Road X Trip Ch 03 Concessions

**Disclaimer : This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited. **

Day 1. 11 :00 AM (EDT)

Almost an hour has passed since our arrival on the American continent. Customs checks went smoothly. All the papers are in order, much to the relief of Richard, who was literally holding his breath at the counter. I can't wait to get the keys of our camper and finally relax.

We have been waiting for our luggage for almost half an hour now... Why is it taking so long? I'm starting to worry, but I keep it to myself. Maybe it's irrational. I should know it always takes forever... Finally, the first suitcase shows up on the conveyor belt. Then others. I see one of our bags and jump off the bench to grab it. The second one appears shortly after, which Richard catches. We manage to get out despite the maze of corridors and doors that is Montreal-Trudeau airport, and then take a bus to the city center. It's time to choose - reluctantly - between visiting the city or picking up the motorhome at the dealership. The after-effects of the trip and the accumulated fatigue are good reasons to find a hotel room for the night... It would be tempting to discover Montreal before leaving for good the next day. But the time difference, which sent us back in the early morning, plays in favor of another scenario. Not to mention the extreme excitement of discovering our new home on wheels as soon as possible. Also, to cut it short, we have set up a meeting with the salesman this very day.

We take advantage of the first hours to make a tour of the Old Montreal. I am hungry because I did not eat anything in the plane and I definitely want to taste a poutine before leaving Quebec. Richard is not against it, but warns me that I might be disappointed... Indeed. I was expecting better.

We stroll in a large park with a forest-like atmosphere where we almost get lost. A smiling old man with a deep accent who was passing by saves us by indicating the nearest road. And now the afternoon is well underway! Time to go to the dealer's store, located at the edge of town, in a somewhat deserted commercial area. Failing to find any public transport to get there, we call a cab. A short time later, a red and white car pulls up in front of us. A stocky man with a full belly, looking serious under a thick mustache, emerges from the vehicle.

We leave the dense and commercial streets of the city center. Gradually the road widens, small shops give way to hypermarkets or gas stations located at crossroads. In the oldest part of the city, vertical architecture and street grid, although predominant, leave room to some reminiscences of the European influence. Now, we are slowly plunging into a purely North American universe. One thing remains unchanged, however: from the center to the outskirts, homes, businesses, schools, sheds, all are built of red brick.

-- It's crazy, all these red bricks! Why are there so many of them? I ask.

-- You know, it's like this all-over North America. In Ottawa, Detroit, Washington... Mostly on the East Coast, actually, says Richard. The British imported the brick trend, and since they had plenty of clay on their hand here, they built everything with it!

I didn't mention it until now: Richard is French and Canadian! His parents are originally from Vancouver. They moved to France in the early 90's, shortly before he was born. He seldom visited his family, as the West of Canada is so far from France. For the first time tough, Richard will live in Canada. Well, not right away. In a few months from now...

I keep contemplating the ochre-colored buildings. They fascinate me so much. The cab takes us to the edge of the city. We cross the Rivière des Prairies and go up the watercourse. We drive along a street lined with trees and rather rich residences. Then, after a bend in the road, houses disappear. Vegetation becomes rarer. Shops and parking lots reappear. The driver turns soon in front of an island of hangars and car garages. He stops the car. We reached our destination. I pay the fare while Richard takes our luggage out of the trunk. Getting back into his cab, the man orchestrates a perilous reverse onto the bumpy sidewalk. The car rocks in one direction and in the other as each tire goes down the curb. It seems the whole car is going to collapse. We watch the scene in silence. Perhaps he's feeling observed as the driver turns his head towards us. He stares at us for a moment and storms off, bent over his steering wheel. We exchange a friendly smile. I take a look at the area around us. The old fence encircling the dealership, if it was able to dissuade any thief once, now acts as an ornament. On the half-open gate hangs an insipid sign flocked with the inscription "All Seasons VR" in capital letters. First impression: hum... better not to talk about it...

We enter the parking lot. A dozen vans and campers lay there, at most. Richard is surprised to see so few of them, a feeling I share with him. We linger a few moments, trying to find the model we have reserved. To no avail. As we start to scratch our heads, a voice suddenly rises in our back.

[In order to convey Quebecois accent and wording with the most authenticity, some words and elements of punctuation have been related in their original language]

--

Allô

! Can I help you?

The man emerges from the gray tin building located on the other side of the lot. He walks towards us, waving his hand exaggeratedly above him.

-- We have an appointment with Mr. Billette? To buy one of your motorhomes, Richard replies, reaching to shake his hand.

-- Ha

sti

... You're the French! he grumbles, a half-concealed pout of displeasure on his face.

Seems like he is not very happy to see us. I am about to find out why...

Of average height, well into his forties, Billette wears a vest that is too loose for him. The sky-blue suit looks long faded. His ill-fitting red and white tie clashes with the rest of his outfit. However, I notice that his Richelieu shoes are perfectly polished. The man wears a fake smile, up to his ears. On top of his skull in the shape of a rugby ball, a bunch of brown lacquered hair lay there, plastered on the side. The short, coarse hairs of his resurgent beard indicate he hasn't shaved in several days.

-- Yes, we spoke by phone about one of your motor homes. You agreed to set aside a Citroen Challenger model for us... But we don't see it here, Richard continues.

Billette rubs his bald forehead.

-- Ahem

calice

... That's the one I sold it last week.

We open our eyes wide.

-- Pardon? I ask.

-- Wait... You had agreed on the phone that it would be reserved for us! And you sold it without warning? Richard suddenly raises his voice.

--

Voyons donc

! No contract was signed! I do what I want with my RVs,

calice

, he replies defensively.

-- Well... No need to argue, I said, sensing an argument coming. And Richard losing his cool. Do you have any other models in the same price range?

-- Hum... Wait until I check about that.

Billette briefly reviews the handful of motorhomes parked in the parking lot.

-- So... Hold on a second, please, I'll get the key to this one, he says before trotting over to the shop.

I can't stand tense exchanges of this sort. I have to defuse this situation. This is only the beginning of our journey! Today more than any other day, I want things to go well, even if it means making concessions. In our relationship, I am the one who knows how to keep my cool and handle stressful situations. Richard is a planner, but when faced with the unexpected, he quickly loses his cool. I hug him and look him straight in the eye.

-- My love. Let's not panic! Wait and see what else he has to offer. Then we'll improvise. We put some money aside for unexpected events like these. If that does not work, we call a cab. We get a room for the night and tomorrow we contact other dealers. OK?

Richard takes a deep breath. He wishes, as I do, that everything goes well. My composure helps him to calm down.

-- You're right. Yes, you're right. This unexpected event should not get us down. This is probably only the first of many!

-- Well said! I whispered, placing a kiss on his lips.

The dealer comes back through the small glass door.

-- Follow me. I'll give you a tour of the Pacific.

He holds up a bunch of keys in front of him and walks over to a medium-sized camper, opens the door and invites us in behind him.

-- Here it is, it's a model quite similar to the other one. Kitchenette equipped with an oven.

Icitte

there is storage space. Behind, here's the shower room. And at the back, the big bed. Very bright. See', with windows at the back and on the sides of the vehicle. I'd have to check it out, I think it's got a few more kilometers on the counter than the Citroën.

Faque

, that shouldn't be a problem...

I exchange several looks of approval with Richard. This camper is even better than the one we reserved! Not excessively so but overall, a bit more spacious and comfortable. Richard asks about the price.

-- What's the price of this one? I don't want to say something wrong. Oh, maybe 18,000

piasses

, the man says, scratching his ear. Let's go check in the store.

And off he goes, nonchalantly nodding toward the shop once again. We're gnawing on our fingers, hoping with all our being that he was wrong, because the budget we set for the camper is 15,000 Canadian dollars. No more! Also, the amount Richard has set aside for contingencies is far from covering such a difference. Visiting the interior of the camper van has rekindled our hope, but it might be short-lived. We follow his lead.

We enter the dealer's premises. It's a dusty and poorly lit room, so small it can't accommodate more than a table and a few chairs. Along the walls, shelves are crammed with files and documents of all kinds. Some are placed on the floor, in the corners. A powerful smell of perfume invades our nostrils. The kind of cologne you spray over unpleasant odors. The salesman slides behind his desk and lifts several piles of papers. He mumbles a few words. A few Quebec swear words, if I hear correctly. Finally, he unearths a large notebook and flips through the pages, leaning lower and lower, as if that would bring him closer to what he's looking for.

--

Ah ben voyons

. Here it is. So... 18,000 dollars, that's his price.

He looks up. Seeing our baffled faces, he continues.

-- Hey... you've come a long way. I can let it go for 17,000

piasses

. Would that suit you?

Neither of us knows what to say. We stand there, shoulder to shoulder, dazed. Richard takes a deep breath at my side. As if he was about to admit defeat. As if he was about to dive under water. But I'm not through with it. There is certainly something to do! Suddenly, an idea pops into my mind. Before he can open his mouth, I grab Richard by the arm.

-- Do you mind if we talk about this for a few seconds?

Without waiting for the salesman's answer, we walk out in front of the room.

-- Richard, I may have a solution, but I need you to agree.

Richard stares at me, looking bewildered. I proceed with my point.

-- He will never agree to lower the price by 2000 euros... well, dollars again. He's already made an offer... On the other hand, I could propose to buy the camper for 15,000 dollars and in return, reward him with a little favor... Like, I don't know... give him a hand job, you know. What do you think?

Yeah, that's my lightning idea. What do you think? Contemplating this poor listless guy, stuck in an office as neglected as he is, I reasonably concluded that a sexual proposition would do the trick. I wouldn't have to give much of myself. A hand job or at most a blow job would be generous already. Richard looks at me, completely stunned. But his outward appearance does not deceive me. I can feel he is taking it very seriously. Indeed, little by little, his face comes to life. He wrinkles his eyebrows and tilts his head to the side.

-- Do you really think that would be enough? he wonders.

He's in! I knew it wouldn't be a problem. We are a very open couple. We both love to meet other people. But we've always done everything together though. And never anything like this. If he's OK with me taking care of this man in whatever way I need to, then it's up to me to take care of things.

-- Are you sure you're OK to do this? You don't have to, Olga... Just because I agree doesn't mean you have to. Do you feel compelled to do it? he continues.

He is right to ask me these questions. I take a moment to think about it. In a way, I made this proposal because we're up against the wall... it's true. And this guy I'm supposed to kneel in front of seems like a total jerk. However, we have the choice to turn back and find another dealer. If I don't want to do it, I don't have to. But something inside me wants to. An inner urge pushes me to take advantage of this man's weaknesses. I imagine myself giving him pleasure and that excites me.

-- I don't feel compelled to do it, Richard. I'll do it because I want to. Come on. We have nothing to lose! I say as I push open the glass door.

Richard leans against the wall at the entrance. I walk over to Billette and lean over the desk.

-- Sir, we are proposing to buy the camper for 15,000 dollars, the same amount of money we had raised for the other model.

I don't give him time to bounce back. I squeeze my chest a little more with my forearms to emphasize my cleavage.

-- If you agree to this act of generosity, I would love to thank you. You know... make a kind gesture of my own. Something that might make you happy for example.

I speak slowly, saying the words "gesture" and "happy" with a particular intensity. Billette realizes my intentions. I feel a deep hesitation inside him. He is surely calculating whether it is "worth it". Yet the equation is easy to do: financially, we gain, he loses. But gradually, his eyes start to glow. I can guess the thoughts that are going through his mind right now. He undresses me with his eyes. His imagination runs at full speed. For a few brief seconds, his mind is sharper than it has been for years. If he had let himself drift a few moments longer, drool would have started to run from both corners of his mouth. His posture both disgusts and excites me, but I try to keep a composed look. His pupils deviate from my body. He seems to come back to reality. He stammers.

-- Uh... Well... Let's see... You sir don't have a problem with that?

I answer in Richard's place.

-- No, no, he doesn't have a problem with it!

Richard nods without a word.

-- Eh... in that case...

The unscrupulous dealer scratches his neck. He pretends to examine his documents. But I know his brain is projecting one dirty image through his misty eyes: me, Olga, crouched before him, giving him a pleasure whose flavor he has long forgotten. He is ready to be plucked. But still mute. I wait for his answer, feverish at the idea of him turning around.

-- Then I want to be alone with you, he finally decides to say.

I raise my eyebrows. He continues.

-- I agree, but your boyfriend will be waiting in front of the store. Is that clear? Is that okay with you people?

This time Richard replies faster than I can.

-- In that case can you open the camper for me? So, I can get our bags inside and get to know the beast.

-- Oh no, no, no.

Voyons-donc

! Let's sign the papers first.

Pis'

you can go get settled in your camper while your girlfriend takes care of me.

I turn to Richard, fearing that the salesman's insolent tone will provoke his anger. Signing the sale before anything else would ensure he doesn't rip us off. Good for us. I smile at Richard. He doesn't seem to show any signs of impatience yet. On the contrary, he joins me in front of the desk and calmly sits down. I do the same. Billette rummages through his files and pulls out a brochure describing the motorhome, which he hands to us. He starts filling a sales contract, while we check the vehicle's technical data.

-- As I told you

tantôt

, it's a good RV. It's been going around a lot, but it's still got a lot going for it, he reassures us.

-- Yes, it looks good to me, Richard replies, turning to me. I nod in agreement.

We watch as his pen run across the paper. He checks off boxes, turns the page, scribbles a word on a line, leaves half a page blank. If he's an expert at anything, it's certainly filling out sales contracts.

-- Do you have a license to drive a RV? he asks without looking up.

-- Yes, both of us, I reply.

-- Well...

He pauses for a moment. We are hanging on his every word. I can tell from the way he sits that he has pulled himself together. A few seconds earlier, I have taken over. He has felt cornered, confronted with his miserable existence. But I can feel it now in the tone of his voice: he thinks he has the upper hand and is about to take advantage of it.

--

Faque

, all I need to do is signing the form now... And it will be up to you to fill in the rest.

He stops speaking but doesn't seem to be finished. Finally, he deigns to look at us. Or rather, it's Richard he's looking at.

-- How about your girlfriend starts thanking me for the nice offer I'm making you while I sign this.

My intuition was right. Now he does not only want to take advantage of me, he also wishes to humiliate Richard. A heavy silence falls on the small room. I don't know what to say. This time, Richard keeps his nerves steady. He replies in a calm voice.

-- Yes, Olga, the sooner you get started the sooner it will be over.

And Billette retorts with a straight face.

-- Come on, you don't know me! Your girlfriend will be here for a while! 'Sti, maybe you'll be able to sleep in your RV before she joins you!

I put my hand on Richard's thigh. To my great relief, he squeezes it in his and gives me a smile. I can see that he's forcing himself though. But it makes me feel better. I walk around the office. The man looks at me. His eyes are ravenous. He swivels in his rolling chair, spreads his legs, invites me to kneel before him. I do so, glancing at Richard.

-- Come on, do your job. And I'll do mine at the same time.

He turns back to Richard.

-- Let's get this straight, shall we?

The dealer proceeds to summarize the entire contract. I unzip his pants, pull out his already vibrant cock. His glans is hideous, puffy, crumpled. His shaft is covered with protruding veins. I spit in my hand. I grab his sex and start to polish it. From top to bottom. From bottom to the top. I hear the words "motor home," "registration," "15,000 dollars..." Richard says my name. Unless it's Billette. Or did they not mention me at all. Everything gets mixed up in my head. I'm not in the same world anymore. I am underneath. At the feet of men. Of this man. I do not dare to raise my head above the desk. I am afraid of hurting Richard. I manage to catch a glimpse of him. Head down, focused on his task, it is his turn to sign the contract. He tries to ignore everything else. The salesman shows him the boxes to fill in.

-- Yes, right there... Yes, yes. That's it. It's there... says the salesman.

What is he saying? It takes me a few seconds to realize that he is addressing to me.

-- Say... She's got a talent for handjob your

blonde

. You must not be the only one she practices on, he blows, trying to torment Richard a little more.

There, he steps out of line. Between rage and mischief, I grasp his shaft with one hand, his purses with the other, as hard as I can. He stifles a sharp complaint. I press downwards, very slowly. I grind the base of his penis, crush his balls together. Upwards now. I pull against the crown of his glans. His legs twitch. I hear him moan, between pain and guilty pleasure. Richard notices. He looks up, surprised. The vendor looks the other way but his tense features betray his uneasiness. I seize the opportunity to straighten my head. My eyes meet Richard's. From the perfidious smile on my face, he deduces the cause of Billette's discomfort. Richard chuckles to himself and continues to fulfill the contract as if nothing happened. I loosen my grip slightly while keeping a firm hold on the poor man's purse. His penis could use some lubrication but I wait a moment before spitting on it again.