It took Sandy longer to get back from San Francisco than she had hoped. In the meanwhile I found work to keep myself busy. I wanted to be working on the big drawing for the show at Wendover's, but I had to special order the paper for it. The only way to get a sheet big enough for what Howard wanted was to buy a roll and then trim out a piece of the requisite size. That took a week to special order.
So I turned my attention to an image I had in my mind of Sandy at the end of the story I had sent her. First, I completed a sketch of the drawing I wanted to do. It was different from the drawings of Rachel and Sandy I had produced for the show. In those drawings the girls were naked and clearly engaged or just recovering from lesbian sex. Here Sandy was standing near the end of the dock, more or less clothed. She was barefoot and completely soaked, having just climbed out after our fall into the ocean. Her shoes were lying next to her feet, tipped over on their sides. The big mansion in which the party was being held loomed up behind her, and the sun, setting in the west, was illuminating her.
One strap of her dress had slipped off her shoulder, and one of her small breasts was exposed. It didn't really matter, because the water had made the rest of her dress virtually transparent. The covered breast was as exposed as the uncovered one. The rest of her figure, her long legs, her flat torso, even her reddish-blonde pubic hair was readily apparent through the now-gossamer dress. She was standing tall, her legs apart and her hands raised to pull her long hair free from the knot it had been piled in atop her head making no effort to conceal any aspect of her complete exposure. Half of her hair had already escaped and was hanging wildly about her face and shoulders. Water was streaming from her hair and her clothes. But best of all was her expression, just as I had imagined it when I made up the story—laughing hysterically at the absurdity of our situation.
After two days' work the pastel version was essentially done. I taped it up on the wall and took a picture of it with my iPad. It was four o'clock, and I felt like I had earned a drink. Besides, I wanted to show it to someone, and I figured Lisa would be working behind the bar at Sherri's. I tucked the iPad under my arm and headed out.
As I walked up to the bar, I found Lisa standing by the door locking it.
"What's up?" I asked. "You can't make any money being closed on a Thursday afternoon."
"Water damage," she responded. "Main water line broke and flooded the place. It's a mess. We got the water shut off and cleaned up what was standing on the floor, but we can't open up until we get a bunch more work done. I couldn't get a clean-up crew here until tomorrow." She looked like was ready to cry.
"Wow, that's tough. I thought I needed a drink, but it sounds to me like you're the one who needs a drink."
"Yeah, I really could use a drink," she responded. "But not in there. It's a mess, and I don't want to see any more of it until tomorrow morning when I let the clean-up crew in."
"Let's go to my place," I said. I've got some Scotch, and there's a new painting I want to show you. I'm just around the corner."
"That's the best offer I've had all day," she said as she slipped her arm in mine and started us walking toward my apartment. As soon as I felt the warmth of her arm against mine, I remembered how good she had felt pressed against me when she had kissed me in the doorway to the bar a week or so earlier. I hadn't come down here planning on having sex with her, but I felt a sudden surge in my groin that brought the possibility to mind. As we walked back to my apartment her mood was recovering. She was chattering on about the leak and the damage it had done and telling me about how much of it would be covered by insurance and how the real damage was to her employees who were going to miss a few days of work. As we walked I continued to feel her boob pressing against my upper arm. I was listening to her, just enough to issue an occasional "uh huh,' or "oh really," or "yes," or some other comment encouraging her to keep talking, but my mind was on the drawing I had made of her breasts nearly falling out of her top and how much I wanted to see more of them. The intermittent pressure of her left breast against my right arm kept me from focusing on what she was saying anymore than was necessary to keep her talking while I obsessed about her beautiful tits.
I hadn't paid any attention to what she was wearing up until then, but as I looked sideways at her I noticed she was wearing an old pair of jeans that hugged her ass and a Penn State T-shirt that was worn and thin. It had also likely shrunk a bit, as old cotton tees do, so it hugged her bra-clad breasts. The lacy detail of the bra was readily apparent, as were her nipples, which were pushing through the bra and T-shirt material. I couldn't help ogling her big tits.
I think she must have noticed my tasteless staring, because as we got into the elevator in my building she leaned toward me, just enough to firmly press one of her breasts against my arm. It wasn't like the casual brushes I had received earlier. This time there was no doubt that it was on purpose. I looked down at her and she smiled and said nothing.
When I opened the door to the apartment, she stepped in ahead of me and walked slowly down the hall before me, inspecting another woman's turf, I supposed. Her jeans like her T-shirt were old and worn, but they hugged her ass in the most delightful way. I'm sure she thought herself to be broader than she would have liked, but she looked just delicious to me as she wandered through my apartment. There was a fantasy running through my mind of hanging on to that ass as I fucked her furiously from behind. Neither of us said anything.
Finally, when we were standing in the living room, she turned and spoke. "Very nice. You two have a good housekeeper. Very tidy."
"I'm the housekeeper," I said with a laugh. "After I got laid off, I had to do something."
"Based on drawings and paintings that I've seen you are keeping quite busy. I'm surprised you have time for housekeeping. Where's the new piece you wanted to show me?"
"In a minute," I said. "Scotch first."
"Oh. Good idea."
I led her to the kitchen. She took a seat at our battered kitchen table while I fixed us each a drink. I got a couple of glasses out of a cupboard and retrieved the bottle of Macallan from the liquor cabinet. "How do you like it?" I asked as I looked over my shoulder. She was sitting at the table leaning forward with her chin cupped in her hands. Her big breasts were almost resting on the table.
"Neat," she replied.
"A woman with good taste," I said.
I poured a generous shot for each of us and set the glasses on the table, along with the bottle. She picked up her glass and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes flicked quickly at the bottle, noting that I had brought it to the table, implying that more than one drink was in order. She took a sip and set the glass down. Then she raised both hands to her temples and pushed her long thick hair back, arching her back and pushing her tits out as she did so.
I sat with silently, my glass at my lips, enjoying the view. Finally I spoke, "Long day?"
"Oh god, yes," she responded. She dropped her hands to the table, letting her thick hair fall to her back. "That place was a mess. Still is." She took another sip of the Scotch. "Ahh. This is just what I needed."
I took my first sip and then said, "Good. Glad to help. I was silent for a moment then I asked, "Where's Howard?"
"Oh, he's in London, trying to organize a show with some artist he found over there. I don't like her work much, but Howard is sure it will sell. His judgment is usually pretty good on that question. But this time I think he is just trying to get into her pants."
"Hmmm," I responded. I wasn't sure what you say to someone who claims to have an open marriage but is complaining about her husband chasing another woman.
We each took another sip of the whiskey. I was trying not to stare at her tits, but I would have to confess to a total failure if someone had asked.
"Where's Sandy?" she asked.
"She was in London. Now she's in San Francisco."
"Trying to get into someone's pants?" Lisa asked with a smile. The first smile I had seen from her since we met on the street.
I took another sip. "Not as far as I know," I said. "Maybe their wallet though."
"What about the redhead. What's her name? Rachel?"
"She's in Minneapolis, and she is undoubtedly trying to get into someone's pants and likely succeeding."
"So we're both home alone," she said. There was a twinkle in her grey-blue eyes that I hadn't seen until now.
"Seems so." I noticed that our glasses were getting low, so I poured each of us another shot.
"Thanks,"
"My pleasure,"
"Are you trying to get into someone's pants," she asked.
