9) Featuring Many Different Shades of Pink
The weekend following that conversation with Kriss was the first one I remember where I had an insistent feeling of being "couped up". A kind of cabin fever.
There were games to watch on television - chores to do - tears to dry - food to cook and eat - stories to read - diapers to change - and all the other timesinks of normal domestic life. But the hours still dragged unhappily, and I didn't really perk up until Monday morning - when I stuck my head into Miriam's office.
"Are we meeting?"
She gave me a terse, distracted nod - holding out a set of keys.
"Go on ahead. I'll be down in about 10 minutes."
"Which key is it?"
"The blue one."
That weekend marked the first time that I felt abandoned, and lonely, away from work. Then, that Monday marked the first of my weeks with routine appointments. Miriam early on Mondays. Lunch with Ruth on Thursdays.
The contrast between the 2 women could not have been greater.
I knew that - as a loyal Mormon - Miriam took communion on Sunday. And then it seemed as though we had communion of a different kind on Monday.
There was the same feeling of ritual. Our time together never varied by more than a few minutes: in the same room, positioned in the same place, both of us facing in the same direction. Always the same brand of latex. Always the same brand of lube.
The sequence of events was replicated, again and again.
Little was said, but the things that were said were the same things. I was always asked to turn away (and I always agreed), and - when I approached her to begin - clothes and products were always in the same place. Her powerful legs, spread into an A-shape, would always be waiting for me: her toes digging into the carpet. The halo of lubricant around her orifices would always be shining. And it never took long to get inside.
The first few weeks, just the tableau - naked and passive - was enough to harden me up, and carry me across the finish line in a hurry (always less than 5 minutes).
Later on - when it was just the same old stuff - I would bring a magazine, and either place the pages on the conference table, or sometimes on Ruth's back, so I could look at printed porn while I was cornholing my boss. The additional inspiration was helpful, and she never seemed to mind.
That was Monday morning: with its eternal verities. I never expected it to change. Which is why the temper of my meetings with Miriam, later, came as such a surprise.
***
Ruth, on the other hand, was nothing but surprises.
At first, it didn't even seem as though she liked me - but all those years of a swinger lifestyle had made her tolerant of time with strangers, and the swinger experience had given her complete access to the most hidden corners of the male mind.
What she learned in those split-level suburban bedrooms is that, sexually speaking, guys leave absolutely nothing unconsidered - except the absolutely unthinkable: like sex with children, and maybe animals.
The time she had spent with those sexual adventurers had focused her attention on novelty. I know that I had nothing new for her. But she offered plenty that was new to me.
She almost always took the full hour: since it was almost always a double session. We'd start off with something fast: to blunt the edge of anticipation: usually a blowjob, since her mastery of oral sex was so complete that she could almost make me finish just whenever she wanted me to finish.
That "opener" would be followed by a snack. Her sandwiches were always excellent - and, occasionally, she would share recipe cards. She hadn't started out her married life as a good cook, but - as a committed sensualist - she had refined her talents in that area, too.
The anal sessions were always second: longer, and slower. Minimalist would be the closest description: just the instruction to keep my cock in there, filling up space, for as long as I could.
At first, I protested.
"But you can do this with anything that has the right length, and the right shape."
"Not really. Because a cock is alive, and it's never really still. You're always moving around, a little. And I can feel how hard, or soft, you are. Whether you need some motion. Or whether you're about to finish. There's a kind of tension. Tension is good. Keeps everybody interested."
It was from Ruth that I also received an advanced education in female anatomy. She had no self-consciousness at all, and would show me anything I asked to see, without hesitation.
She also had strong opinions.
"We're the ones with the pleasure organ-"
I interrupted.
"You mean: women."
"Right. A woman's clitoris has no other job. It's just there to provide pleasure. We're the ones with all the sensory equipment. We should be chasing you. You shouldn't need to be chasing us."
"An odd thought."
"There's nothing odd about it. We've got all the goods, sexually. We should be the ones thinking about humping-"
"Ruth-"
"We should be the ones with stacks of skin magazines sitting around the house-"
"Ruth-"
"We should be the ones shouting after guys in the street: 'Hey! Show us that cock! Show us that cock, sugar!'"
"That just all sounds weird."
"That's because the establishment - or culture - or whatever you want to call it - turns things upside down. You know: we can climax again and again and again. A woman can. We've proven that right here."
"Right."
"After those swinger sessions, I always went home a little sore, but I could have kept fucking even when all the men in the house were tapped out, and begging for mercy. Pussies don't get any respect because there's nothing on the outside to show how complicated they are. It doesn't take long to learn how to play them, but you can refine your play time all your life and never run out of options."
And there was always plenty more in that vein.
The question she always ended up asking herself: why aren't more women chasing men? Why weren't more women getting more satisfaction?
Her answer was that peer pressure kept people from being who they truly wanted to be.
But I was sure there had to be more to it than that.
***
Because of the double session requirements, Thursdays with Ruth always ran overtime - and Miriam would usually make a minor adjustment in my time card.
The upcoming Friday session with Robin would be more complicated - since Robin had requested an entire afternoon. Miriam called me into her office to talk it over - and Kriss was in the office when I arrived.
"Since Kriss, here, is handling the transportation, we have to explain why she happens to be gone at the same time you're gone. It will be a vendor visit for her."
"And not a vendor visit for me?"
"You've got no business going on a vendor visit. I'm going to have to send you home sick."
"So I'm losing a half day of sick time?"
"There's no other reasonable reason for you to be out of the building. No one in your pay grade can buy anything - or negotiate with anybody about buying anything."
"Four hours seems like a lot to give up."
"Don't worry. I'll fix it for you, somehow."
I glanced at them both, noting their very serious expressions.
"So all of you must think this is all very important."
"We all need servicing, and we're actually making up for lost time. We went for months without any help in this area."
"Meaning that your regular, 'back door' guy will be coming back soon?"
"That's not really relevant. And why we want this service isn't that important, either. Any other young man would kill to be in your shoes, so I think the fewer questions you have, the better for everyone."
"But it's just natural to be curious."
"And it's natural for us to be irritated by curiosity. The less you know, the better. We can't even bear to think about what would happen if any of this became public knowledge. Terrible for us. Terrible for you. If our bond of secrecy stays in place, everyone gets what they want - no one loses anything."
Her flinty expression discouraged me from mentioning that we were draining productivity from Coincidental: translating work time into personal enjoyment.
Instead, I just nodded. And, satisfied that my attitude had been successfully adjusted, Miriam continued.
"The usual rules apply this afternoon. Do not be seen leaving the building with Kriss. She'll circle around, and pick you up at the usual spot."
"Which is?"
"Where Ruth picks you up."
***
And that part of the journey was simple enough. Kriss' car was fragrant with both cigarettes, and perfume - and she immediately got the car rolling: smoothly accelerating up the hill, toward new experiences.
"Where are we going?"
"She has a brand new condo about 3 miles from here."
"Turns out that I'm on sick time."
"Yes, I was at that meeting. No other way to get you out of the building. They watch the Claims Processors pretty carefully. And not just time. Money. That's something that Robin does."
"What something is that?"
"Processing audits. Just making sure that you aren't sending any Coincidental money to yourself."
"I'm not sending Coincidental money to anybody. I thought my job was to figure out how not to pay claims."
"You're right. That is the idea."
"But there would be a way to send money to myself?"
"Some people have tried it."
We were still climbing. It appeared that Robin might have a great view from where she was living.
Kriss interrupted that thought.
"It's a matter of trust."
"It's a matter of trust?"
"You can steal money from Coincidental only if you've worked there long enough that no one thinks you would ever steal from them. As a beginner, there's someone looking over your shoulder all the time. But then, as a customer rep - or arbitrator - you have quite a bit of latitude. Not that many people are watching you. One of the Senior Arbitrators actually tried it. A few months ago. Remember that?"
"Not really."
"We had her cold. Sending money to a relative, who was then cashing the checks for her. They took her out of the office, in handcuffs, in front of everyone. And the guys on Staff Row made sure that a lot of people saw it. The wages of sin. They're very big on the wages of sin."
"How much did she get?"
"Not even $500. A little bit of money that cost her everything. Thirteen years of steady, reliable work - and they still walk her out the door in handcuffs. For a lousy five hundred bucks."
"And so Robin is one of those, then? One of the cops?"
"Just making sure all the money goes where it's supposed to."
Suddenly, I didn't have that much enthusiasm for my upcoming appointment - and Kriss noticed my change in mood.
"Don't overreact."
"I'm not overreacting."
"We all do the same thing over there. Robin does what I do. What Ruth does. Maybe there's something about auditing that makes you hungry for cock."
Although you don't seem that hungry for cock, I thought. But I knew, by now, that Kriss was impervious to that kind of chatter. Instead, I had misgivings about Robin.
"Seems like Robin is a lot more butch than either of you. She has the pickup truck, right?"
"If she's wearing spurs and a dildo when you meet her at the door, then you'll know everything you need to know."
Kriss smiled at my facial expression.
"Robin's not one to worry about. I'm betting you'll have the time of your life with her."
"When will I be having the time of my life with you?"
Kriss pretended that I hadn't said anything, and pulled slowly into the circular drive in front of the condo. She pulled to a stop, leaving the engine running.
"Stay with the high, hard one, slugger."
"Now you sound like a baseball fan."
"Maybe I am a baseball fan. Get a move on. You're a couple of minutes late."
***
My intuition was correct: and Robin did have a majestic view of the city from her unit on the 11th floor. It seemed like she could stand at the window and look all the way to the Kansas border.
And that was just one of the majestic views that I encountered after being buzzed up to her place.
Either Robin had some kind of identity problem - or she was a very skilled actress - because the same woman who came across so astringent at work (jeans, pickup truck, cowboy shirts, when she wasn't wearing some sort of severe business suit) lived in a soft, aromatic, chick cave: filled with figurines, fragrance, and lace.
And her intentions were clear from the beginning, as she opened the door decked out in a translucent pink demi-robe (with a feathered collar) over a pale pink bra, and a very skimpy set of pink panties. Her fuzzy, backless slippers were also pink. And she had a pink ribbon in her blonde, freshly-washed hair.
"You're right on time. Thank you for that."
I was deeply distracted, so I didn't respond right away. She followed my eyes down to her chest.
"That's right. I usually dress to put less emphasis on them. Boobs make you a second class citizen when you're working in one of those good old boy environments. They think a big chest makes you stupid. But, now that I'm at home, and comfortable, we can have some fun later. I don't mind you playing with them, as long as you don't play rough. But first, I need your help in the bedroom."
Living in a full size house with my family, the scale of her condo was a quietly humorous: a very small space - for a small person. We walked into a tiny bedroom - which she announced as the "master bedroom" - and I was surprised by a couple of things.
The first was a Tyvek dropcloth covering most of her bed. A pink duvet peaked out from under the industrial fabric, and all the pillows were wearing lacy covers. So the Tyvek struck an odd note.
An even odder note was struck by what was lying on top of the cloth: an enema bag, complete with nozzle.
Robin offered the kit to me, although I wasn't eager to take it.
"Just a little logistical thing before we get started."
"I haven't seen one of those since I was a kid. Are you sure you need it? The others haven't had a problem."
"But you do get more careful, once you've had a blowout."
"I have no idea what a blowout is."
"And, hopefully, you'll never find out. It's humiliating beyond belief. Plus - if you have nice stuff in your bedroom - you might have to just throw it all away. So that kind of accident can get expensive, too."
"I think I'm starting to get a picture of what you're talking about."
"Disgusting, right?"
"Not a big mood builder."
"The only redeeming thing about it is that it usually happens after everything is done. So it's not like it's a serious interruption."
"OK. If that's the good news."
All the time we were conversing, she continued to hold out the rubber apparatus in my direction. Finally, I accepted the inevitable - and took the kit from her.
"Warm water. Not too hot. And I like to take the whole bag. I have a nice strong sphincter. I never leak."
The "master bathroom" was barely big enough to turn around in. My little family would have found it hilarious. But the fixtures were modern and stylish.
I carefully mixed hot with cold, to get the right balance - inserted the tube - and then returned to the bedroom: where Robin was reclining on the drop cloth with her underpants off and her pink pussy - as bare as the day she was born - just visible under the translucent robe.
"You can't be that confident in these preparations, if you've got the dropcloth down."
"Pink and brown don't mix. But the cloth is mainly for the oil. Because this is a one of a kind duvet. See?"
She folded back the drop cloth, so I could see that it was an official, trademarked Barbie bedspread.
"Where did you find that?"
"You can find things, if you look hard enough."
"Barbie and Ken. Not exactly your reputation around the office."
"And that will be our little secret. Just like everything else we'll be doing this afternoon. Can you see my asshole back there?"
"Sure. No problem."
"And you've used one of these with your kids?"
"Not really. But I've got the basic idea."
"It's important to make sure the nozzle is all the way in, so the water doesn't go everywhere."
"Check."
"And then hold the bag up high, and undo the valve, and then gravity does the rest."
"Check."
Robin was already revved up - her eyes gleaming and her breath coming short - so I could be forgiven for wondering if the enema wasn't really going to be the highlight of our afternoon.
I had heard of that sort of thing - and Robin made all kinds of sexual noises as she was being filled up: a low kind of moaning, along with "Yes...yes...yes...."
When the bag was empty, I double-checked with her.
"Plug's coming out. Is that OK?"
A second, or two, ticked by. Like she was savoring the sensation.
"Ready."
As soon as the hose was out, she scampered off into the bathroom: leaving the door open so I could hear the rapid cascade hit the porcelain - along with her exclamation of satisfaction.
"Oh God! That's perfect!"
Then a little uncertainty in her voice.
"Eli? Where are you?"
"Here - in the bedroom."
"Come in here. We're wasting time."
"Aren't you still on the toilet?"
"Where else would I be?"
"I guess I'm old-fashioned...."
"Who gives a shit about that? You need to be in here."
Sure enough, she was perched happily on the throne, with her translucent pink robe hanging around the outside of the toilet seat - and her dainty feet half out of their slippers.
"You can put your clothes on that shelf over there. You showered this morning, right?"
"Just a few hours ago."
"We'll see how things are going with you. You may need to shower again if you're getting ripe."
She punctuated this with a fart like a thunderclap. She gave a little giggle.
"Sorry." (But she didn't look sorry).
I defended myself.
"I think I'm probably OK, hygiene-wise."
"Let's make sure. I like a nice, clean house."
When I had everything off, she motioned me over to where she was sitting. I was at something like half-mast, so she used her hand to lift me into her mouth.
Like Ruth, she was fixed completely on my reaction as I felt her mouth moving over my cock: looking at me without seeming to blink. Naturally, I was considerably stiffer when I came out of her mouth than when I went in.
"You're OK. Little hint of Old Spice."
"My wife closes the bathroom door whenever she's doing what she needs to do. This is making me feel very uncomfortable."
"It was mostly just water that came out of me."
"But you're sitting on a toilet. How is that supposed to be erotic?"
The translucent half-robe she had been wearing since I'd arrived was fastened by one pink button at the neck. Once that button was undone, the fabric fell off her shoulders of its own weight. That left her lace-trimmed brassiere - which tended more toward a peach color - and it was the preview of her breasts that turned me to stone as her mouth moved slowly, and gently, along my shaft.
She left me glistening in the open air.
"I saved the best for last."
"That's what I was thinking."
But it didn't seem as though we were thinking of the same thing, since - just that very second - I could hear her pissing into the bowl.
I had to ask.
"Is that what you think is the 'best'? Pissing in front of me?"
"Not really. If you wanted a golden shower, you should have said so."
"What's a golden shower?"
"I pee on you. Usually on your face."
"No. Nobody in the world does that."
"You'd be surprised. There are magazines about it."
"I guess I haven't seen those. But is this what you meant when you said the 'best part'?"
"Of course not."
With my cock still in her mouth, she reached up and unlatched the front of her bra: pushing the shoulder straps off, and cradling her porn-quality breasts in her hands. They were worth the wait: perfectly formed, round, and creamy, with flat nipples and delicate mauve aureoles.
She could have had a historic porn career based on those boobs alone - and she knew it. My cock came back out of her mouth.
"They're pretty, aren't they?"
"Magnificent."
"You can touch them, if you want."
Her hands surrendered to my hands, and I cradled both tits while she brought her hand up to cradle my scrotum, still giving my cock some very gentle suction.
So...the time was right...the situation was right.
But the venue was still very wrong. I could never cross the finish line while she was crouched where she was crouched, and I told her so. She nodded, not offended: seeming to understand.
"Well - I do have another idea that gets us out of the bathroom."
"Could we try that? Would you mind?"
"No. Fun is fun. Sometimes we need to make adjustments so that everyone can have fun."
"Thanks for understanding."
"I need to wipe, so you'd better step outside if you don't want a long look at that."
I reluctantly let her breasts hang free, and stepped out of the room - not closing the door behind me - but escaping the sight of her cleaning her private parts.
END OF CHAPTER NINE
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