Real Estate Games Pt 03

Spanky Lane

One of the many mechanics from the defunct auto plant was desperate to sell his house. He was working part time for a local garage but said he would be glad to meet us during his lunch break.

"You don't need to be present," I told him. "It's actually better to show your house when you're not there."

Which is true. Most realtors would rather the owners not be home when perspective buyers walk through. In this case, it was imperative. He told me where the key was hidden but hinted that he still might meet us if he could.

I texted Mark the address and told him to meet me there in an hour, which didn't leave much time to clean up his mess. I did the best I could with the kitchen and then rushed up to the bedroom, planning to make the bed and be gone. There was a huge wet spot on the sheet and mattress cover. Evidence that what happened the night before wasn't a dream. With no time to wash the bed linens, I packed them up in the trunk of my car with a plan to wash them at my place and return before the owners came home.

The auto mechanic's house was on the other side of town. I'd have to hurry to get there before the owner's lunch break. The first few miles of the route to town followed a lonely farm road.

A good place to make up some time

, I thought, until the cop car pulled out from a hidden spot with his lights flashing.

I took my foot off the accelerator, but nothing happened when I hit the brakes. The pedal was stuck, like there was something obstructing it. I pushed harder. Still stuck. The cop put on his siren, like that was going to help me stop. I adjusted my ass in the seat, put both feet on the brake, and pushed with all my might. I heard a click just before the brake pedal went all the way to the floor, bringing me and my car to a screeching halt.

I watched in the rear-view mirror as the cop slowly got out of his car, put on his Smokey the Bear hat, and walked towards me. He stopped by my taillight.

"Open your window and show me your hands," he demanded.

I complied.

He approached my door but stopped just short.

"Using your left hand, open your door and step outside the car. Keep your right hand where I can see it."

I fumbled with the door handle and was finally able to push it open. I stretched my left leg into the opening, but my right leg wouldn't follow. I pulled again, but it wouldn't budge.

"I'm sorry, but I seem to be stuck," I told the officer.

"Are you hurt?"

"No, just stuck."

He considered my situation for a moment, holstered his gun and took a few cautious steps forward.

"What's the problem?"

I pointed to my right ankle, the one that wouldn't move.

He knelt down to look.

"Do you want to explain why your leg is handcuffed to the brake pedal?"

"It was an accident. When I got in the car, the cuff was only on my ankle. The other side must have got tangled with the brake when I tried to stop."

"You got in the car with a handcuff on your ankle?"

"It's jammed. And there weren't any tools in the house."

"So, you were going to get tools?"

"Exactly."

"At seventy miles per hour in a forty-five zone?"

"I've got to get there before the owner shows up."

"The guy that owns the handcuffs?"

"No. The guy that owns the house."

"You're going to break into his house and use his tools?"

"I'm a realtor. I'm allowed to enter his house when he's gone. And I'll probably sell it while I'm there."

"To who?"

"The man who probably cuffed me to the bed."

"Probably?"

"Yeah. I'm fairly positive it was him. But I can't say for sure. It was dark, and he put a bag over my head."

"Why don't you ask him when you break into this other guy's house?"

"I planned to. But now I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because he comes home for lunch in an hour and I don't want him to see me like this."

"The man who might have cuffed you to a bed?"

"No, the man who owns the house with the tools. I was going to meet the guy who probably cuffed me to the bed in the house with the tools in half an hour. But now I can't because you're going to throw me in jail for speeding."

He laughed. I didn't see anything humorous about the situation but, in retrospect, if I was standing in his highly polished boots, I see how it might have tickled his funny bone.

"Let's get you out of this car, then we'll discuss what happens next."

The not bad looking patrolman opened my door as wide as it would go. "Place both of your hands on top of the steering wheel and move your free leg as far to the left as you can."

I couldn't find my panties after Mark freed me from the bed that morning. I didn't mention the fact previously because it didn't seem important. But when I spread my legs, so the left was outside the car, the right remained chained to the brake pedal, and the officer knelt down between those two legs reaching in with his hand to free my ankle, my naturally blond pubic patch was staring him straight in the eye.

"The cuff on your leg seems to be jammed." I could feel his breath travel up my inner thighs as he spoke. "I'll see if I can free the cuff on the brake pedal."

He worked at it for several minutes. Shifting his position several times in an attempt to get a better angle. He held on to my calf for leverage, then my knee, and slightly higher. I was about to tell him to give it up when I heard a click.

"Got it. Now stay still so it doesn't get caught on something else."

His lips briefly brushed against my lower set, surely an accident, as he removed his head from my crotch while guiding my leg out the door. He helped me stand on the pavement of the deserted road and then led me to the back of my car.

"So, here's where we need to make a decision," he said. "Procedure requires that I get a female officer to frisk you for weapons while I search your car for contraband. After we do that, I'm supposed take you to the station."

Which he knew would bring my real estate career to a screeching halt.

"Or?" I asked.

"Or I search both you and your car. If I don't find anything suspicious, we can settle your debt to society right here."

I chose option two. Hands on top of the car, feet spread shoulder width. You'd think he'd already seen enough to know I didn't have a revolver concealed on my lower extremities, but his hands covered every inch of my body from heel to belly button, with special emphasis on the areas in between. Having thoroughly explored the southern half of my anatomy, he spent the next several minutes ensuring that the only thing in my bra was a pair of '38s.

"Now what?" I asked when he stepped away.

"I need to make sure there's nothing suspicious in your rear end," he answered while slipping on a pair of gloves.

Luckily, he was talking about the trunk of my car, which I happily opened for him.

"What's with the bed linens?"

"They're dirty. I'm taking them home to wash them."

"You clean your client's dirty sheets?" he asked as he held them up for inspection.

"It's kind of a special situation."

He discovered the large, still sticky, wet spot. "Is this what I think it is?"

"Probably."

"If I go back to this house, will I find any dead bodies?"

"No, just an unmade bed."

"I don't know. I'm tempted to hang onto these sheets. Take them to the lab to see who you've been sleeping with. Just in case he ends up missing."

"Would you? Please? I'd like to know too."

He laughed again. The second time he was amused with what I thought was a serious response.

"Stay here. I'll be right back."

He popped the trunk of his patrol car and returned with the largest pair of bolt cutters I'd ever seen.

"I don't want to risk cutting the cuff off your ankle, but these can separate the two ends and let you drive." He hoisted me onto my now closed trunk, I extended my leg, and he snipped the chain away. What once was a handcuff was now a pink, fur lined, anklet... sort of.

"Can I go?" I asked.

"Not quite yet. We still have the speeding offense to deal with."

"Suppose I make a donation to the policeman's ball and promise to never speed again."

"No. I'm not opposed to having a little fun on the job, but I don't take bribes. You had better assume the position again. Hands on the trunk, feet on the ground, legs spread."

That was where I thought this would eventually lead. Probably the best I could expect, considering the possibilities. Ruined professional and personal reputation or a quickie on the side of the road with a reasonably good-looking officer of the law. I climbed off the trunk and readied myself for what I hoped would be a semi enjoyable experience.

He lifted my dress and bunched it around my waist. An ungloved hand caressed my ass. I listened for the telltale sound of a zipper going down.

Crack. The sound registered before the pain as he spanked me so hard, I nearly lost my footing.

"That's for speeding," he said.

Crack. I screamed out as he assaulted the other ass cheek.

"That's for driving with handcuffs on your legs."

Crack.

"And that's for thinking I'd take a bribe."

I tensed for the next one, but he pulled the dress down over my throbbing butt and gently lifted me upright.

"Now go and speed no more." He placed a small card in my cleavage. "Sorry I was so rough. Call if you need anything."

I walked back to my car and plucked the card from between my boobs.

Officer Brian Flanagan

Merryville Police Department

To protect and service

1201

Blue Collar Court

It was a modest two-bedroom home with a three-car detached garage taking up most of the back yard. A home I readily admit was down on my list of priorities. Not that I was opposed to selling houses in the lower price range but, while the recently divorced owner's garage / workshop was spotless, his house keeping habits left a lot to be desired. In short, nobody in their right mind would buy it... a group that excluded Mark Seiman.

Thanks to Officer Flanagan, I arrived thirty minutes late. Making a client sit in his car outside a property, waiting for you to arrive, is a definite real estate agent no-no. Unfortunately, this didn't happen. Mark was already inside, drinking beer with the owner. An even bigger infraction among property pushers.

"Sorry I'm late. I had to talk my way out of a speeding ticket."

"Looks like you got out of more than a ticket," Mark said as he looked at my ankle.

"So, what have you gentlemen been talking about?"

"The usual. Football, real estate, the best way to remove a ring of steel from a lady's ankle."

Not sure if the blush was from embarrassment or anger. Maybe both. I could feel the blood rush to my head.

"What did you decide?"

"The Patriots are grossly overrated."

"Anything else?"

"Well, we did come to an agreement about this property --" Mark said.

"And I know how to remove stuck hand cuffs," the mechanic added.

Both men were smiling, which meant I was about to get screwed... metaphorically, physically, or possibly both.

"Do you care to share the details?"

"It's a fairly simple arrangement. I pay full price for the house and Jim cuts the cuff off your ankle."

"What's the catch?"

"No catch, just a small side bet."

"Side bet?"

"You know. Something to make the game interesting. Pitting my skill set against his."

I didn't want to ask, but also didn't have a choice. "Explain."

"Jim gets an extra ten thousand if he gets the cuff off before I make you come."

"Come? Like in orgasm?"

"And the price goes down ten thousand if he draws blood."

"Is bleeding really a possibility?"

"Very slight," Jim the mechanic said. "We'll be fine as long as you don't move your ankle."

Jim had a small cutting tool -- he called it a Dremel -- in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He was supposed to be concentrating on my ankle, but every time I looked down from my prone position on the work bench, he was staring at my naked body and the things Mark was doing to it.

The best outcome of the demeaning game would be Jim getting the ten-thousand-dollar bonus, sparing me from the embarrassment of coming in front of the two men. I also had a vested interest in him not drawing blood, but that forced him to take extra care, which meant extra time. Time Mark was using to his advantage.

Ten minutes into the process, Mark had teased both nipples to full attention and my vagina was moist, on its way towards sopping wet. Meanwhile, Jim had made good progress on the hardened steel, cutting a groove halfway through it. But the friction of the Dremel heated the metal of the cuff, so he would periodically stop and pour water over the cuff to cool it.

Something Mark didn't do. Pause so I could cool off. Just the opposite. The gentle touch that got me going turned rougher as I progressed. The soft nipple kisses turned into pinches and bites. The fingertip that initially teased my clit was replaced with the constant pressure of a thumb. The barely perceptible digit that lightly stroked my vaginal lips progressed until two fingers were buried deep inside my now free flowing opening, stroking the spot that took over as the center of my universe.

"How long?" I asked Jim between labored breaths. "How long until you're through."

"Hang on. Almost there," he answered. "Another minute or two."

The whirring of the Dremel stopped as he poured more water on the hot cuff.

"Screw the heat. I can take it. Just cut damn it. Cut."

He continued... as did Mark.

My body goes through a pre-orgasm ritual. It starts with a tingling in my toes and finger tips, flows up through my knees and shoulders, then further up my thighs and down my torso. It all meets somewhere between my clitoris and womb, making my back arch, hips thrust forward and vaginal muscles involuntarily contract... several times, depending on the strength of the event.

The key point is that once the sequence starts, I have no control. My body goes on orgasm autopilot and I'm just along for the ride. While I heard Jim say, "Stay still, I'm breaking through," I couldn't respond. Because the points of pleasure were already spreading up my legs and flowing down through my gut.

Jim got full price for his house. Mark and he agreed that the cuff came off just seconds before I squirted all over Jim's workbench. But the ten-thousand-dollar bonus was offset by the small cut on my leg, a result of my orgasmic induced convulsion into the still spinning Dremel.

We swore the happy mechanic to secrecy. A vow he was more than willing to take.