Author's note: My previous stories were inspired by a modicum of truth, but this one is wholly fictional. Never, in my entire life, have I lived in an apartment building (except once, briefly, in Ohio).
* * * * *
"Ve are de Yohnsons," the tall Viking roared as he and his tiny wife stood in our apartment doorway. "Ve liff yust upstairs!" he added.
My bewilderment must have been writ large on my face, because he waved a topless photo of Louise in my face.
"Ve got dis letter dis morning. Ain't you de Bromfields?"
Ah, so that was it. Louise and I had responded to an enticing couples ad. Normally, swinging contacts begin cautiously, as this one had, with a letter responding to an advertisement. But such contacts are usually followed by a guarded telephone conversation, often, although not invariably, leading to a meeting in a public place -- a restaurant or bar where the participants size each other up and decide whether to continue.
Lars Johnson had looked us up in the phone book, and when he realized we lived in the same apartment house, decided on a more direct approach. Aware that he had breached the protocol, he added somewhat apologetically, "I doan talk so gud on de telephone."
Belatedly aware that my surprise had submerged my good manners, I urged our guests into the living room. Louise solemnly shook hands with Lars, and exchanged hugs and kisses with Irma. Then she disappeared into the kitchen, so I thought, to fix drinks. Lars followed her.
Irma and I sat uneasily in the living room, making light conversation, waiting for our mates to return. They were gone a long time. Frankly, I needed the ritual of a drink to help me bridge those first awkward moments when you're trying to get acquainted with someone you expect to be fucking within the hour. Damn, where was Louise? I smiled uncertainly at Irma. "I can't imagine what's keeping them," I said.
"I can."
Now I knew where our mates were. "Does he always move this fast?"
"Well, it depends on the woman," Irma said. "Not many women are as open as your Louise, and I'm sure Lars responded to that."
"Does that embarrass you?" I asked.
Irma laughed. "I think you're the one who is embarrassed. If you need a drink, get one. I don't need anything."
She was right. I was embarrassed. I wasn't surprised to find that the kitchen was empty. Somehow, they had gotten into the bedroom without our seeing them leave the kitchen. Unless, of course, they never went into the kitchen in the first place.
Louise's loud moan of total surrender coming from the bedroom erased any question of their whereabouts.
I mixed my drink and hurried back to rejoin Irma in the living room. I was surprised to see her barefooted and dressed only in a half bra and panties, as she stood near the couch, neatly folding her skirt and blouse over the back of the easy chair.
"I thought I might as well get ready," she said matter of factly. "Save us some time, and besides," she looked at me sideways and grinned; the first time I had seen her smile, "I'm curious about what you've got to show me."
They were both blondes. He was a lusty Scandinavian Johnson, through and through. If he hadn't worked for the telephone company, he might have been a logger in the north woods, or possibly a sea captain in the stormy North Atlantic. He had that kind of big, capable, physical presence.
Irma Johnson was a tiny woman. When you saw them together, you thought he was the father of a 12 year old daughter. But when you looked closer, you realized that Irma was as old as he.
I stared for a moment at her petit body. She was tiny; there was no doubt about that. But any illusion about her being a child immediately vanished. This was a mature woman in miniature.
Later, when I was close enough to see the tiny lines around her eyes and mouth, I guessed she was around 35 or so. But earlier, when I watched her reach behind to unfasten her brassiere and saw how shapely and firm her breasts were, I thought she must still be in her mid 20s. In either case, she was no child.
"Shall we go some place where we can be more comfortable?" I suggested.
"Sure. Lead the way," she said.
I led her down the short hallway to the back bedroom. I quickly stripped the covers off the bed and dumped them on the floor.
"You shouldn't do that," Irma said reproachfully. "It takes only a minute to do it right. Here, help me fold these." She handed me a corner of the blanket, and we solemnly folded the top sheet, blanket and bed spread. Then she stripped her panties down and jumped up on the bed like a 10 year- old, except 10 year-olds don't have breasts or patches of golden hair covering their mons. "That didn't take long, did it?" she asked.
I struggled out of my clothes as quickly as possible without actually ripping buttons off. Watching me, Irma covered her mouth with her hands and began to giggle.
"What's so funny?" I asked somewhat defensively.
"You men are all alike," she said. "You want women to undress gracefully and seductively. But all we have to do is show you a bare tit or a little ass, and the buttons start popping off your shirts, and you're trying to pull your pants over your shoes. Anything goes.
