright?” He asked.
Susan was in despair. The simple function of reaching down had brought her within an inch of a mortifying accident. Two hours were out of the question: two minutes were too long! Unprofessional or not, she bit firmly on the bullet. “Well, actually…I wonder if you, I wonder if I could just use your bathroom?”
“No.”
He said no! Oh, god, please say he didn’t mean it! “I…I’ll only be a minute: I wouldn’t ask, only it…well, it’s quite urgent?”
“Sorry, but no.”
“It’s the rain…the rain, you see – I wouldn’t normally have to…but…but I HAVE to?” She was pleading, panicking: “I’ll just be a minute?”
His face was set, his lips suddenly viperously thin. “You asked where my wife is. She is in the bathroom. She is bathing. When she has finished then by all means you can go, but I’m afraid you will have to contain yourself until then.”
“Oh” Susan heard herself say. Clinging to the edge of the world there was nothing else she could say, all her thoughts, every tiny muscle of her being was dedicated to simply hanging there – hanging on.
“She generally takes a long time,” he said.
That was when Susan knew. Since the red towel she had known. Really, she had felt it then, but now she was certain. Knew. The wires of sexual tension in the room sang and twanged around in her head: the heady warmth, the erotic scent in her own musky breath, and the rigid expression of the man before her. If she had felt hate for the sadism in his eyes it would have been easier, but she didn’t – she felt submission, she felt guilt, she felt a very strange and duplicitous shame. Tears welled.
“I expect she just likes to soak,” she murmured, fixing Michael with the moist blue pools of her eyes.
“She does.”
“And you wouldn’t disturb her for me.”
“No. I wouldn’t”
She sat before him with downcast eyes, fighting the quivering strain from her voice: “Once I got caught in rain just like this – when I was going home from college. It was terrible, Michael. I needed to go so badly and there was just…just nowhere. I couldn’t even hide myself when…”
She lapsed into silence.
Michael said nothing for a while, coolly intrigued by the way her thighs worked together, scenting the hot smell of her body. “When what?” he asked at last.
“You know what.”
Michael felt a firmness growing in his pants. “She might be hours yet. Better just get on with selling me those windows?”
Susan shook her head. Very carefully she put her laptop to one side and rose from her seat, smoothing the flimsy dress across her screaming bladder as she stepped close to Michael. “I couldn’t concentrate.” She looked up into his face so he could feel her breath, and then looked down, drawing his eyes down with her. He was made to watch as her hand slipped between her thighs, cupping the throbbing heat of her mound. The dark of her panties – were they red, or green– showed clearly through the yellow fibers where her fingers pressed. “See?” She was stepping from foot to foot; little hops, almost dainty. “I need to go.” She almost sobbed. “I need to go so bad…”
Michael said nothing. So she came towards him, putting her forehead on his shoulder as if in despair. And she let her free hand, just ever so briefly, brush against his concealed phallus. Then she broke the spell. “Look, I’d better take a little walk outside, or something. I can’t just stay here and…. Will you look after my stuff?”
Michael was still spellbound. “Yes, yes of course.” Coming to his senses, he felt all at once thwarted, wrong–footed, and slightly disarmed. His words spilled out: “Use the back yard. It’ll be… more private?” He took her shoulders, hastening her towards the kitchen and through its cold contrast to the back door. He was powerless – he had lost control of the situation. The dream he had sought to realize was going to dismantle before him. But in spite of himself he held the backdoor to the wind and the rain wide, inviting her through.
“You know what I’m going to do, don’t you?” Susan asked: “I hope you don’t mind?”
“It’s very wet out there.” Michael burbled out.
“You won’t watch me, will you?”
“Who me? I? No, no of course not!” How had he become so helpless? He took in the spare, scrunched–up figure that stood apologetically before him with her face now flushed and wet with first tears. “But it is very bad out there. And if you…if you just went on with your presentation?” He tried valiantly to lose the despair in his voice.
A very unnatural voice clawed at Susan’s subconscious and it was demanding that he stop her with his arm – thrust her back into the warm room, into the cozy glow. Something in her craved the monster but her conscious thoughts were aware that he would need help with this. That he was not (and in some perverse sense she was glad he was not) made of that stuff. And only her shamelessly clasped hand was delaying an act of utter humiliation: she could not wait much longer. Matters had to be settled, and now!
“If I stay,” Susan articulated slowly: “If I stay Michael, you understand what will happen. Are you – are you sure you want that?”
A glimmer appeared at the end of Michael’s tunnel, became a bright and reassuring glow: “But I know you can wait.” He murmured, recovering some self–assertion.
She reached for his arm, drawing him back towards the warm room. She whispered close. “I can’t, Michael. I need a wee. I have to wee. Now.”
“You’re a grown–up. Grown ups don’t – have accidents.”
“But I’m bursting.” Susan’s hand was thrust under her dress now, fingers openly squeezing at two full folds of green panty lace. They were in the warm room, standing close together as she whimpered to herself softly, losing herself in the pain. “I can’t wait, Michael, I honestly can’t. I know I’ll go in my pants…”
He took her rigid, sweat–slick body in his hands and sat her back onto the arm of a chair.
“Stay!” He urged her. He wanted to kiss her but the tensions in her face told him he should not. Susan wanted to be kissed but knew she could not return the kiss. All she could do was to clutch at her burning pussy and be sure he was watching as a first drop of dew formed around her fingers. Laughing through her tears she said in the steadiest tone she could muster: “Tell me you haven’t got a wife in that bathroom!”
Michael smiled. “No, I thought not!” Her eyes accused him.
He affected contrition. Then with sudden concern he asked: “I suppose you’ll want to use it now?”
Susan shook her head, feeling the last resistance of her bulging urethra fail. “No. It’s too late.”
Michael allowed himself to stare openly as the dewdrop erupted, gushing down the narrow green valley of Susan’s panties in a huge amber cascade. He heard her soft sobs as the force of her personal water fell from the chair arm to go spattering across his ancient carpet in a dark and spreading pool. Then, moving close as he had to do, taking her wrist to release those defeated fingers, he felt her hot jet spray forward onto his thigh.
“Oh Michael!” She cried pointlessly as he held her there: “I’m wetting myself! I can’t stop! I’m so sorry…” She clung to him, emptying herself in a flood of relief. Ready now for his kiss, ready for the emptiness to be filled, her scrabbling hands ripped at Michael’s clothes, searching out the hot sword that was scabbarded there. Still pissing, she felt his impatient fingers seek her zipper, paused in her own endeavors as he undressed her. Then her bra was suddenly gone and his lips were cupping her left nipple and she forgot all about peeing and there was a little scream of pain as he tore her knickers from her and for a few eternal seconds…the world stopped.
She looked up from the wet carpet to see Michael looking down at her, a God–figure full of love and triumph. She saw that he was naked and realized with mild surprise that she was naked too. She felt no embarrassment at this. She knew this story well enough to know what happened next. At least, she thought with a wry grin, the package did not look as if it would disappoint. Susan opened her legs wide.
Michael let his eyes devour her: the peach–bloom of her kin, the slight parting of her lips, and the wantonness in her eyes. He already accepted that Susan would become special to him and that there would come a time when he would not want her to leave. He thought it strange that the sight and feel of this girl, lying beside a pool of her own making, should be so enticing. But then she opened herself to him and, smiling to see that her maidenhair still glistened with wetness, he understood.
“Oh, Susan Preston!” Michael chided. “You wicked, dirty girl. Whatever am I going to do with you?”
Orbis