Realtors, estate agents, they seem to have a charmed life, the gift of the gab. Doing a few showings, waxing lyrical about someone else's home. Pocketing a hefty commission for doing very little. But Barbara Wilson was going to earn her fee this time...
Mr Smith taught me everything I know about real estate, and how to sell houses. He lived by two maxims.
"The customer is always right.
"Be truthful, but do what it takes, whatever you have to. Just make sure you get the sale."
Which is why I find myself here. My smart suit discarded; silk blouse hanging from a branch; Italian heels scuffed walking the woods. My hands secured round the tree with my own Hermès scarf. Vulnerable. Helpless. Barefoot. Naked.
Waiting for the customer. Despite everything my nipples had sprung, grazed by the rough bark; I was moist below. The gentle breeze brushed my hair. Birds twittered in the trees.
I could hear the client somewhere behind me, breaking off some young branches from the trees, stripping leaves. Getting a switch ready, green, pliable. Perfect for my ass.
Coming closer, maybe she is ready. Not that sure I am.
The swish of an experimental stroke through the air. Again, louder I can hear her breathing. Sense the switch held high. Silence. Pause.
Swish.
"Yowww." That hurt, panting for breath.
"One, thank you Ma'am."
When she had first walked into the office with purpose and intent. She had a notebook in hand. Over coffee we chatted and I learned a little of her, of her requirements.
Over the years I had also become adept at reading notebooks upside down. A list of counties, half of Tennessee the western half. And a few I wasn't sure about, perhaps Mississippi. Some had already been crossed through. An extensive and far-ranging search then. Not one driven by access to the right school or a specific commute, not tied to a community to be near family. Just finding exactly the right property.
Swish
"T...two, thank you Ma'am."
She had detailed her requirements. A very specific style of property rather than a location. A search with purpose. Six acres would be cramped, ten acres perhaps overreaching. Out of the way, but not hunting or fishing country. A main house, something imposing. The rest she could add later. A project, with purpose. Money then, she held herself like there was more than she could spend, even if her clothes seemed ordinary. Smart but ordinary. With significant money. Resources but discreet.
An enigma.
I had asked her about places she had already been, especially the places she had rejected, asked her why? She was precise in her information.
"Three, thank you Ma'am."
I was panting now, trying to ease the pain of that last stroke, to rub my ass, but my hands were tied securely. I wanted to rub something else as well.
She was expecting to build on part of the land, but still have the main house as a focal point. I had joked, "Like servants' quarters and pony stables."
She had been deadpan, "Kind of".
"Four, thank you Ma'am"
It had started as a joke, but the switch was now getting serious, painful.
I had showed her some brochures, some of the properties on our books. Too small. Too near town. Overlooked by the neighbours. On a busy road. No mains water.
So something with connections - water, drains and electricity. This was not to be a reclusive homesteading backwoods self-sufficiency. But creature comforts with discretion built in. A private luxurious space.
The pile of rejects grew.
"Just plain ugly.
"Private enough except the lake frontage - every boater can see.
"Too small."
We had a small, too small, list of maybes. Showing her round would start the next day, 9am sharp.
Sheeesh. Will this pain never end?
"Five, thank you Ma'am."
Viewings began.
"No good, interior rooms were too small, barely enough room to swing a cat.
"Too far out of town.
"Too open, not secluded enough.
"I guess I need to move onto Hickman county"
That was Kentucky, I was losing her, someone else would help her; find her dream house, take the commission.
"Six...thank you...Ma'am." Struggling now, but that ache between my legs.
I had suddenly been inspired - the old Miller place. Not strictly on my books, or not just mine. Half a dozen realtors had been trying to sell it for at least as many years. The bank owned it at present, been trying to sell.
It was a sad story - it had been built just before the Great Depression, David Miller just about finished it and then lost his business. He and his bride had only ever furnished about a quarter of the rooms. Never got a chance to host the lavish entertainments they had planned. It was built in the antebellum style but with modern facilities, some grand rooms, at least on the architects plans. They had lived there for a few years.
During the war it had briefly become a hotel for weekending officers and their wives, close enough to an Army camp to make weekend passes a meaningful pleasure; not in town where the enlisted men were rowdy. But when the army camp closed so had the hotel, it was too far from the main highways for passing trade. Not close enough to the really good fishing and hunting country to appeal.
