Facets Of Love Ch 11

All characters either participating in or observing sexual activity are over eighteen years of age.

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Facets of Love

Chapter 11

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Robbie Jones

Fall 2039

It took me a couple of years to cycle through every aspect of our factory. Not nearly long enough to be an expert at anything, but sufficient to understand the intricacies of what went into making something as simple as a cardboard box... thousands of cardboard boxes... every hour... twelve hours a day... five days a week.

My favorite internship was the week I spent in the finance department. Not that I got excited about accounting, but I was in love with the Chief Financial Officer... Mom.

My most informative internship was the two weeks I spent with Uncle James.

At the time, I had no idea what my uncle actually did for the company. He spent half of his time out of town, usually leaving on a Monday and returning on Friday. When he wasn't on the road, he'd hole up in his office at the plant, close the door, and either talk on the phone or type on his computer. To whom and about what, I hadn't a clue.

"His official title is 'Vice President of Business Relations'", Dad said. "And don't ask, I don't know what he does either. But whatever it is, it seems to be working. There's a shitload of companies that want to sell cardboard boxes in the country, I don't know what we're doing different from everybody else, but we get more contracts than the rest and have less trouble with the regulators.

"That's why I want you to shadow him for the next couple of weeks. James isn't getting any younger and I'm hoping you'll be able to fill in for him when he retires."

Our first trip together was to Tallahassee, the state capital of Florida.

"Why Tallahassee?" I asked my uncle as we drove up I-75.

"No specific reason. I try to get up there every month or so to stay in the loop."

"I'm not sure I know what that means."

"You and Jerry, how long have you two been best friends?"

"Since fourth grade."

"Does he know about what you're doing with your sisters?"

"You mean... like at night?"

"At night, in the mornings, sometimes in the middle of the day. Come on Robbie. Answer the question. Does Jerry know you're boning your sisters?"

"I guess he does. Please don't tell Mom and Dad that Jerry knows. What I do with my sisters is supposed to be a family secret that just kind of slipped out one day. And he swore he'd never ever tell anybody else about it."

James laughed. "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me. I'm as culpable as the rest of them.

"But the only reason Jerry knows about our unusual family dynamics is because you and he are such good friends. You two are doing life together. He's the one person in this world, outside of your family, that you wholeheartedly trust.

"However, what do you think would happen to your friendship if he moved?"

"Moved where?" I asked.

"Jacksonville, Miami, Dallas. Far enough away so you couldn't see each other every weekend."

"I guess we'd keep in touch over social media or something."

"For a year, maybe. If you're lucky. But you wouldn't be near as close as you are now. And, after a year or so, you certainly wouldn't be sharing your deep dark secrets with each other."

"Okay, maybe we wouldn't be such great friends if he moved away. What does that have to do with us driving up to Tallahassee?"

"I have friends in Tallahassee. Good friends. Some I've known for nearly fifty years and others I'm still cultivating. We may not be as close as you and Jerry. I don't necessarily know all of their secrets and they sure as hell don't know some of mine. But, over the years, we've developed what is called mutually beneficial relationships.

"Now don't get me wrong. We're not a bunch of mafiosos. We're not breaking any laws. But, when a friend has a problem, and I have a solution, I do my best to help them. The key to these relationships is knowing what your friends are doing and when they need help. Which is hard because they often don't know they're having a problem."

"So, we're going to spend a week in Tallahassee getting reacquainted with your friends and helping them solve problems they don't even know they have?"

"Exactly."

"What am I supposed to do while you're 'getting back in the loop'?"

"I expect you to make some new friends."

-

I got my first peek into James' secret life when we stopped for lunch at a small diner on West Madison Street, just a few blocks from the capitol building, with a long line of people waiting to get in. Ignoring the cue, we walked through the door. Once inside, a forty something woman let out a shriek, ran across the dining room, and gave my uncle a hug and a kiss.

"Oh my Lord, my ship has finally come in," the attractive albeit well fed woman said after releasing my traveling companion. "Are you here to rescue me?"

Before James could answer, a huge man with a butcher knife in his hand stormed out of the kitchen yelling,

"Hey, what the hell are you doing with my woman?"

Instead of running, James calmly turned towards his attacker and said, "I was thinking about taking her out back and having my way with her."

The giant stopped in his tracks, placed the knife on a table, and said, "I've got no problem with that, but wait 'til after the lunch rush."

After giving James a bear hug, the man went back to the kitchen and Maureen, the amorous waitress, led us to a corner table and took our lunch orders.

"You want to tell me what that was all about?" I asked James while Maureen was getting our drinks.

"Just a little banter between old friends."

"There's got to be more to the story than that."

James looked around at the neighboring tables and then continued in a whisper.

"Rocky had some problems when he was your age. I got him a job as a cook, helped him buy this diner, and, later, introduced him to Maureen."

"What was that bit about you and Maureen?" I asked.

"As you can see from the number of people waiting outside, they're doing a land office business. Rocky insists that Maureen is the secret to his success so, every time I eat here - which is at least once a month - I ask for a finder's fee."

"Does that mean what I think it means?"

"I've certainly never taken them up on the offer and I'm fairly sure they're not serious about it. But the subject does spark interesting conversations."

We spent the next half hour eating bar-b-que while at least a dozen people stopped by to have a few words with Uncle James, who apparently was a big deal in Tallahassee.

On our way out, James got another hug and kiss from Maureen, a "don't be a stranger" from Rocky, and a conspiratory wink from a blonde who was on her way in.

We walked the three blocks from the diner to the capitol building. Bypassing the tourist entrance, James led me to a side door where we were met by a young security guard.

"James Spencer and Robbie Jones," James said. "We should be on the list."

The guard's bored demeanor quickly turned to one of rapt attention as he accessed his online list. He made a quick phone call and then said,

"The chief of security is on his way Mr. Spencer. He will personally escort you to your appointment."

"He doesn't have to do that," James said. "I know the way."

"I'm sure you do sir. But he insists."

Three minutes later, a heavy-set man with a scar that ran the length of his cheek appeared, puffing like he'd just ran up three flights of stairs.

"I hope you weren't planning to visit my building and not see me," the man said, giving James a hug.

"Wouldn't think of it," James said. "How's little Johnny doing?"

"Better than he deserves. He's not so little anymore and, thanks to you, he got a 3.8 GPA his first year at Gainesville."

"Hey, I may have got him into the school, but the good grades are all his doing."

As we strolled through the halls of the capitol, James inquired about the man's personal life and his family. With the exception of introducing me as "my favorite nephew", the entire conversation was centered on his friend. After a ten-minute walk and three floor elevator ride, we stopped at what appeared to be a set of executive suites.

"Don't be a stranger," the man said, giving James another hug. "If you need anything, and I mean anything, all you've got to do is ask."

Watching the security chief walk away, I was about to say something significant... like "what the hell was that all about" when the clacking of high heels on wood flooring combined with the scent of perfume caught my attention.

This time the woman kissing my uncle was thinner, taller, and better dressed than Maureen the waitress.

"You're early," she said. "He's not expecting you for another twenty minutes."

"Which means I'm ten minutes late," James countered. "I was hoping to get at least half an hour alone with you."

"But we're not alone," the fortyish, dark-haired beauty said, looking at me. "Is this who I think he is?"

"Anabel Armstrong, meet my nephew, Robbie Jones."

"Oh my," Anabel said to James. "He's even better looking than his pictures."

Turning her attention to me, she took both of my hands in hers and stared deeply into my eyes. "I've known you from the day you were born. Over the years, your uncle has sent me over a hundred photos of this handsome face, all of which are still on my phone, but wow... you are, hands down, the best-looking man in the entire state."

"And trust me," a deep, slightly accented voice said from the other side of the room, "Miss Armstrong has certainly done her research on the subject."

James, Anabel, and I simultaneously turned to see the weathered face of Alonzo Manuel, Florida's first Hispanic Governor, as he poked his head through his opened office door.

"I know you customarily flirt with my assistant before blessing me with your presence," the governor said to James, "but, would you mind starting our session now. I've got several issues I'd like to discuss with you."

"My time is your time," James said. "Let me introduce my nephew first and then we'll get to it."

I shook the governor's hand and was politely asked to, "keep Anabel company while Alonzo and I talk in private."

Yep. James and the gov are on a first name basis. What the hell else do I not know about my supposedly boring uncle?

"I can wait in the hall if you want," I told Anabel after the two elder men closed the hefty oak door to the governor's office behind them.

"Please don't," she said. "I owe you an apology and an explanation."

"For what?" I asked, taking a seat in a comfortable chair next to her desk.

"For my behavior just now. You have no reason to believe me, but I don't kiss every man who walks into my office."

"Is there a percentage?" I asked. "Do you only kiss half the men who walk through your door or is it more nuanced than that?"

She smiled, showing off pearly white, nearly perfect teeth. And the one slightly crooked incisor only added to her charm.

"Do you flirt with every woman you meet? You must realize I'm old enough to be your mother."

"Is that it? Is that why I didn't get a hug and a smooch? You only kiss men within a certain age range?"

"No. In the right place, at a proper time, I'm perfectly willing to jump a generation or two. But in this office, during work hours, I only kiss men who have saved my life."

"Uncle James saved your life?"

"On more than one occasion. The first time -"

A ringing telephone interrupted her. Once she sorted out that caller, a well-dressed lady walked into the office to discuss arrangements for some dinner to be held later in the week. Anabel and the lady were still deliberating table assignments when James emerged from the governor's office.

Anabel shrugged her shoulders and mouthed the word "sorry" as James and I left.

The rest of the week was a variation of the same theme. James met with several people each day. Some were politicians, business leaders, and academics, but others were folks lower on the food chain. He made sure there was a lot of flex time in his itinerary... time he spent talking to doormen, bar tenders, local cops, and, his favorite, secretaries.

"They're not secretaries," I told James when he first used the term. "You're supposed to call them executive assistants or administrative coordinators or office managers."

"Yeah, I know. Their official titles get more extravagant each year. Last month I met a good-looking redhead who was the 'director of executive time management'. No matter what you call them, they're all the same. They're highly intelligent, personable women who act as gate keepers for the rich and powerful. If you want to talk to a high-level politician, academic, or company president, you have to get through their secretary first. But there's more to it than that.

"Governors, college deans, and CEOs are transient. They stay in the job for a few years and then move on to something else. A good secretary stays put. She's the continuity that keeps the organization running smoothly. My grandmother used to say that 'The way to a man's heart was through his stomach'. The modern version is, 'The way to a million-dollar grant is through a politician's secretary'."

"Are you saying I should flirt with every woman I meet, just in case she'll be useful sometime in the future?"

"Absolutely not. Granny Spencer fed Grandpa because she loved him, but she also fed a lot of other people as well... because it was the right thing to do.

"I'm not into trading one favor for another. We're up here to make new friends and renew old friendships. If the opportunity arises, do your best to help a friend in need. Don't expect anything in return and don't be surprised when you get back more than you give."

Despite his noble words, James wasn't as altruistic as he wanted people to believe. We ate dinner with different politicians and business associates every night, but the one that stood out was our Thursday evening 'get together' with the two Florida US senators (one from each side of the aisle), a few congressmen, and their spouses. The venue was a secluded room in a private country club on the rich side of town. The menu included Maine lobsters, Florida mahi, Alaskan salmon, and healthy cuts of Texas grass-raised beef. Three bar tenders kept everybody's glass full, and a French pastry chef tended to their sugar cravings.

Towards the end of the evening, while the politicians congregated on an outside deck and their significant others remained in the dining room, I was tasked with settling the bill.

"What was the damage?" James asked as we drove back to our hotel.

"Slightly north of twelve thousand dollars. All on your Spencer Manufacturing credit card."

"That sounds reasonable."

"Not to me it doesn't. Mom's going to have a fit when she realizes we spent more than a thousand dollars a head for dinner."

"Not if you first tell her about the grant coming our way."

"What grant?"

"The five-million-dollar grant I organized on the patio after dinner. Among other things, Gloria is going to get a 'fresh out of med school' intern... completely free... for the next five years."

"Okay, I guess that's a good thing. Aunt Gloria has been complaining about her staffing. But couldn't you negotiate the grant over bar-b-que pork, baked beans, and a keg of beer?"

"Unfortunately, that's not how it works. I understand how you feel, I had similar thoughts when I was your age, but even the noblest of goals are not achieved without some level of sacrifice."

"So, in this case, we suffered through a steak and lobster dinner so Aunt Gloria's patients can get better medical care."

"So young and yet so wise," James said. "Your grandfather Frank would be proud of you."

We got to our hotel a little after ten. Instead of parking, James pulled up to the entrance and stopped.

"I've got one more appointment tonight," he said. "If I miss breakfast tomorrow morning, I'll meet you in the lobby at 9:00. Enjoy what's left of your evening."

I was tired and confused when I pressed the "5" button on the elevator. Actually, I pushed the buttons for both the fourth and fifth floors out of habit. James' room was on the fourth floor, and I was one floor above him. I was more than willing to share a room with my uncle, but he insisted we get separate suites.

Unlike the secret agents in spy movies, I didn't immediately realize someone had broken into my hotel room the minute I stepped through the door. I didn't have the foresight to glue a strand of hair to the door jamb before I left. My spidey sense didn't tingle when I laid my suit coat on the couch. I didn't notice that one of the bath towels was wet and hanging from the shower when I relieved my bladder. Hell, I didn't even see the extra set of clothes hanging in the closet as I stripped down to my boxers, probably because I didn't turn on a light.

My first hint that something was amiss was when I tripped over a high-heeled shoe at the foot of the bed. And when I stumbled onto the king-sized mattress, I finally realized I wasn't alone.

"Oh my. I must have fallen asleep."

I recognized the voice and perfume but, in my slightly addled state of mind, I didn't instantly associate them with a face or name.

"I hope you don't mind the intrusion," she said. "I guess your dinner went longer than planned. Hopefully it's an indication that your uncle got what he wanted."

"You know about the dinner?" I asked.

"Of course I do. I was the one who arranged it."

"You work for Uncle James?"

"Only on a quid pro quo basis. And I can't believe you don't recognize me. I usually make a much better first impression, especially on young men."

"It's dark in here," I said in my defense. "Too dark to see your face."

"Then let me give you something to jog your memory."

Two hands reached out, located my bare chest and, using the braille method, worked their way upwards until they held my head in their tender grasp. Her first kiss was on my forehead. The second on a cheek, followed by a peck to the opposing side. An exploratory nibble of my lower lip turned into an extended, proper kiss, which led to an impassioned duel of tongues. Naked breasts pushed against my chest as my hands naturally gravitated to a firm ass and remained there as she guided me onto my back.

"Does that refresh your memory?" she asked. "Or must I ruin the moment and turn on a light?"

"How about you continue giving me subtle hints about your identity and, when we're done, maybe you'll tell me how James Spencer saved your life."

It was Anabel Armstrong. Even though the size of her breasts, and length of her hair matched that of the woman I met in the governor's office earlier in the week, there were probably thousands of women in the city with C-cupped boobs and shoulder length locks. I wasn't sure of her true identity until I ran a tongue across her teeth to discover one incisor slightly out of alignment.

Anabel was a quiet, confident lover. There were no false words of endearment. She didn't express her undying love for me, but the occasional moan or giggle suggested she loved what I was doing to her.

Anabel was a receptive lover. Her nipples were already firm when I first touched them and hardened up nicely as my lips replaced my fingers. Her thighs readily spread as I reached between them, her pussy naturally dampened at the slightest provocation, her clit willingly came out of its' sheath to meet my tongue, and her legs instinctively wrapped around my waist as I settled into her depths.

Anabel was also a grateful lover. From the number and intensity of her orgasms, I suspected that it might have been a while since she had last been with a man... or a woman... or even a sex toy. But when we were done. After I'd hit every one of her lust zones at least twice... despite the late hour... when I thought I might have fucked her into a state of unconsciousness... she raised herself up like a phoenix from the desert, straddled my waist with her well-formed boobs facing me, and told me her story.