Rita Plays Pygmalion

Authors note: This is intended as an entry in the

Pink Orchid 2024 for Women-Centric Erotica Challenge

. Readers and judges of that contest please feel free to evaluate and comment. I appreciate constructive feedback.

This is a stand-alone story but is the third and last story in my Rita's Classic Hits series. It is a series of vignettes in the style of "Between Better and Worse". Expect a slow burn and, as always, a happy ending.

If you are curious about Rita, please also look up my Middle-Aged Crazy series. In the near future, her husband has his own stories to tell in Middle-Aged Wifey. Thank you for reading.

*****

At least she let me down easy. Even so, it stung. It took me a week to get up the courage to ask out Jo Ann, the receptionist in my office. It took her twenty seconds to explain that she liked me, but not like that, and excuse herself to go to the powder room. I knew she was out of my league. But with all the time we'd spent hanging out, our lunches together in the break room, the conversations we had about... everything, I really thought we had something going. But we didn't. I couldn't possibly feel any lower.

"Don't take this the wrong way..." Came a woman's voice.

As it turned out, I could feel lower. There was a witness to my tragedy. Mrs. Morceau, the boss's wife, was installed on one of the pleather couches in the lobby, partially hidden by the fronds of a potted fern. I turned to face her. I could barely keep it together. I could barely keep a straight face.

"...but you're not her type."

I just stared at her, unbelieving. What other pearls of wisdom did she have for me? Water is wet? I snapped. "How could I POSSIBLY not take that the wrong way?"

Storming out of the building, I fished my keys from my pocket and with shaking hands I unlocked my old Ford Escort. Once in the driver's seat I managed to calm down. Then I walked back to the building to beg forgiveness. I'd been rude and I never wanted to be rude. Also, I needed this job. It was my first real job out of college and with my loans and the expense of setting up an apartment I was living paycheck to paycheck.

Mrs. Morceau accepted my apology but she didn't let me off the hook. She patted the seat beside her. I needed mothering, apparently, and I was in no position to refuse. Fine.

"Jo Ann isn't a bad person," she began, "But she looks out for her own interests, as we all do. The way she looks, the way she behaves, sends a signal of availability and, well, sex appeal. It's not only intended for you. You know that, right?"

"I know." It was uncomfortable to admit but it was pointless to pretend otherwise.

"She casts a wide net so that she can have her choice of men who respond. And who does a girl like her choose?"

I knew what she wanted me to say but couldn't say what sprang to mind. I couldn't bring myself to suggest Jo Ann, who I still thought of as a friend, might be interested only in selfish or superficial factors.

"In real life, Spencer, like attracts like. If you want to date attractive women, you should be attractive. If you want to date athletic women, you should be athletic."

"So I should stick to dating nerds?"

"A nerd would treat you better than a beauty queen. But is there a rule that says a nerd can't be attractive?"

I scoffed. "Is that the answer, just be attractive? Maybe I should just go ahead and be rich and tall while I'm at it."

She made a frown and drew a circle with her finger at me. "You can start by not doing whatever this is."

"Sorry."

"Spencer, I was a nerd, like you. I still am. Five years ago I was an older lady nerd, one of the more unfortunate varieties when it comes to dating. I was well-off, but a wealthy woman doesn't attract admirers the way a wealthy man does. So I put in the work and changed my image. And you can take my word for it, I do pretty well romantically."

I didn't have to take her word on that. Her husband James was a very handsome man and kind of a badass. I'm not just saying that because he signed my paychecks. I thought his wife was attractive as well, in a solid, middle-aged kind of way. Not beautiful, but well put-together... classy. I wouldn't have thought of her as a nerd. But then again, I knew she was a forensic accountant, a career which attracts a peculiar sort of person. So maybe we did have that in common.

"What do you suggest?"

"Your health insurance gives you a discounted membership at City Fitness. Do you take advantage of it?"

"I, uh, no." Even with the discount it was forty dollars a month. Doesn't sound like much but that was two weeks of groceries for me.

"You do now. Meet me there Friday after work, ready to sweat. Okay?"

I was out of argument. "Okay."

*****

It felt like every eye in the gym was on me, though I knew that was me being self-conscious. Actually, everyone was pretty absorbed in what they were doing. People I passed smiled and nodded. The men were dressed like me in baggy t-shirts and shorts. The women preferred tight, colorful athletic clothing. Some were practically in their underwear. Maybe hanging out at the gym wouldn't be so bad.

I was trying to look like I belonged there when Rita, Mrs. Morceau, came out of the women's locker room. Her tight-fitting t-shirt had the local baseball team's logo. She wore tight spandex shorts like bicyclists wear, coming down to mid-thigh. It made me a little uncomfortable to notice that the boss's wife was kind of stacked.

She beamed when she saw me and came over to take my hand in both of hers. "I'm glad you came, Spencer. You are not going to regret this."

A big muscle guy came over when he saw her and she introduced him as Milo, a personal trainer. It turned out that I would be working out with him, not with her. He took me to a rack of barbells and got me started with the basics. While I lifted, he explained what we were doing and why it was important. But my attention would drift over to where Rita was doing calisthenics. Her ponytail bobbed as she turned and twisted and jumped. Her skin flushed with exertion.

Milo had me lie down on a padded bench and he put the light barbell in my hands. The other weightlifters, both men and women, had big bars with big weights. I couldn't help but think they were judging me. I finished that exercise and sat up, my chest and arms burning. I saw that Rita had moved to a cardio machine and was climbing a never-ending stairway. Her discarded t-shirt was draped over the handrail and she was wearing just a spandex halter top that matched her shorts.

We were just wrapping up the lesson and I was trying to keep my eyes to myself when Kevin from the office came in. Kevin was the junior partner of the firm and the son of the founder. He was not much older than me but he already had the world by the balls. I didn't like him but I couldn't give you a good reason why, beyond his being loud and obnoxious. He came up behind Rita and looked her up and down.

"Looking good, Mrs. Morceau," he said, putting his hands on her hips. "When do I get a slice of that pie?"

I clenched my fists. Rita pushed his hands away but she didn't act mad. She stepped off the machine and leaned to whisper something in his ear. His head swiveled around and his eyes snapped onto me. She slapped his shoulder and I heard her say, "I said don't look."

I pretended to listen to what Milo was saying as Kevin sauntered over. I rarely saw him wearing anything other than a suit and tie and never in shorts and a t-shirt. To my great annoyance he had the body of an athlete.

"Hey Spence, it is so great to see you here." His voice carried, causing several heads to turn our way. "You should get the other guys in here. I want to see all of the analysts in here."

Rita came up behind him and pushed him past me. "You get going, Kevin. He doesn't need your grief."

Milo updated her on my performance. I felt a little proud at his glowing report. She asked me if I wanted to work with him again. When I said I did she shook his hand and dismissed him.

"I'm paying for eight sessions. Same time every Friday. That's whether you show up or not. So you need to show up."

"Thank you but..." I didn't know how much a session cost but I could guess it wasn't cheap. "...why are you doing this?"

"The question you need to ask is why are YOU doing this." She tapped her finger on my chest. "And you need to ask yourself if it's a good enough reason to keep you at it. Because if you want to change your life it is going to take more than an hour a week. It's something you'll have to work on every day. Think you can manage it?"

"I think so."

"Don't think. Just act."

*****

"How do those pants fit?" Rita was sitting at a folding table with the host of the garage sale, a woman named Caroline.

I was standing half dressed behind a rack of suits and shirts. I pulled up the pants and fastened them. "Fine. A little loose."

"Loose is fine. How's the inseam?" She had called me this morning to ask if I was busy so of course I dropped everything.

"Inseam's fine." I slipped into my shoes to make sure. I buttoned up the shirt and tucked it in.

"Collar? Sleeves?" She asked. It was a bit of a thrill when she picked me up in her classic Jaguar. And I was impressed how skillfully she handled the stick.

"Collar's a little loose. Sleeves are just right." I adjusted my gig line and checked myself in the mirror. Not bad. Not bad at all.

"Great. Well let's have a look at you."

I put on the jacket, a gray double-breasted. It felt good and looked expensive. This would be a really nice first suit for me if the price was right. I had twenty dollars in my wallet. Both ladies beamed at me when I came out from behind the rack.

"Oh, he looks amazing," said Caroline. "Men really ought to wear suits."

"Yes, I love it," Agreed Rita. "I guess we'll take them all then. Spencer, would you put them in the car? But leave that one on."

"All of them?" I asked, astonished. There were at least ten suits on the rack and twice as many shirts. "I... I don't think I brought enough money."

"She got a good deal, honey," Caroline interjected. "I'm just glad someone will be wearing Dad's old clothes again."

Rita smiled benignly and I knew better than to argue. Caroline handed me some garbage bags and I pushed the rack to the car. Carefully folding the clothes into bags I stowed them in the trunk. When I returned with the empty rack Rita selected a tie from a display, a black tie blossoming with red roses, and held it up against the gray fabric of my new coat.

"A suit is masculine," she explained as she draped the tie around my neck and worked it under the collar. "Accessories are feminine. Not that they mean you're feminine. They show that you appreciate feminine beauty."

I stood still like a model and avoided eye contact while she knotted the tie, tightening it up to my throat.

"How you choose to accessorize is a personal decision. But may I choose this first tie for you?"

"Yes, thank you ma'am. I, uh, I will pay you back."

She smiled again, a radiant smile, and I could no longer avoid her eyes. "I'm not worried. But if it will make you feel better you can work it off. Would you like to detail my car?"

I glanced at the XJS, its chrome and dark-green paint as fresh as the day it rolled off the boat. Abso-fucking-lutely.

*****

That Sunday night I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Earlier in the evening my grandmother took me to the Golden Fleece steakhouse, just like she did every week. It sounds fancier than it is but grandma likes it and I love my grandma. After dinner we sat on a bench making small talk while she smoked a cigarette. I absent-mindedly scanned the patios of the fashionable restaurants across the street. I was surprised to see Jo Ann, looking extremely sexy, and my heart raced a little.

To my surprise, she was sitting at a table with Kevin and Mr. Morceau. I wondered if Jo Ann was dating Kevin or something. That would make sense. He had the money and the charm and the good looks. But then Kevin rose and gave a little salute before leaving. That's when I noticed that Rita's husband was holding Jo Ann's hand across the table. One of her sandals lay neglected under the chair and her bare foot was under the cuff of his trousers, toying with his leg.

Now I lay sleepless in my bed, wondering what I should do. Should I tell Rita? Would she want to know? What would happen if I told her? Would she hate me if I didn't? I pondered a dozen scenarios and none of them ended well. Eventually I had to ask myself what would be my reason for telling... to benefit her? Or to benefit me? The answer to the question disgusted me. But once I was honest with myself, sleep came shortly after.

*****

The Morceau home was one of the stately French country-style houses that lined Hillside Drive. Rita's Jaguar sat in a courtyard formed by the house and its six-car garage. The car was already spotless but I went over every inch of leather with conditioner while she vacuumed. Then I polished the interior glass while she went over the dashboard and console. Interior done, we washed the exterior and dried it off with chamois cloth.

Ordinarily I would wear old shorts and a t-shirt for a job like this. But I wanted to look nice so I wore my best jeans and a polo shirt. Rita wore a yellow cotton button up, knotted at the waist, and white shorts. Her legs were, well, very nice... shapely and smooth. She was nicely tanned as well which was a surprise to me. Conventional wisdom says that redheads don't tan; they burn or get freckles. Maybe she wasn't a natural redhead. Natural or not, her hair glowed like a bed of embers in the sunshine.

Her white shorts were not especially tight or revealing but I struggled to keep my eyes off them. They were translucent to a certain extent, except at the seams where the fabric was doubled. The darker portions of her pants made me think I could see undergarments or maybe even more tanned skin. I tried to distract myself by looking down at her feet but that didn't help. She had the cutest little toes strapped into her flip-flops and their nails were painted the same red as her fingertips.

Rita smeared on a generous layer of carnauba wax and I followed behind, buffing, buffing until I could see myself in the mirror-like dark green surface. Then I applied tire shine and she was ready for a car show.

"Should we do Mr. Morceau's car next?" I asked. The little work I had done so far seemed inadequate to compensate her for what she had spent on me. Besides, I was enjoying my time with her and didn't want it to end so soon.

She smiled and shook her head. "James doesn't let just anyone touch his things. Let's do yours now."

I looked over at the Escort and curled my lip without thinking. "Hardly worth the effort."

"Spencer, there's no shame in driving a car you can afford, if it takes you where you need to go. If you feel ashamed about it, people will pick up on that. But if you appreciate what you have and take care of it, they will pick up on that too."

I was embarrassed to be lectured and embarrassed about how messy I had let my car become. We filled a plastic grocery sack with empty coffee cups and the remains of bag lunches from off the floor. Then we cleaned it inside and out and gave it two coats of wax. I had to admit it looked like a different car than the one I arrived in. I drove home that day with the windows down and radio up, still thinking about those white shorts.

*****

I was just finishing my work on a risk report when my phone buzzed for an incoming message. I absent-mindedly picked it up and tapped the notification bubble. Most messages I got were work related so I was surprised when a picture started to load.

And what a picture! It was of a woman posing in a three-panel dressing room mirror. She was sitting with crossed legs on a bench with one hand on her hip and the other holding her phone to one side so that you could see her dress. It was a paisley mini dress, a retro style with a hemline short enough that you could see a hint of lace at the top of her stockings. It had gauzy kimono sleeves and a neckline that plunged to just between two golden breasts.

The picture only showed from the neck down but there was no doubt who it was. It had come from her phone, after all. The text of the message read simply: "What do you think of this?"

I sat and looked at it a long time. It was so lovely, so feminine. The pose, the dress, the shapely legs, the tops of the breasts pressed delicately together. I could almost persuade myself that the picture was intended for me. But that was impossible. I tapped a reply: "I think you sent this in error."

Rita replied immediately: "Oh no! My mistake. Please delete."

I did delete the message. But not before I copied the picture to my hidden folder.

*****

It felt like every eye in the gym was on me when I walked in wearing my new track suit and a fresh thirty-dollar haircut. I liked what the mirror showed when I pulled off the jacket.

"Damn, Spence," Milo said, "You are looking stout. Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late," I quipped. This earned me a fist bump.

That session I hit personal bests in bench and standing press. Then I clean and jerked my own weight. That earned me an invitation to the taco bar from Kevin. I kind of felt like a traitor to my former self hanging out with the guy. But I felt cool, too, by association.

When we got our plates I started for an empty table but Kevin walked up to these two girls and asked if they had room at theirs. He was sitting down before they even answered, not even thinking they might say no. He introduced me and himself and they stayed to talk to us long after their own meal was finished. In half an hour we knew their names, where they worked and went to school and what they would be doing for the summer.

When we left, Kevin said we'd see them around. Didn't ask for their phone numbers or anything. Just see you around. I guess if you talk to enough girls you eventually will see them around. Would I ever be that casual?

*****

Rita had something on her mind. I waited until after we were done eating before I asked her about it. She gave me a sad look and tried to smile.

"It's just that I'm going to miss these lunches of ours, dear." No fuse, just the bomb.

I was at a loss for words. We had been meeting periodically to talk about my progress and whatever else was going on in our lives. I really looked forward to these lunches and thought they would keep going indefinitely. That would not be the case.

"James feels like we're spending too much time together. And he's right, of course. The good news is that I don't think you need me any more. You are doing so well. You're ready to make your own way."

I dug my fork into the ruins of the chicken. What a hypocrite that man was. Once again I was tempted to tell her how I saw him playing footsie with his receptionist. But I held my tongue.

"These lunches were a kind of lesson for you. Did you know that?"

I looked up and met her eyes.

"A lesson in dating. When James and I were only work colleagues we used to have lunch together every week. I never thought there would be more than that between us. But I always behaved as if we were on a date." She looked off into space and laughed softly at the memory. "Not flirting. Just using my manners and being good company. Letting him know that he can be comfortable around me. You feel comfortable around me, don't you?"

"Yes, of course," I replied. I couldn't tell her why it wasn't entirely the truth.

"I feel comfortable around you. You should be good company even when you think you have nothing to gain from it. Someday it may pay a dividend, maybe when you least expect it."