Lets Make A Deal Pt 05

Author's note:

This is part of a long story. No part of it is intended to stand alone. I suggest starting with

Part 1

In revising the whole story, I've corrected errors, but also filled in a lot. This has inevitably made it all even longer. My apologies to anyone who read it in the original form and now finds it changed for the worse.

If you're looking mostly for explicit sex, this probably is not the story for you, so why don't you just go on to something else? There is explicit sex in some parts, but even there it's not the focus.

Also, some parts contain religious discussions which will offend some people and bore others. If you're one of those people, again, why not go on to something else?

19.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

The next morning, Scott was in his office at his usual time and at work when the front door camera popped up to show him Martha and Lynda coming in. He watched to make sure they left the door locked behind them, then turned back to finishing up what he was working on. He'd left his office door open, so they just came in when they got there, closing it behind them. Martha came over to him. She said, "We didn't need to flip for it or anything. It's really pretty obvious who should be doing this for a while. I'm the one who owes you, and after last night . . . " She kissed him thoroughly, after a moment grabbing him through his pants, apparently to see how hard he was. She kissed him a moment longer, then unfastened his pants. She said, "I suppose I should have checked that the camera is off before I started, but it's a little late now."

He said, "Go do it. I do have it off, but that's not the kind of thing I want even to trust myself on." She stepped over to his desk, popped up the status list, and said, "Yes, it's asleep." She came back, knelt next to him, and pulled down his pants and briefs. This morning it took longer, no surprise there. He tried not to hold back too long. When she was done, she got a cup from his drawer—he'd washed and dried them, and filled the pitcher, when he came in—and rinsed her mouth. He reached in the drawer, and pulled out two toothbrushes, two toothbrush cases, and two small tubes of toothpaste. He handed one set to Martha and said, "I picked these up last night on my way home. You can keep these straight by the colors. Years ago, in sex ed, I was told that swallowing semen would tend to give you bad breath, and I don't know that a quick rinse is really enough. We'll leave these in this drawer, with mine. I keep one there because I often eat lunch in my office, and I don't like having my mouth feel grungy all afternoon. Mine is in the blue case, so that you don't get them mixed up. You're not colorblind, are you?" They both shook their heads.

When Martha returned from the bathroom, he suggested some things for them to work on. He always had a backlog of things that there just weren't time for. Martha came over and gave him a quick kiss before they left to get busy, and Scott turned back to his paperwork. At 8:30, he went around and unlocked the outer doors. He never bothered to wake up his office camera while he did that. He closed his door and got back to work.

That night, before the women left, they all briefly discussed the evening. Scott would leave after he cleaned up a few loose ends and locked up. They gave him directions. Their "street" was a small private road, really a glorified driveway, with a few houses off it, each with its own driveway. He knew exactly where it was but had never noticed the street sign. "Is there anything you'd like me to pick up on my way there?" he asked. They said no, and Martha gave him a quick kiss before they left.

Scott arrived at their door somewhat loaded down: economy-sized packs of kleenex and toilet paper, and a bottle of bathroom cleaner. They both looked at him questioningly. "Look, you've seen that your kleenex usage is going to skyrocket while this is all going on, and all because of me. And I think I'm likely to use kind of a lot of toilet paper tonight, and it would be a good idea to clean things in your bathroom afterward. There's no reason this should cost you for supplies."

Martha took the things but handed them to Lynda. She said, "Welcome to my house," and snuggled up to him and kissed him. He said, "Martha, I love it that you want to do that. Honestly, I can't explain how much it means to me. But, Lynda, are you sure you're OK with it? This isn't something I will demand as part of the deal, and if it's too hard on you, Martha will just have to go without kissing me at times like this. I should have asked this morning."

Lynda actually teared up a little, he thought. "Scott, thank you! But I told you the one thing I'm jealous about, and Martha and I discussed this last night. We made a deal with you, and I promised that I'd try to be OK watching you with her. When you asked, you weren't thinking about a kiss at the door or anything like that, and neither was I when I answered, but if I'm going to sit and watch you make love to her, I better be able to put up with a few random kisses. Or a lot of them, if it comes to that."

He went over and hugged her, looking down at her. He said, "I hope that I don't leave you full of regrets in the end. I thought I'd considered everything, but I didn't expect the way things have gone. I didn't dream of getting real desire, from either of you, so soon if ever. It seems I am, from Martha, and it's way too late to back out now. I don't see how I can make it up to you. But thank you. I'd really feel bad telling Martha to back off, and that wouldn't really address the problem anyway, would it?"

They went on in, and Lynda showed him the house while Martha continued dinner preparations. The house wasn't huge, but it wasn't small either. Martha had the largest bedroom, with a double bed in it. Scott still slept in the queen bed he and Chris had owned for most of their marriage, and a double looked small to him—but he and Chris had, after all, slept in a double their first year, and sometimes even in a twin bed. Lynda's room only had a twin. Of course, he couldn't lie down in either a twin or a double without curling up some, at least bending knees and waist a little.

There were two more bedrooms, though one was set up as a study or office or work room, not as a bedroom. The living room had a moderate-sized TV and media players, as well as a couch and a couple of armchairs, with room for a few more chairs to be brought in as needed. The dining room and the kitchen both opened off the living room, and there was a door between them as well. The kitchen was big enough for a table and four chairs, plus of course stove, sink, fridge, and counters. Lynda said the upstairs wasn't finished, just storage space crammed with stuff. He wasn't sure whether there was a basement. If there was, the stairs were behind a door. But if there was a laundry area on the main floor, or a furnace and water heater, he didn't see where they might be. They didn't open any closets or other doors except to the spare bedroom and study.

Scott helped Lynda finish getting the kitchen table ready for them to eat. The meal was spaghetti, garlic bread, and a salad. From the detritus in the sink and on the counter, the sauce was home-made. They talked as they ate.

Mostly they talked about things needing to be done in the office or out back, mixed with light chitchat. But after a while, Lynda said, "Scott, I have a question. Why are you doing this? I mean, I know you're pretty religious, but Martha has been telling me some things about you that I never knew, and she says that this is something you're really serious about. She can't explain why you're willing to have sex with either of us, much less both of us. And . . . well, you told her last night you needed her to explain why she wanted you to go all the way with her, right then, and this seems way stranger than that did. I think I need to understand this better."

Scott tried to think about where to start. "It's kind of complicated, and I don't know that I can explain it so it makes any kind of sense. You're right, I'm a Christian, and one thing that's clear in scripture is that sex was intended, from the very beginning, to bind a man and a woman together in marriage, and it's never appropriate otherwise. So if you're asking, don't I think I shouldn't be doing this, you're right. It's wrong, it's seriously sinful, and I can't can't sugar-coat that. And it's especially wrong because I've gone into it deliberately, knowing it's wrong. And I've caused you to do all this too, for that matter.

"I wish I could say that I was in the grip of some overpowering temptation that had blinded me to what I'm doing, but I can't. I can explain some of the things that made this tempting enough that I'm doing it, but that's all pretty straightforward. One, I really wanted to get Martha back in her job, for her sake but also because I don't have anyone else who's close to being ready to step up and do it. Two, well, it's been more than fifteen years since Chris died, and I've been really lonely. I've missed sex, not for the physical release and pleasure—that too, definitely, but much more the simple contact and caring—I can't think how to say what I mean. And you're both so attractive that I couldn't help being interested."

Martha broke in. "Scott, what are you talking about? Lynda is beautiful, anyone can see that, but I don't think anyone has

ever

said I was attractive! Ever!"

"Martha, I wish you could really see yourself. Your figure might be better if you lost a few pounds, but you're not fat. Your breasts are wonderful. Remember, you're talking to someone who got to see them, and touch them, just last night. Your hair is maybe a little boring, especially in this day when women dye pink or blue or whatever streaks in, but I for one prefer it natural. Your face is a little plain, but not at all bad. And I mean that! I'm not just saying it! And once in a while, when you're really happy, it's like your face lights up and is transformed, and, and, and 'beautiful' doesn't begin to describe it. I admit that I'm not the best judge. I find most women attractive, honestly—I don't mean I think about sex when I look at them, I mean just seeing them and interacting with them brightens my spirits, and I love looking at them. But you're—how can I say it? You're like this spaghetti, solidly good, good enough to tempt me to eat way too much of it, and if some people would rather eat nothing but ice cream all the time it just means that they don't recognize what's really good. And please understand, I'm not saying this just from seeing you last night, with all the stimulation of that. You've been plenty attractive, in my eyes, anyway, from the first time I met you."

Martha was crying. Scott got up and went around to her, pulling her up and holding her. He just let her cry for a few minutes until she ran down. He couldn't think what else to do. When he was sure she was in control of herself, he gave her a squeeze, then went back and sat down. He thought those tears weren't from unhappiness. He hoped so. He added, "I think someone must have taunted you about your appearance sometime, or said you were ugly, or something like that, for you to respond like that. Even without having promised you, I'd never flatter you by saying you were attractive if I didn't think so. I'm sorry to have to repeat it, but really—last night you asked me whether I liked what I saw, and I sure did, but I like what I see whenever I look at you, and not just for the past two days!

"The spaghetti wasn't intended as a complete analogy, of course! Good as it is, I'm guessing it would be better if it had cooked, or at least stood, a couple of hours longer, I'm not suggesting you need to wait any." He considered singing a bit from

The Mikado

, but decided Martha's mood was a bit too fragile.

He thought a moment. "Actually, I hope I got across what I meant to, but really, it's not a very good analogy, for several reasons, now that I think about it. For one thing . . . How do I put it? A steady diet of ice cream is just bad for you, and while nothing but this spaghetti would be be a lot better, it's not a complete meal. Maybe it's reasonable to compare you to this spaghetti—and it really is wonderfully good, and I make that part of the analogy wholeheartedly. And maybe Lynda corresponds in a like way to a fancy ice cream sundae, nuts and cherries and whipped cream, the works. And she's beautiful, and, yes, in a way you aren't, to my eyes as well as most people's. But remember that we're wired, as we are now constituted, to find things like ice cream delicious. But judgments of personal beauty, well, those are to a good degree culturally determined. Lynda, you're beautiful by the standards we have now. And I think you'd be judged attractive by many people in most any age. But remember that a few centuries ago, it appears that a figure we'd now judge unattractively fat was the standard. I think Rubens is the painter people bring up in this connection, but I'm weak on art history. But I think there's evidence that this wasn't just him. Then, think of the flappers in the 1920s, and a lot of models starting in the 1960s. Martha, you've read

The Screwtape Letters

, maybe?" She nodded. "Lewis puts some comments on that fad—the 1920s and after that—in Screwtape's mouth. But anyway, to many people at those times, you'd both be considered too full-figured to be beautiful. And I'll toss in the fad from the mid-1900s on, for so much bust that breast implants are hot items—well, I like busty women as much as most men, and believe me that includes both of you, but there are limits.

"I'll also toss in that, for me, seeing the corner of some kind of bag poking out of someone's breast is a huge turnoff. I gather that in some cases this can be felt—bleah!—but I have no personal experience. Um, make that 'first-hand' experience." Martha laughed and Lynda groaned. "Or should I say, 'hands-on' experience?" Lynda rolled her eyes.

"But anyway, what I really meant to say is that people who insist on only one type of beauty are missing a lot. Martha, you're right that most anyone today would see Lynda as beautiful. But I'm very sure I'm not the only one who sees you as plenty beautiful, too.

"And to get back to the original question, why I agreed to all this. Lynda, what I said pretty much sums it up. I don't know whether it helps you understand. But I promised you total honesty, so I have to point something else out. I'm guilty here of something worse than just fornication. I'm also insisting on covering it up. I want other people to think I'm better than I'm willing to actually be. That's hypocrisy, and it's condemned in really strong terms in some key scriptural passages. So maybe you should ask yourselves this, before things go any farther: if I'm willing to put aside my own promises to obey God, and willing to lie about it, at least by silence, to everyone I know, then can you two really trust me in anything? For obvious reasons, I can't be the one to answer that for you. But you really have to come up with an answer for yourselves." Scott felt like crying himself, but worked to keep a lid on his feelings.

Lynda said, "That kind of answers my question. You're right, I don't understand it all, but I do understand it enough to see why you can't explain it better."

Martha said, "Scott, I'd trust you with my life, and nothing you just said changes that." Lynda looked at her, in surprise Scott thought, but didn't say anything. After a few moments, Martha said, "We better clean up and move on. No ice cream, I'm afraid."

Scott said, "Actually, first. Martha, did you call your doctor?"

She said, "You were in that meeting all afternoon, or you'd know. I called this morning, and they fit me in this afternoon. You said I should take time off from work. I have a prescription, and the first month's supply, and instructions. Assuming that everything goes as it should, and I don't get mixed up or forget, I'll be ready right after the end of my next period. Or earlier, but you said we'd avoid the period itself."

Scott felt ready to stand up and cheer, but held himself to just saying, "That's wonderful! Thank you!"

As he started to get up, Lynda said, "Scott, please wait just a minute. I just now remembered something and I want to tell you. It kind of relates. When you first hired me, there was another woman, and I think I won't mention her name, even though she left a while later. Anyway, she started making comments about you, about getting you to ask her for a date, or even asking you for one. She made it clear that she was thinking of sex. She kept making comments about how hot you were, kind of trying to get the rest of us to chime in and agree. I hadn't been working here very long, and, well, you know my situation, so I just tried to keep as far away as I could. My real impression is that she thought if she got you into her bed she could get some special privileges, faster promotion or maybe just more money. I may be wrong about that, but it honestly didn't feel like she was in love with you or anything, but like she wanted us to think so.

"Anyway, Mrs. Wilson was still here then, and she finally told her in no uncertain terms to shut up and quit bothering us all with it. She said that if, um, this girl didn't know you even that well, she'd get herself in big trouble real fast. She said you'd never have that kind of relationship with someone who worked for you, and that if she made a move on you—that wasn't how she said it, of course!—you'd tell her so right off. And that if she kept after you, you'd tell her that unwanted sexual advances were legally and morally sexual harassment, if they continued, and that you didn't tolerate that from anyone toward anyone. Period. And if she was stupid enough to ignore that, you'd document it, call someone else in to witness what happened, and fire her immediately with no further warning. And that we could all testify that she'd said she meant to keep after you until she got you into bed with her.

"So I might have kind of forgotten all this, but I think it's part of why I was asking what I did. If I had remembered it, I probably wouldn't have dared to come to you like that, at all. And I do appreciate you not jumping on me that way, when I raised the question. Thank you!"

Scott told her, "If you'd come back to me again, I was just going to tell you I'd decided I couldn't do it, because it was wrong besides all the practical reasons I already had given you. If you'd kept at it then, yes, I would have gone on to that. I was—I don't know how to put it—moved, influenced, by the fact that you were offering yourself to me for Martha's sake, I think."

Annie Wilson was one of his earliest employees, and had stayed with him for a long time. When he hired Lynda, she had been near sixty and about ready to retire, but she had almost functioned as a mother to the girls doing clerical work. She was kind and very generous and patient, but she hadn't put up with sloppy work, idling on the job, gossip or catty talk, or anything that detracted from doing the work well. Scott had been afraid she would resent it when he started making Martha his direct assistant, but he needn't have been. Mrs. Wilson—he too had always called her that—hadn't seen it as Martha's being promoted over her head, but as what it was: getting someone with experience out on the floor and also in the office put in charge of both, so that snafus caused by bad communication were minimized. Scott thought Lynda probably had moderated Mrs. Wilson's wording. She was always well-mannered, and never, ever vulgar in her speech, but if you were unlucky enough to have her tell you what you did wrong when you'd really been stupid and should have known better, you wouldn't forget it soon. He'd experienced it a few times himself. Being who he was, he rather treasured the memories, though they still made him wince. But they were mistakes he'd never make again.