A Final Inspection

It had taken a long time before Henry and I could afford a house in the California Bay Area. With San Francisco on the south side of the Golden Gate strait, opposite the equally overpriced Marin County to the north, and the vast tract considered Silicon Valley to the south, the whole affordability of the area had risen astronomically. In a word, it sucked.

Of course, the driving factor for this is technology: the Apples, Googles and all the others doing their part to widen the wealth gap. I can't really complain, though, as my husband is sucking on the same teat working as an engineer for a tech firm, the only reason we can afford to buy at all. I am also profiting from it, to a lesser extent, as a part-time technical writer.

Even so, it's not like we could afford any of the areas I mention. Instead, we live in a place called Pittsburg, once a port town for distributing coal and sitting further inland by the delta leading into the actual bay. We say we live in the Bay Area, of course, but more to reassure ourselves. Still, it's better than renting.

Our combined income could get us no better than a 'fixer-upper.' It wasn't horrible but it was old, your typical 40s Western ranch-style home. You feel your fingers get sticky with age touching the fading floral wallpaper, all those smoke-dulled pink roses. At least it was structurally sound, and so we took the plunge and renovated. We have done most of the work ourselves, bringing in contractors for the specialty stuff. Finally, it was on the verge of completion. We just needed that all-important final inspection.

A lot has been riding on this inspection. Henry had made that abundantly clear before he left this morning.

He's likely already arrived in Austin, where he'll spend the next few days troubleshooting some issues for one of his company's clients. He had spent the evening telling me all the minutiae but I wasn't really listening. I do feel sorry for him as he's constantly travelling, going from one place to another fixing one thing or another, and never having time for himself, or me. To be honest, I think his company is taking advantage of him but now we have the additional worry of a home equity loan on top of our regular mortgage payments; we don't really have many options.

Still, I don't see why he had to go on at me again for only having a part-time job, reminding me once again that he thinks I need to start looking for something better. As though what I do is not real work. That, after lecturing me on and on about how I should handle the inspection - behave this way, don't say that, don't share more than you need, call me about anything - until my eyes crossed and my afternoon fantasies had long disengaged from the reality of the evening. Like I am a child, or something!

I had hoped the evening would be a little more playful, sensual...sexual. I had been thinking about it enough all afternoon when I should have been correcting a woefully incompetent client document. So it was something of a sour end to the evening that carried over into the morning when I got a perfunctory kiss before he left, closing the door a little too firmly and leaving me at the kitchen table looking wistfully at the new "Millennial Pink" wall paint.

***

I like to keep myself in shape and usually exercise every day. I'm quite short, I suppose, at 5' 3", but I am proportionate so I am that word I used to loathe: cute; elfin, I have been told, though I am not sure I like that much better. Do elves have freckles? Maintaining this firm physique is certainly not pixie magic, I can tell you, it's hard work. Today is no exception and as soon as I am done with this coffee and toast I am going for a run to work off some of my aggravations with Henry, not to mention the sexual tension fomenting since yesterday. The inspector is not due to arrive until after lunch -- the notorious window of "between one and five" -- so plenty of time to finish this up, get changed and get the morning going. I don't want to meet the inspector in this skimpy little cotton nightie although maybe it'll improve our chances of passing!

Now, where did that wicked little thought come from?

Just as I'm putting my rinsed dishes into my gleaming-new stainless steel dishwasher (a deal Henry found at BestBuy), I hear the drop in engine tone that I now instinctively know as an indication someone is coming into the driveway. I take a furtive peek from the window over the sink and see the white, blunt end of a Ford or Chevy or some sort of truck nosing around the corner oak tree. It still doesn't register, until I see the dented aluminum ladder on top of the rack edging into view, that this might possibly be the inspector. What the fuck could he be doing here this early, it can't be!

I make a rapid dash to the bedroom and grab the first thing I see: a ridiculously short, satiny robe with gigantic purple tropical flowers that doesn't really reach much lower than my nightie. In my yesterday-mind it had been a planned part of my romantic evening, casually thrown over the arm of the bedroom "chaise". Laughable, really, as I am the type to normally roam in sweatpants but there it was and I am pulling it around me and tightening it like I am strapping on a sword for combat.

I make a quick reconnoiter back to the kitchen and peek through the window again to see if I am mistaken. The truck door is angled to me and backing out of it is the wide end of a pair of extensive jeans precariously held up by a worn brown leather belt, above which is pale skin bisected by a dark furrow vanishing beneath the belt.

I need to get mobilized fast but I am momentarily frozen with panic.

I watch him back up, hitch up the stained jeans by his belt buckle, and with his backside shove the metal door closed with the care of someone not accountable for the vehicle. He was a heavyset man with thinning greasy hair, thick-rimmed glasses propped on his head, and a look that combined discontent and belligerence with tired impatience. This was not what I was expecting now and, frankly, not something I would have wanted at any hour. In his hand was the typical aluminum-boxed clipboard so characteristic of every officious check-mark bureaucrat. Dear god, this looked like an ordeal in the making!

I make a quick dash to start putting things in order but before I could do much of anything there was an authoritative rapping on the door. Why couldn't he use the doorbell? After an unreasonably short time, another short commanding burst of hammering reverberates down the hall. I pause, stooped, a hand extended down for a lone argyle sock my husband neglected in his rush, then slowly stand straight, resigned to the circumstances, and inhale deeply. I am not going to change anything in the next sixty seconds and, resolved to that prospect, I turn back toward the front door, determined to complete the process as best as possible.

With that thought contributing to my mood, I yank the door open with a manufactured hint of irritation in my manner but a gloriously welcoming smile on my face.

"Hi there! Can I help you?" I am almost gushing, trying to balance the impression of openness with wholesome innocence and curiosity, laying the groundwork for being the guileless stay-at-home mom I am not.

"Miss...?" he glances again at the clipboard then slides his spectacles back into an oily peninsular of hair. "Johnston?" he queries, clearly not impressed one way or another by my performance. Another stop in his rounds for the day, I suppose, although his eyes make a rapid appraisal and I'm sure I see a flicker of something that makes my fulsome welcome falter briefly.

He has one foot on the porch step and one straightened back as though ready to lurch forward but prepared to hold back. "I'm here for your inspection," I am sure there is a slight emphasis on the last word which made me yet more hesitant. "Is Mister Johnston home?"

Part of me rankles at the pure chauvinism of the question and another part of me shivers a little at the possibility he is verifying I am alone.

"No, sorry, he's out of town this week," I say, quashing both my irritation with the inspector and the mounting latent grievance with my husband. "I can help with whatever you want," I add, instantly regretting my ambiguous phrasing.

"Please, come in. Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea?" I ask, the pliant hostess.

"Sure, that would be real nice." I lead the way through into the kitchen.

"What would you like, uh...?" I don't know his name. I tilt my head and look at him, conscious of my blonde ponytail flicking to the side. That little tilt of my head is a mannerism I like to think is my "flirty look". I'm not at all sure why I just did it for him. He has paused, looking askance at me. Is he wondering what he really wants?

"Frank," he says, "name's Frank. Coffee would be fine."

"Now, it says here you started the construction back in November, '18. That right?" he asks. He has his glasses down again, to read.

"Yeah, that sounds about right," I reply, glancing over my shoulder at him while I slide the kettle across onto the nearside burner and set it alight. "I know it's taken a while but we have been mostly doing it ourselves and we're not full time on it," I add in justification.

"Difficult thing, renovating a house as amateurs," he says. "You need a real pro to get it done properly."

I don't really know what to say to that.

"Sugar? Milk or cream?" I ask instead.

"I like it sweet and creamy," a statement more than an answer. I cringe inside at the comment but don't look back at him or I might meet his eyes. There is nothing subtle about a comment like that and with the tone he has used. I can't help feeling a little confused by his nerve. I'm less confident I'm really prepared or capable of handling a situation like this now.

I make the coffee as requested and hand it to him. It's in a white ceramic mug with "hubby" glazed in black script across the side and a silly moustache image underneath. It was a joke Christmas present from some friends. I glance at its matching pair across the table, still holding my cold coffee from earlier; it's scripted in pink with "wifey" and some puckered pink lips below. I can't really pinpoint what's awkward about it, or if he's even noticed, but it does create an unfathomable association in my mind.

"So, where should we start?" he asks, and I see him sliding the glasses into his top pocket and reaching for the mug. This was safe ground I think but as soon as I glance over and catch his eye he smirks and adds, "The back or the front?"

Fuck.

This greasy, obnoxious, old slime ball was coming on to me. I had been so turned on for days and now I am looking at this guy and sexual thoughts are flaring. Not about him, more about anyone. Alright, I am just plain fucking horny. It's disorientating. Fuck Henry and his this and his that. He should have taken care of me last night.

I need to get a hold of my thoughts. "We can start at the far end down there and work our way down to this end. Do you need to go underneath?" Even the simplest phrasing comes out layered with innuendo. "I mean, do you need to inspect underneath and outside too?" and that doesn't clarify things very well either.

"We can start down that end if ya like." He makes a notation on his board, swills some coffee down and stands, scratching the chair against my new linoleum.

The suddenness throws me. I was expecting tedious bureaucracy, questions and officiousness. I certainly wasn't expecting immediate practicality at least not while still wearing what I was wearing.

We make our way down the corridor toward the rear of the house and the master bedroom, an odd duo: me, barefooted, in my flimsy short robe and he shuffling along in his utilitarian work wear. I push the bedroom door open, wave him ahead and follow along inside.

There, on the floor between the bed and the bathroom, is a pair of my blue panties spread flat and wide, with the pale gusset centered and face up, as though they had simply dropped to my ankles and I had stepped out of them - not too far from the truth, really. We both look at them for a moment as though they might do something and then Frank looks at me. His face is expressionless when he meets my startled face but he merely raises a single eyebrow and scans slowly down my body as if he can see through to my skin. I can feel the redness rushing up from beneath my nightie and spread across my neckline.

He licks his top lip. Not a word is said as he turns to the bathroom door. He lifts his hand and signals me to proceed, not allowing me the opportunity to pick them up, and as I go through I know he is examining my ass for any telltale lines and know he won't find any.

"Well that's not gonna fly," he says, eyeing the shower recess. He seems smug, "Got to have a shower door to comply with the code."

"There is a door," I squeak, quickly reaching inside where he can't see to swing the glass panel forward, "we just keep it like that to prevent mildew."

He seems disappointed and aggravated. "Let me see the plumbing under the sink then," he demands, reasserting himself.

I tug the handles against the magnetic fasteners and splay the doors apart for him. He awkwardly bends on one knee in front of them. It's painful to watch the difficulty he has and I instinctively reach out to assist him. This is a mistake as he grasps my forearm for support bringing me to my knees alongside him. He is panting with the effort and I can see sweat break across his forehead. Whether that is from the coffee, heat or physicality I can't tell but his odor is acrid and hard to ignore. The smell is nearly offensive and yet also animalistic; like I imagine older men outside bars must smell: showily territorial and aggressive yet sweaty and out-of-shape, atavistic but beleaguered. He smells strong in a way that suggests a lack of maintenance. Perversely, I find this strangely intriguing. I can't explain why. He is not just different from Henry, he is worlds apart. He is also here.

"Not sure I can get down under there, love," he says to the plumbing cavity, "you look for me."

He puts a meaty hand familiarly on the nape of my neck and pushes me down and under the bullnose edging of the countertop. I can't believe he has thrust me down like that, confident and presumptuous, demanding. What can I do to an inspector, tell him to fuck off? Sue him? I contemplate Henry beside me in front of a jury.

"How's it look under there?" he asks.

How can this be legitimate let alone relevant? But I comply because I'm obliged to do everything possible to make the inspection a success. As Henry -- Henry who is not here, Henry who is in Texas -- has demanded of me. I poke my head underneath wondering what I am supposed to be looking for.

So much is going through my head. Not only am I on my hands and knees, bent down like a dog snuffling a bowl, but I am thinly dressed and demonstrably without underwear. I am also, surprisingly and bewilderingly, quite excited.

"Everything look good? No leaks?" he asks.

"Perfect!" I exclaim as though I am suddenly an expert.

"Sure?" I feel his hand, broad enough to stretch his thumb from the small of my back while his fingers reach around my waist, fastening to my side; then a pressure as he leans down close beside me. My head is trapped between the u-bend and the spare oblong packets of toilet paper.

"Let's 'ave a real good look then. Don't wanna be cuttin' corners in this job," he says.

It is an oddly intimate situation: the two of us bent side-by-side, his soft flesh against my firm sides, his calloused hand gripping my midsection, and all the while I am mindful of air on my exposed crotch, with my knees apart and barely covered by two thin layers of material.

"Hold on, I need to make some notes," he says and sits back. I feel a knee slide between my legs and his groin press up to my hip. I am not prepared for this but can't protest with my head beneath a sink.

"OK, tell me what else you see." I know this is not acceptable but everything about the situation -- my earlier morning moodiness, his abrupt arrival, my panties seemingly intentionally presented on the bedroom floor -- prevents me objecting.

He's adjusted his position a little to the right so he is more behind than to the side of me. I am not so naïve not to know it was his firmness against my flank but there is now no denying it is his cock I feel lodged between my cheeks. He feels distinctly bigger than Henry. I wonder if he is erect or not and tingle with the naughtiness of the thought.

The clipboard is now on the counter above my head and he leans over to it. I feel him press into me and my buttocks accommodate him with a will of their own. His cock is so close to my pussy I want to raise my hips but straightaway stop myself, realizing the total inappropriateness of it. I try to push back to get out from underneath but this only has the opposite effect as he pushes forward to meet me.

"Are we done? I need to get up!" I protest.

He moves his hand to the middle of my back and, without rush, uses me to help stand, dragging his crotch across my ass as he does. I have to reach back and grab the hem of my robe to prevent it pulling up with him.

"All's good. Everything seems all in order here. Let's take a look-see at that intake in the hallway now." What I saw under the sink apparently is of no consequence now.

I scramble to my feet and brush myself off, knowing my face must look pink and hot. I pull my robe tighter and retie the belt. I'm embarrassed to see my nipples have hardened and loosen the robe a little to obscure them in the folds. I catch him smirking as he looks at his clipboard but I choose not to notice.

Frank beats me to the door and heads back into the bedroom where my panties still lie. As I follow in after him I see him scoop up my panties and, without a word spoken, exits into the hallway. I can see him -- hear him -- take a deep breath from my panties and shove them into his pocket. I cannot understand why I am not protesting. It is so far outside my experiences I think I don't know what to do. There is a nervous knot in my stomach: this man would use my panties like this, what would he want from me. It's incomprehensible, and intoxicating, and more than a little frightening; and I know I have somehow crossed a line by not already objecting.

I scurry along after him in my flowery robe feeling more than a little like a dutiful geisha running after her big white Western benefactor than the owner of the house.

He's already in the hallway looking up at the air intake cover recessed into the ceiling. His right foot is standing on Henry's recalcitrant argyle sock.

"Gonna need to unscrew those little knobs and open the cover. Go fetch a chair to stand on," he commands. I scuttle into the second bedroom and get a chair for the purpose.

"Put it right there and up you go missy," he says.

"Me?"

"Not gonna be sturdy enough for me, is it? Don't worry, I'll hold yer."

That was not what was worrying me. Tentatively, I step onto the chair cushion and stretch for the ceiling. Immediately, he moves in front of me and I feel his large hands grasp my hips. I drop my arms instinctively and glance down to see his greasy receding hairline and grinning face looking back at me.

"See? Nothing to worry about, I got ya," he says, his grin widening further. "Go on, grab a holda those little knobs," he adds.

So I stretch up again and take hold of each of the almond-colored protuberances and attempt to twist them. Freud would have a lot to say about this, I think.

"They're not moving," I whine, feeling a lot closer to the incompetent little wife I was trying to portray when I first opened the front door.