Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Author’s note: This story is the direct sequel to a story in the Exhibitionist/Voyeur category, The Girl Who Likes to Get Physical. In fact, the first five hundred words of this story are a cut & paste from the last five hundred of that story. The two main characters first appeared in another Group Sex story called The Girl Who Gets What She Wants. While I would think that you can enjoy this story just fine without reading those, if you are a reader who enjoys plot development and characterization, I would encourage you to read those first. You can easily access those stories from my author page.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Katrina finished the last sip of her drink. “And that was the last time I saw her, a little over two years ago. I’ve thought about looking her up again, but she’s a thousand miles away, and, well, it might be a little weird.”
Sarah spoke for the first time in probably forty-five minutes. “Wow, that was an amazing story. You’ve lived out quite a few fantasies that I don’t know that I could even dream of. Her with the stripper, you with the pool boy. Wow.”
She paused and looked down at her empty glass, almost nervous. She reached across the table, and stroked Katrina’s hand with one of her fingers. “You’ve got me really worked up. So, uh, you want to get out of here and go back to your place?”
Katrina laughed and wrapped her ankles around one of Sarah’s. “Eventually, something like that, yes. But first, you have a story to tell. And we need more drinks.”
She held out her glass in front of her and turned it upside down. “Harper!” she called.
The bartender looked up from surfing her phone. She pretended not to know who was calling her name, even though the two women and Arthur, the baseball fan, were the only customers in the bar. “Who’s there?”
“Ha, ha. Very funny. Can we get another round?”
“Sure. So long as you don’t want sloe gin.”
“Make mine a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. Too much vodka gives me heartburn.”
Sarah piped up, “Me too, please. Same thing.”
“Coming right up.”
Katrina turned back to Sarah. “So, it’s your turn to tell a slutty real estate agent story.”
There was a long pause before Sarah began speaking. “Well, I don’t know how to tell a story as well as you do, and I’m worried it’s going to sound sketchier than it was. It was all very consensual and willing. And I definitely did do it partly because it helped me land a sale, but partly because I just wanted to do it. So please don’t think less of me for it.”
“Sarah, I just told you about a woman I fucked every week for a year, and she paid me $150 a pop. The money certainly didn’t hurt. But I ate that pussy because I wanted to eat that pussy, damnit!”
Harper had just walked up to their table with two beers and gave Katrina a funny look. “OK, then. I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that.” She put the pints on the table and walked away.
Sarah looked at Katrina, taken aback, but Katrina was nonplussed.
“So, Sarah, no more stalling. I need the who, what, when, where, and how of The Girl Who Loves it in the Ass became a Slutty Real Estate Agent.”
Sarah looked into her lap for a few seconds, took a deep breath, and then looked intently at the woman across the table from her.
“So there was this pro basketball player…”
I’m not going to be specific about which one, because there are only so many Portland Trail Blazers out there, but this guy was a fairly high first round draft pick a few years back, so he had a huge contract, and the city was pretty excited about him. For the sake of this story, we’ll call him…uh, De’Angelo. But that’s not his name.
Like you might expect from a 20-year-old newly rich kid, De’Angelo wanted a flashy house to show off to his friends and teammates and hold big, extravagant parties, even though he wasn’t even legally old enough to drink.
I was still relatively new at the real estate agency (that I still work for, incidentally), therefore I got the low income, low quality clients or houses. The day I got this particular call, it was spring break for the local schools, so several of our soccer mom agents were out on vacation. This included both of our senior partners; this meant there wasn’t really a boss around, so everyone was leaving early. It was almost five o’clock on a Friday, and I was the only person in the office other than the receptionist, Allison. She and I were standing in the reception room, idling talking about her starting a yoga class, and gossiping about the employees who weren’t there. We were also seriously chatting about whether we should lock up the office and just go home when the phone rang. I groaned and looked at the clock — it read 4:52.
After we exchanged a sorrowful glance, Allison answered the phone with her typical, pre-programmed greeting. After a pause, “I’m sorry, Charlotte is on vacation until the week after next, can I take a message?”
Protocol in our office was that once atalar escort you’d shown a client a house, they were your client. You could show any house to any client, but the client was yours, and “sniping” a client was strongly frowned upon.
“Well, no, she won’t be back today, but I’m sure…” Allison paused, and a female voice on the other end of the line chattered on. “Yes, I realize she showed you a house, but we only have one agent work with each client, and Charlotte won’t be back for quite some time.” In fact, Charlotte Ward had left at noon the day before; she was going with her family to Bora Bora for the better part of a month. Charlotte had repeated that fact numerous times and expressed numerous times exactly how unreachable she was going to be, so we need not bother trying to get a hold of her.
“Well, yes, there is another agent available, but it’s not typical protocol to switch…” Again, the voice on the other end of the line interrupted her, and Allison looked at me with a raised eyebrow, and half-offered me the phone.
Reluctantly, I nodded and pointed towards the back, indicating I would take it back at my desk. Allison conveyed that information to the client, and I went back to my desk. It was in the back of the office bullpen, if you will, not one of the private offices that the more experienced agents (Charlotte amongst them) had.
The phone was beeping when I got there. I picked it up, as I jiggled my mouse to resurrect my computer. “This is Sarah, how can I help you?”
A southern drawl came across from the other end of the phone; the speech patterns made me think the voice belonged to an African American woman. “Hello, Sarah, my name is Simone Jackson. We saw a house a few weeks ago with another agent named Charlotte, I think, and didn’t think all that much of the house she showed us at the time, but we’ve visited a few other houses since then, and would like to take another look-see this evening.”
“Mrs. Jackson, I….”
“No Mrs; we’re not married.”
“Very well, Ms. Jackson, we don’t…”
“Simone, please. Ms. Jackson was my mother.”
“All right. Simone, we normally don’t switch agents with the same client.”
“That’s what your front girl said, but I don’t care about that. We want to see this house again, and I don’t want to wait a whole week or more to make this happen. Do what you got to do to cut through the bull.”
“We weren’t interested a month or so ago, but now we are…what’s the term? Motivated buyers. Look up my account. You’ll see who we are and what kind of house we’re looking at buying. Your company will be mad as hell if we take our business somewhere else. And we don’t care about Charlotte, we care about us.”
I made a decision. “Very well, Ms. Jack…Simone. I can head out. Do you have a specific address you were looking at?”
She read it off to me, and I pulled up the listing on my desktop computer. I couldn’t help myself, and let out a quiet “Oh.”
“Got your interest now, didn’t I?”
It was a one-point-five million dollar, nearly 10,000 square foot home that had gone unsold for the better part of five years. Simone’s visit there (with Charlotte) had been the first time anyone from our agency had shown the house in over a year. Demand for homes that large is very sparse in the Portland area — a city with a lot of upper middle class, but comparatively few of the truly wealthy.
“Yes, yes you did.”
“Can you meet us there in thirty minutes?”
“I can try, might be tough in Friday rush hour.”
“Fine. You got forty-five minutes. If you’re not there then, we’ll be on our way.”
I had pulled her up on my computer while we were chatting, and they had been looking at seven figure homes in the West Linn/Lake Oswego area. Charlotte’s notes indicated Simone was interested in paying cash.
The good news was that the house was vacant, so I didn’t have to schedule a time with the owner. I had just enough time to print up the listing paperwork, grab the house key, and wave to Allison on the way out the door. “Have a good weekend!”
“Good luck!” she called after me.
It took me exactly thirty-four minutes to get my Honda Civic to the gated estate just off Borland Road in West Linn. It was a gated home in what at first appeared to be a semi-rural area; the lots were big enough so the houses were far apart – it merely looked undeveloped. When I got there, nobody was parked outside the gate, or on the road at all. I briefly panicked, thinking I might have missed them. I called back to the office to double-check messages, but Allison was already gone. I hadn’t given them my cell phone number, so I found hers on the paperwork, and gave it a call. It went straight to voice mail; I began to wonder if I got played.
The driveway was bordered by two brick columns, each of which was capped with a gold embossed horse. I thought they looked tacky, but were likely very expensive as ataşehir escort well. The left column had a keypad on it, which was used to open the gate. The gate was about twenty feet past the columns, and had a golden horse centered upon it, as well.
I waited nervously for twenty minutes before a bright yellow Lamborghini came sprinting up the road, skidding abruptly to a stop much closer to my driver’s side window than I would have liked. Normally I’m pretty good at hiding my reaction when clients do or say really dumb things; this particular time, though, I had to look the other way to conceal my annoyance as I rolled down my window.
The windows of the sports car were heavily tinted; as the passenger side window rolled down a couple of inches, a plume of smoke emerged, and I could smell weed. A voice, which was the same voice I heard on the phone, asked “Sarah?”
I waved tentatively. “That’s me. Are you Simone?”
“Sure am. You going to open the gate for us?”
“Absolutely.” I double-checked my paperwork as I walked over to one of the brick columns. I opened a small keypad embedded into the brick façade, and punched in a four-digit code. This caused the metal gate to instantly start sliding right, with just a tiny sound of shifting metal. Even unoccupied for half a decade, this home was built sturdily enough that the gate slid seamlessly along its track.
Once the gate was open far enough, the Lamborghini revved its engine and zoomed up the driveway at well over the recommended speed; I got in my car and followed. As I slowly approached the house, I watched the gate close behind us in the rear-view mirror.
The house actually struck me as a relic from a Victorian era English countryside home, but on an oversized scale. The driveway circled an ornate fountain, which was currently devoid of water. The center piece of the fountain was the same bucking horse with wide eyes and flared nostrils. Two wings of the house straddled one hundred and eighty degrees of the roundabout. A garage at the end of one wing was designed to hold at least four cars. The paperwork on the house told me the house was less than fifteen years old and had only one previous owner. Since it had sat vacant for several years, the asking price had been steadily dropping.
The yellow sportster was idling in front of the main entry, and I gently pulled up behind it, and got out. I was carrying my clipboard full of information, and dressed in a dark blue button-up business jacket and knee-length skirt. The white blouse I had on underneath the jacket was modest enough so long as the jacket was on, but without would have been a little revealing, particularly on the sides.
The Lamborghini’s driver side door opened and I got my first look at the potential buyer. The first thing I noticed was how incredibly tall he was; extracting his enormous length from a compact sports car was almost comical; it was hard for me to grasp how a body that big could fit in a car that compact. He was close to seven feet tall, but rather slender. His ebony skin wasn’t overly dark for an African-American, but the vibrant lemon yellow of the car he emerged from made the contrast that much more obvious. He was dressed in loose fitting sweats, clearly labelled with Portland Trail Blazer logo; if he wasn’t a member of the team, he was trying desperately to convince everyone he was. His shaved head was adorned with headphones which were attached via cord to an iPod in his right hand. He looked around the courtyard briefly, pausing for a second to stare at the equine fountain, and then headed up the stairs to the front door. The entire time he was out of the car, he didn’t so much as look in my general direction.
The passenger door opened, and Simone got out. She was an attractive black woman in her late twenties; she was wearing jeweled, super tight jeans, and a loose-fitting peach colored crop top. Her long, black hair flowed freely over her shoulders and ended about chest height. Her makeup — particularly the yellow eyeshadow- was a little overdone for my taste, but seemed to be of a style similar to certain reality TV shows I had seen clips of.
She nodded to me with a faint hint of a forced smile, and walked towards me with her hand out, while he was bounding up the steps towards the front door of the house. Call me judgmental, if you will, but I immediately understood how this relationship worked; he made all the money off his natural talent, but she called all the shots.
She shook my hand. “Sarah?”
“Hi!” I exclaimed. “Nice to meet you, Simone.”
“For sure!” she smiled.
“Shall we take a look?”
She nodded. “You got the keys?”
“Got the code, anyway.” We walked up the stairs to the main entry, joining her companion, who was bobbing his head to the beat of his music, and ignoring the rest of the world.
I punched the code into the front door lock, and removed the key from the electronic safe. I opened the avcılar escort door; we entered the most impractical house I had ever been in. It was a little bit like someone had watched too many episodes of The Real World and tried to insert a dash of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Someone had designed this house with hosting parties in mind, rather than a more practical purpose of actually living in the space. My guess was that a previous Trail Blazer had probably been the original owner of this house.
The front room was an impractical foyer, with a small (although, like the one in the driveway, currently not operating) fountain in the front entry. It was framed on either side by one half of a double staircase, covered in a shockingly white carpet, which led upstairs to a high second floor. There were also three hallways leading to other rooms. Both staircase handrails were embossed with bronze, or a reasonable substitute, and the whole place felt like something out of an 80’s drug lord biopic. The horse theme continued — the centerpiece of the fountain was yet another pair of bucking stallions. It felt a little bit like a house that would have been built if Tony Montana and John Wayne had a kid.
The tall man bounded up the stairs, towards the bedroom wing, and I looked at Simone.
“I want to check out the patio again,” Simone said. “Through the kitchen, by the hot tub.”
“OK, lead on.”
She led me down the central hallway on the ground floor. “Someone sure likes horses, huh? Did they have a horse farm here?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied. “There wasn’t anything about that in the house history, and there’s no stables or outbuildings to speak of. Guessing someone just liked the look of a bucking bronco.”
“Hmmm.” was her only response.
I took her through the immense kitchen to the back doors of the house, which opened up into a huge patio area. This was really the centerpiece of the house; a forty-foot-wide solid wood deck led down to a tapering stairway, which allowed access to an elegant and spacious pool. At the top of the deck, near the house, was a custom stone barbecue/kitchen, permanently built into the structure. The kitchen looked to have two separate barbecue stations, as well as a built-in pizza oven. The stone was custom fit masonry; it did not look cheap in any way.
The pool was probably fifty feet long and shaped like a dumbbell, with wider areas on each end; one end of the dumbbell featured two diving boards — one significantly higher than the other. The pool was currently empty of water, exposing the elaborate tile. Each 1′ x 1′ tile appeared to have an identical pattern on it, and as I looked closer, I realized it was the bucking horse again.
One side of the patio featured several areas where the deck extended over the lawn, and poles around these platforms indicated to me they were supposed to be cabanas. At the opposite end of the pool from the diving boards was a hot tub (also empty); it was big enough to fit probably 15 people with room to spare. The hot tub and pool were linked so that any overflow from the hot tub flowed into one end of the pool’s dumbbell. The patio wrapped all the way around the pool, and ended just past the hot tub, creating one enormous party space.
Behind the patio past the diving boards, off to my left, was what appeared to be a regulation size basketball court. There were metal bleachers on each side of the court, and what appeared to be an electronic scoreboard. I recalled that the house description had said there was an indoor court as well.
The patio descended into the lawn and allowed for the party to overflow into the grass with ease. Although the lawn itself had suffered from a lack of attention, it was obvious that someone had spent a lot of money landscaping it just right during the house’s construction, and that getting it back to tip-top shape wouldn’t be that difficult. A couple of hundred yards down the lawn, it fell off into the banks of the Tualatin River.
Simone smiled. “It’s something, isn’t it? We visited a few months back, and didn’t think all that much of it, but D has decided he might want it after all. Apparently, he heard one of the vets talking about this house and attending parties here years ago when it was owned by another baller. There were some pretty legendary parties thrown here, I guess.”
“Considering your boyfriend’s occupation, I imagine that a legendary party means a lot in the circles he travels in.”
“Sure does. He’s looking to make a bit of a splash. He thinks this house might be the key.”
“It wouldn’t hurt, I don’t think.”
“Probably not.” She looked around. “The tents for the cabanas, the lawn furniture, that kind of thing…did they take that when they left?”
“I…don’t know, sorry.” I opened my paperwork and started trying to flip through it. “I had not even heard of the house before you called, so I’m flying blind a bit.”
Simone nodded. “Sure, sure.”
As I was looking, De’Angelo came out of the back door of the house. He had produced a basketball from somewhere, and loped off towards the basketball court. He had a certain grace that you don’t normally see in the average human being. I caught myself staring, and shook my head.
“Shall we go look around?” Simone asked. I nodded, and followed her back into the house.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32