premise: official visit becomes an erotic 'paddles and balls' contest
--------
She knocked confidently on the door. "Hello? Anyone home? Assessor..."
After a short wait and a second knock, the door opened, revealing a fortyish man. His frame was thin and fit, with just a few beers worth of belly; his squarish face was open and friendly, though a bend in his nose hinted at a past disagreement settled physically. Uncombed hair and facial stubble suggested that he was not yet expecting visitors. He had hurriedly pulled on a pinstriped dress shirt but only one button had found its matching hole. Faded jeans and black socks completed his ensemble, for which he apologized.
"Geez, I'm sorry...didn't expect you til eleven. I'm not quite ready for company. But if you want to come in and wait a moment... I'm Jeff," he said, stepping out of the way.
"No,
I'm
sorry," she replied, scanning his face, down his open shirt. "My earlier appointment went quicker than I expected. Straightforward...square footage, tally the rooms, take a few photos...done deal. So I'm early, but I can wait." She stood hesitantly for a moment, then stepped in as he opened the door wider.
"I'm Sarah," she said, pointing to her name tag, then offering her hand. "I'm the assessor -- real estate taxes, you know. I understand most people aren't wild about our visiting, but the schools, police..." Her voice trailed off.
He took her offered hand, pressing lightly, as he had learned to do with women. His gaze swept over her, semi-consciously picking up details...all instinctive, natural, primitive, unavoidable.
Who is this new person? Friend or foe? Be welcoming or guarded, open to...what?
Her hand was warm, dry, slender and carefully tended. Maroon polish decorated manicured nails. A silver bracelet dangled from her wrist. A sharply cut black velveteen jacket. Shoulder-length, gently curled hair, plum tones among the dark brown suggesting added coloring. Her face: half-smiling, eyebrows carefully highlighted, lip gloss. Forties? And...beautiful. A green crystal adorned each ear. Thin gold chain necklace. White shirt in a soft, clingy fabric. Black skirt, black tights, black boots, chunky heels. She stood confidently, weight on one angled foot. Up again...thin legs...black
leather
skirt, narrow, constraining--and her other hand--a ring? All this in a second or two.
"I'm glad you've got your Assessor name tag. Otherwise I'd think you were selling something very high-end...Real Estate, maybe?"
"Well, it's kind of real estate, but I'm not selling, just collecting data." She shifted her weight to the other foot, putting her hand on her hip.
"Okay--A cup of coffee?" he queried. "I just need a minute to...Please help yourself--over there. I only have skim milk, I'm afraid..."
"Skim?
Heavens
! I'm afraid I take only freshly squeezed from an Angora goat!" She raised her nose in the air, gave a haughty sniff. "Nothing else...Maybe not
squeezed
...I'm not sure about goats," she said, nervously laughing. "
Kidding! Goats!
Thanks--whatever you have," as she moved to the coffee-maker on the counter. They exchanged awkward smiles.
As he padded to his bedroom, his quick glance back showed the leather skirt, tight around her buttocks. He pulled off the shirt he'd grabbed from the couch and took a clean one from the closet. While no longer a wrestler's chiseled chest, his torso was still well-muscled -- three days a week at the gym at least slowed the decline. He buttoned and tucked in his shirt, centered his belt buckle, ran a brush through his hair and returned to the kitchen.
Meanwhile, she had poured a mug of coffee for each of them. "Cream and sugar?" she asked. "I mean, skim and sucrose?"
"Thanks, but I take it black. Seems to be your choice as well..." Puzzled, she looked at him. Hurriedly, he tried to clarify. "I mean, you're
dressed
in black, I just noticed. Elegant--classic--uh, sorry...I didn't..."
"And you didn't have to dress up for me. I'm assessing the
house."
A smile appeared briefly on her lips. "So can you give me the tour? I'll take a few notes, shouldn't take long. But I see you're in your socks--no-shoe house rule?"
"No big deal; just a habit I have."
Setting her coffee down, she bent to pull off a boot, but struggled. "At home I use a boot jack..."
"Well, I'm not a 'jack-booted thug', but I can give you a hand. Have a seat." He pulled out a kitchen chair; she sat and extended one leg. He knelt before her, grabbed the boot with both hands and pulled hard. Too hard -- she slid forward in her skirt, balanced precariously on the chair's edge, grabbing for support. With an athletic twist she recovered, freed her foot from the boot and extinguished his view up her skirt.
"I'm so sorry! Those boots are really tight," he said, red-faced and looking away.
"That's OK...I didn't expect...but can you do the other one?" She anchored her stockinged foot while extending the still-booted one. "I'm ready..." This time their efforts were coordinated; the second boot was removed without mishap. He placed them together under the chair.
"Okay, thank you...where do we start?" She stood and fished a small notebook out of a jacket pocket. He led the way around his small house, pointing out the obvious features. "This is the bathroom...closet over here..." She took a few photos with her phone camera. When he paused at his bedroom door, she brushed past to take a look inside, unexpectedly turning toward him to squeeze through the doorway. He caught a subtle perfumed waft as her jacket opened to shaded contours draped in white.
"No race cars, no pinups, no superheroes?" she asked with a smile.
"It's been a few years...Actually, I took down the racy stuff when I heard you at the door." He grinned.
"
Racy
...that could be something..."
"...fast," he finished for her. He left more room in the doorway but this time as she passed him she stepped on his foot. Neither of them spoke.
"Basement?" she asked, pausing at a closed door.
"Yeah, not much down there but a ping-pong table. Take a look if you want." He opened the door, flipped the light switch and took a couple of steps down. She followed, so he continued to the bottom. The space was unfinished but clean; a single bright lamp hung from the ceiling over an old and well-used green-topped table. A small refrigerator, a few bottles on a shelf and a worn La-Z-Boy recliner were in shadow along the wall.
"What passes for my man-cave," he apologized. A couple friends, serious ping-pong, not-so-serious drinking -- what's not to like?"
"A
very
local bar scene...and what does
serious
ping-pong mean? Play for drinks, a few bucks?"
"Billy and I ruled the table at our frat, lo these many years ago. I'm not as fast as I used to be but I like to think I'm a bit smarter. Him, too, so we usually come out pretty even. It's a good time." She turned to face him.
"Well...it happens you're looking at the Central Tennessee Table Tennis champion, two years running. I trounced a lot of guys getting there. I'm rusty but still play pretty often."
They looked at each other silently for a few breaths, then she spoke quietly, "My next assessment appointment isn't til three...play a game?"
He looked at her more closely. Her smile was confident, maybe cocky?
"I work from home -- web designer -- and my project's due tomorrow," he said. "Can't really take much time off. But, hell, I can spare a few minutes."
"Great! That's how long it'll take me to beat your frat-boy...butt. Paddles?" she asked.
"Whoa, girl! I try to be a respectable -- and respectful -- gentleman, but trash talk riles me up. I'm gonna have to show your
Central Tupelo League champeen
how this game is played!" He opened a drawer and offered several paddles. "Pick your poison..."
"At least you've got some decent tools, looks like... I'll try that blue one." She examined and ran her fingers over both surfaces. "OK, let's warm up a bit."
"Ah, I don't want to be your coach here, but maybe that jacket...?"
"It's chilly in here. I don't expect to need a tournament outfit."
"You're a cheeky one, aren't you? Let your paddle do the talking, I'll do the same, and we'll settle this thing."
They warmed up. Both were off their best chops, but each felt good. And each was impressed -- also a bit unnerved -- by the other's play. He had the power edge while her spin control excelled. He thought her business dress would hinder movement, but her skirt turned out to be pleated. Her footwork was unimpeded. She thought his untamed hair and not-recently-shaven face betrayed sloppiness, but his crisp movement and confident grace proved otherwise. They saw each other in a new, warmer light.
The first game's score was back and forth. He'd win a few points, then net a shot and lose momentum, and she'd catch a streak, followed by a fade. When his lead reached 18-15, he tapped the table with his paddle. "Looks like the home team's got this one," he grinned.
"It ain't over til... It's champ time..." She pulled off her jacket, hung it on the chair, twirled her paddle a few times, and settled back to receive serve. The front of her white shirt swayed gently.
Crack!
He fired a serve that nicked the corner of the service box; she lunged and got her paddle on it, but returned it wide. She shook her head, stared steely-eyed at him. "
Serve!"
she commanded.
"Nineteen serving fifteen..."
His first was a fraction wide, and she pounced on his second, spinning it unreachably into the corner. Silently he tapped the ball back for her serve. She became an icy machine, showing no emotion as her 'A' game emerged. Her shot nicked the corner: 16-19. Her next serve he returned into the net: 17-19. He netted the following as well. The next point, and the next, she spun that plastic orb in a way he'd rarely seen. Score: 20-19.
