Multiple Units 109

*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.

Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.

*.*

Venice Apartments had a sign out front, with the name 'Venice Apartments' in black against a background of the Italian flag of green, white, and red. Encircling the name was the silhouette of a gondola and gondolier.

The complex was comprised of four separate buildings arranged in a square. Each building faced inward, faced the pool and small courtyard. The first building, the northeast building was three floors, with five apartments on each floor. Apartments 101, 105, 201, 205, 301 and 305 were two bedroom units. The three units in between each two bedroom unit were one bedroom units. The southeastern building had apartments 106 and 107 on the ground floor, each a two bedroom unit. The second and third floors had four single room efficiencies on each. The southwestern building was a duplicate of the northeastern building, each floor with a two bedroom unit on the corners, separated by three one bedroom units. And the northwestern building was a duplicate of the southeastern building, a ground floor of two units, each with two bedrooms, then eight one room efficiencies atop. Behind the northwestern building was a large laundry room and an exercise room.

Across the parking lot in front of the northeastern building was the rental office. And on top of the rental office was the apartment building's clubhouse. Each tenant had the right to reserve the clubhouse for parties, but they must notify the apartment manager of the desired time that they planned to use the clubhouse.

#109

Kirsten Landry applied the suntan oil to her 30D breasts, feeling her fat nipples stiffen as she massaged the greasy substance into her skin. She paused for a moment and pinched her nipples between thumbs and forefingers and enjoyed the small ripple of pleasure that went from her dark colored nipples to her bald pussy. She then whipped her calf length brown hair around to fall forward and squirted a dollop of the oil onto the back of her back scrubber. Using the bath implement, she spread the lotion onto her back.

That task completed, Kirsten wiggled into her bikini top. She slid the white bikini bottom up her well-oiled legs, then slipped her sunglasses onto the top of her head. Kirsten checked that she had her key on her wrist band before leaving Apartment 109, beach towel and long U.L.D. Storm tee shirt draped over her shoulder.

Kirsten saw the new neighbor sitting by the pool; muscled and very hairy legs sticking out of a pair of modest swim trunks. Kirsten wondered if he had a sexy hairy chest; his chest was hidden by a Cleveland Browns tee shirt. She punched her code into the gate and a moment later, the gate clicked open.

"Hi there, neighbor," Kirsten said, arranging her towel onto a chaise lounge and reclining the back so that the pool furniture was flat.

"Mm hmm," her neighbor agreed, looking at his watch.

Even though the man had on sunglasses, Kirsten could see sadness etched on the man's face. She lay on her belly, facing away from the man. Whipping her long hair to the side, she arranged herself on the pool furniture.

"Mm," Kirsten signed, feeling the warmth of the sun on her back.

She felt a little naughty as she spread her legs, allowing the sun to warm her inner thighs. She knew, in this position, her buttocks were on full display. If her neighbor bent his head slightly, he'd be able to see her pubic mound pressing firmly against the gusset of her bikini bottom.

"Naughty, naughty girl," Kirsten thought to herself and felt her nipples harden, her crotch moisten.

The tan through suit was marvelous; she had no tan lines at all. Kirsten verified her lack of tan lines whenever she posed in front of her mirrored closet doors.

Kirsten Joan Landry had a touch of vanity. Her brown hair was thick and wavy, her face was round, with big brown eyes, a slim nose and button mouth.

Hers was a pretty face, a 'girl next door' face. Her neck was slim, tapering into her smooth shoulders and tanned body. Kirsten knew she looked good in her bikini and looked better out of her bikini.

When the sun grew far too hot for her back, Kirsten flipped onto her back and slightly raised the back of the lounger. Through half closed eyelids, Kirsten saw that she did not have her neighbor's undivided attention. She watched him glance at his watch again. He sighed quite audibly and looked down at the ground.

"Really? I'm sitting right here and you're looking at the ground?" Kirsten wanted to scream at the handsome man.

Again, she lay, feeling the broiling sun beating down on her flesh. She could feel beads of sweat beginning to form on her body. Moments later, the beads of sweat began to trickle over her body. Her eyes were firmly shut but the sun's brightness penetrated her lids. She debated whether or not to pull the sunglasses down and over her eyes.

Kirsten spread her legs a good amount. She wondered if her neighbor had pulled his eyes from the pebbled concrete of the bool area, if he might be looking at her proud chest, flat belly and prominent pubic mound barely covered by her skimpy bikini bottom.

Another audible sigh informed Kirsten that she did not have the man's attention. She tightened her face, but continued to soak up the harmful IR and UV rays.

"You keep checking your watch; expecting someone?" Kirsten finally asked after her neighbor gave yet another sigh.

"Hmm? Oh! Oh no, no, nothing like that," Randy Bogdanovich said, voice heavy.

Kirsten sat up and pulled the backrest of the chaise lounge upward so that she was sitting up. She slipped her sunglasses over her eyes and looked at the man.

Obviously, though, the man wasn't going to give any details. Kirsten shook her head and looked around for her flip flops.

"I'm Kirsten, Kirsten Landry," she said, and pointed to Apartment 109. "Right there, one oh nine."

"Hi, Kirsten. I'm Randy Bogdanovich," Randy said, nodding.

"So, why you keep looking at your watch, Randy?" Kirsten asked, placing her feet on either side of her chaise lounge, spreading her legs wide.

She leaned forward, giving him a good eyeful of her impressive cleavage. Instead of ogling her breasts, or her pubic mound, Randy looked at his watch again. Kirsten noticed that it was a heavy watch, with a fat metal band.

"We're an hour ahead of Benhurst? Yes, we're an hour ahead. Aitchel is two hours, so we're one hour," Randy mused aloud, scrutinizing his watch. "So, right about now, her, my little girl should be getting married."

Kirsten saw a tear slide out from behind the man's sunglasses. She wondered what to say; any words she could think of sounded hollow in her mind.

"I, you, um," she faltered.

Leslie and I met when we were both kids; our families belonged to The Church of The Risen And Living Messiah," Randy said. "We've known each other our whole lives."

Again, Kirsten was unsure of what to say. She knew of the church Randy had named; The Reverend of the local church had a television program on Channel 12, the local independent television station in DeGarde, Louisiana. She'd caught a few of the broadcasts when she'd been unable to sleep and had thought the Reverend Smith was a nut job. Screaming and hollering and carrying on about the evils of the world.

"Aw, childhood sweethearts?" Kirsten smiled, thinking of Sonny Latchoilais, her boyfriend in kindergarten.

"Yeah, you could say that," Randy smiled tightly. "We went on group dates, you know, a group of us guys and a group of gals would all get together at Sweetman's Mall; there really was not much else to do in Aitchel, Ohio, then we'd go to the movies, or if we'd seen all the movies, we'd just sit around the food court; there was a pretzel place that had twenty nine different pretzels. And believe me, I had tried all twenty nine of them."

"What was your favorite?" Kirsten asked, smiling as Randy now wore a soft smile.

"Cinnamon. I just loved that one. Oh, and the jalapeno cheddar one was also a favorite of mine," Randy smiled at the thought of the sweet and the spicy soft pretzels.

"What about Leslie?" Kirsten asked.

"Regular. And if she was in the mood for something sweet, she'd get the caramel with sea salt," Randy said. "Of course, I would try to get her to taste mine. She never would."

Randy smiled at a memory. Kirsten smiled, waiting. Then he glanced at his watch again.

"Allison Drummond; she would always ask to try whatever I was having. Boy, you could see the steam coming out of Leslie's ears!" Randy said. When I got my first car, I decided I'd, we'd do away with the whole group dating thing and I asked Leslie if she'd like to go to the Red Lobster with me, just her and I, a real date."

"Oh boy, Red Lobster, big spender," Kirsten thought to herself, but didn't say anything.

'Nervous? Oh, we were both as nervous as two long tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs," Randy smiled sadly. "And then after? You know, that first kiss? I almost barfed, I was so nervous."

"Barfed? BARFED? Does anyone even say 'barfed' anymore?" Kirsten wondered.

"Leslie begged God for forgiveness," Randy said. "She had enjoyed our first date, but really enjoyed our first hug and kiss. She, you know, she..." Randy said, a heavy blush coming to his face and he looked away from Kirsten. "...she touched herself. And she enjoyed telling Allison all about our first date. She knew it was wrong, taunting Allison like that, but..."

"Touching herself? You mean, masturbating?" Kirsten thought. "And she...oh yeah, they think masturbating is some kind of sin or something."

"The next year, right after we graduated from "Edward Tiffin High School, Leslie and I married. I was working at Drummond Tires; we manufactured tires. Whew! Let me tell you, Rubber? In the winter, when it's too cold to open the bay doors? Great Caesar's Ghost! And that smell just gets trapped in your clothes, even your skin and hair smell like hot rubber, no matter how many showers you take," Randy said, shaking his head at the memory.

"Sounds um, lovely," Kirsten said when Randy again lapsed into silence, apparently deep in thought.

"Mr. Michelson, Leslie's dad? He was a bit old-fashioned," Randy mused. "The man is the head of the household; the woman is to be subservient to her husband, that sort of thing. He believed that women should not work, women should not drive, women should not be out in public without her husband, or a male relative to escort her."

"Hmm," Kirsten said, her disdain for this unknown Mr. Michelson evident in her tone.

"But, even though I was making Twelve eighty an hour? When you factor in rent, utilities, food, automobile maintenance, insurance and other incidentals, that paycheck was gone before we saw it," Randy said. "And, truthfully, Leslie was not subservient to me; we were partners. We were partners in life, for life."

With another glance at his watch, Randy continued his tale, "Leslie needed to know how to drive. Supposed there was an accident? Supposed she needed eggs or other staples? And, to me, it just made no sense that my car should be parked in front of Drummond's all day long, unused. It just made no sense to leave Leslie trapped at home, with no means of transportation. So, on Sundays, after lunch and before evening services, I took Leslie out to the Drummond parking lot. Oh ho! The first few times? Oh she was so nervous! She actually broke down and cried when I told her she'd made a mistake. She forgot to put the turn signal on when she turned. She cried for nearly ten minutes straight."

"I remember my daddy trying teach me how to drive," Kirsten smiled.

"Mr. Drummond didn't much care for the idea of a woman knowing how to drive," Randy said. "He was of the same belief as Mr. Michelson. And, if Leslie knew how to drive, then Allison would want to know how to drive."

"Oh, so he was one of them too?" Kirsten sneered.

"Mm hmm; he was one of Reverend Watkins's good deacons. He and Mr. Michelson and my uncle would usually sit right up front, every service," Randy said, shaking his head at the memory. "But I taught Leslie how to drive, and when she was ready to get her license, I took the morning off so that we could go to the Aitchel DMV for her to get her license. Then we went to Newhart's Restaurant to celebrate with a hamburger and French fries and a big chocolate malted."

"Ooh. Big spender," Kirsten thought to herself, then remembered, Randy had said his was the only income in their household.

Anyway, Leslie drove us to Drummond; I'd taken the morning off, but needed to clock in by twelve thirty to make a half day of wages," Randy said, face turning hard. "She's driving, smiling real big and gave me a big hug and kiss before I got out of the car. And when I walked in through the big bay doors, Marvin Newton; he was oh, I don't know, I supposed he was about fifty or so. He had been working with Mr. Drummond pretty much from the first day Mr. Drummond opened Drummond Tires. But Marvin said..."

"Marvin said..." Kirsten prompted when Randy fell silent.

"I'm sorry. What that big lummox said really isn't fit for a lady to hear," Randy whispered, hard face flushed.

"I'm an AA at Banks, Eichenback and associates," Kirsten laughed merrily. "Believe me, I've heard it all before. Oh my God! You should hear some of the stuff goes on in those depositions! Curl your nose hairs, I swear."

"I uh, well, he uh, he made mention of Leslie's breasts and asked me if they uh they felt nice," Randy fumbled, clearly uncomfortable. "And then told me to tell Leslie to look him up when she uh, when she got tired of my little uh, my manhood."

Kirsten thought it was cute; obviously Randy had tried very hard to sanitize Marvin's comments for Kirsten's benefit. Randy looked at Kirsten, trying to judge her reaction to the vulgar statement. Kirsten simply waved her hand for Randy to continue.

"I told him, in no uncertain terms, my wife's breasts were no concern of his," Randy said, voice now forceful.

"Good. You right; your wife's breasts ain't none of his business," Kirsten praised Randy's actions.

"Well, Marvin just wouldn't leave well enough alone," Randy snapped, his anger rising. "And worse still? Because they can see it upsets me? Now everyone's getting in on the fun. They're all making comments about Leslie's uh ah, her charms."

"You go to H.R. about this?" Kirsten asked.

"There was no H.R. to go to," Randy said. "I went directly to Mr. Drummond, told him what was going on; told him that Marvin and the other employees are making Drummond Tires an uncomfortable place to work."

"He put a stop to it?" Kirsten asked.

"No. Oh no. The sanctimonious bastard had the audacity to tell me it was my own fault for bringing my wife around, parading her about in front of the others," Randy snapped. "All I did was have her drop me off in front of my place of employment. Hardly what I would call 'parading her about.'"

"Hmm," Kirsten said.

"The next day, and the day after, I brought a mini tape recorder to work with me," Randy said. I did not encourage or invite any comments, but the moment I walked in, Marvin asked me if the oh! I uh, he uh, he asked about my wife's um, her hair color."

"Carpet match the drapes? Collar match the cuff?" Kirsten guessed and almost giggled at Randy's shocked expression.

"I um, yes, the uh, the second thing you said," Randi stammered. "Then the others started um, asking other very personal questions about our um, our joining together. And again, I brought my complaints to Mr. Drummond. And again, his reaction was that I'd brought it all on myself."

"You play the tape for him?" Kirsten asked.

"No. Did one better," Randy smiled tightly. "Recorded his comment that any pansy that would allow his wife to drive should expect other men, real men to think that I wasn't man enough to keep my wife in line. Any man weak enough to let his wife browbeat him into letting her drive probably uh I, well, probably wasn't able to satisfy her and should expect other men to notice that she needed a real man."

Kirsten made a grunt of disapproval. Randy again checked his watch, then looked at the ground. A moment later, he looked up at the bright sky before looking at Kirsten again.

"After the third day, I walked directly into Mr. Drummond's office and told him if he didn't take steps to control his employees, then I would have no choice but to quit. The man, supposedly a good God-fearing Christian man asked me if my Leslie was uh ah, ready for a ah, a real man," Randy said. "I told him I quit and left his office. As I had suspected that this would be his reaction, I had driven myself to work. Well, from Drummond Tires, I drove straight to the law office of Everett Fischer and played the tapes I'd made for him."

Randy gave a wry smile. Kirsten reached down and pulled on her white U.L.D. Storm tee shirt; the sun was really beating down on her now. The tee shirt clung to her sweat-soaked body, hugging her flesh.

"I really wish I could have been a fly on the wall when the entire crew was served with our lawsuit," Randy said. "I know exactly what Mr. Drummond's reaction was; he called and left a nine minute long message on our telephone's answering machine. Christian? I hardly think so. None of the words he used were ever in any Bible I've ever read. And Uncle Kenny? I honestly couldn't believe, I mean, yes, I knew he and Mr. Drummond were friends; that's how I got the job, but, I'm family, for Pete's sake!"

"So, what happened?" Kirsten asked after a long moment of silence.

Randy snapped out of his reverie and smiled tightly.

"Oh, we won. Have you ever driven on Drummond Tires? No? Do you know why? In order to pay me the one million dollars we'd won, Mr. Drummond had to sell the business. And each of the men that had harassed me, made such crude comments about my wife; they were ordered to pay me fifty thousand dollars apiece. And good old Marvin was ordered to pay five hundred thousand dollars. He didn't have five hundred thousand dollars, but it wasn't about the money. It was about getting the message across," Randy said.

"So, you're a millionaire?" Kirsten asked, sitting up straight.

"Oh, not hardly," Randy smiled. "The lawyers ate up a goodly portion of that; remember, they'd taken the case on contingency. And we had to move; a major source of employment in Aitchel had just been closed down thanks to our lawsuit. A bunch of men were now out of work and somehow all these people? They blamed me. And, somehow, in the middle of all the hullabaloo, Leslie wound up in the family way. And I decided that I needed to get a college education. I did not want to work in menial labor for the rest of my life. So, a baby, a house, a college education from Missouri River State University, go Pioneers, that money was quickly eaten up."

"Pioneers? Boo!" Kirsten smiled, pointing to her own tee shirt.

"Uh huh," Randy smiled. "I noticed your tee shirt; but since I am a gentleman, I was politely ignoring your lack of social graces or common sense."

"What?" Kirsten squealed, then giggled as Randy smiled, showing straight white teeth.

"Deanna, we named her after Leslie's mom, Deanna was born about four months after I started at school," Randy said, the heavy sadness again weighing his face toward the ground. "She uh, she, oh my heavens; I only thought I knew what love was. But when my baby girl came out and cried for all the world to hear, I knew I had never loved anything or anyone as much as I loved Deanna Florence Bogdanovich."

"And that, she's the one getting married? Today?" Kirsten said.

"Mm hmm," Randy nodded, checking his watch again.

Then, then why aren't you there?" Kirsten asked, genuinely curious.