Dollars and Sins Ch. 02

Legalese: Contains adult material. Anyone under age 18 must leave now. Anyone that might be offended by sexy or sexually explicit material or strong language must leave now. The activities in this story may be unrealistic, unethical and/or illegal, and they ignore the reality of sexually transmitted diseases – this is fiction, do not try any of this at home. All characters are over age 18, proof of age on file.

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Madolyn Caldwell knows first-hand how much it cost to raise her children – from college tuition, to her daughter's recent wedding.

Still, she's about to learn the true value of a dollar ...

Madolyn sat at the kitchen table, her eight bills in front of her.

Mr. Caldwell had been true to his word and allowed her to go free after she completed the twenty minutes of necking, the ... terms of her dollar payment. She'd been ... a little dazed as she stepped out of his room – okay, yes, she'd had to grab the doorframe as she almost lost her balance at his door. He'd chuckled, and she'd colored in shame that she was so dazed. From necking. With her own son.

But not too dazed to blush hard in shame.

She stared at her stash.

So these damned things did not work on Mr. Caldwell. He could offer them to her, and she was making a fool of herself, doing things to earn them. But he was immune to that.

But they WEREN'T just simple regular dollar bills! She held one to the side and gazed at it at the corner of her vision. It was red ink, she was sure of it. And it was scribbled cursive writing on it, rather than Washington's portrait.

She moved it back to the center of her vision, and a typical green George looked back up at her.

These dollar bills he had were just wrong. Like magically counterfeit or something. And ... she didn't use the word often, but ... evil or something.

She got a regular dollar bill from her purse and held it at the edge of her vision. It was out of focus over there, but it was definitely green. With an oval in the center for George's portrait. She held one of the damned bills up to the side, and again it looked more like red cursive writing there than George's green face.

And they didn't work on Mr. Caldwell, just on her. And she'd ... DO things ... to earn them. Things like traipsing around in the house in her bra in front of her son. Things like making out with her son until she was so aroused she could hardly keep her balance. Things like that.

How many of these damned bills did he have?

That ... that would tell her how far he might take things with her, what things he might ... make ... her do for him, until he ran out of the damned things.

She could– if she could get her hands on his wallet, she could count them. Maybe even ... steal them. And render the little bastard powerless.

"Hey, Bob–" she started to call, then corrected herself, "Mr. Caldwell? Could I get you to do me a favor, please, sweetie?"

She gathered her stash and stuffed it back into her bra cup, and few moments later, he appeared in the doorway.

He grinned and shook his head when he looked at her still in her bra. "God, you are gorgeous, Madolyn."

"Thank you, darling." It was a little less demeaning to call him 'darling' or 'sweetie' than 'Mr. Caldwell' or 'sir', and he didn't seem to be protesting. "Sweetie, could you run out to the shed – here's the key – and get me a can of ant poison? I've seen a couple of the little buggers here by the sink, and I should spray for them."

"Ant poison?"

"Mm-hmm," she nodded sweetly. "It should be on the countertop, or under the counter down there, or somewhere – just look around until you find it."

"But you–"

"I'm clad in just my bra, sweetie," she gestured breastally. "I can't go out there like this. But if you could get that for me, I'll be waiting here for you when you get back, in ... just my bra. For you." She put a sweet smile on her face.

Mr. Caldwell took the key, grumbling slightly, and headed out the back door.

Good – she'd gotten rid of him. As soon as she saw him enter the shed, she hurried back to his room.

His wallet was still on the nightstand, and she fished in it, pulling all the bills out of both compartments of it, keeping them separate. One set of bills had twenties and fives and a couple ones. The other set of bills was all ones – and there were five of these.

She suspected which was which, but held them at the edge of her vision and confirmed – the twenties and fives and ones were regular currency. The five single-dollar bills had that creepy red scrawl on them when she held them to the side.

Five more damned dollars, then. Including the eight she had stashed in her bra cup, that was thirteen. Probably just a coincidence, but the bad luck number thirteen might be appropriate if the dollar bills really WERE damned or something.

Could she–

Could she just–

No. Even contemplating stealing the bills was ... repugnant. Wrong. Nauseating.

As much as she wanted, needed, those bills whenever Mr. Caldwell offered her one to do something – as much as that, she felt uneasy, wrong, to take one that hadn't been offered to her, almost like she'd be ... courting doom or something equally horrible.

Okay, she simply could not bring herself to steal them. So she put both sets of currency back in their correct compartment in the wallet, and returned the wallet to the nightstand.

Five more damned bills. Five more deals to make with the devil. If she could keep these wrong things that her son was bartering for her to do for him – if she could keep them from escalating during the next five deals, he'd run out of power over her.

And she'd be safe then.

She just had to survive five more.

She headed back out to the kitchen and waited for Mr. Caldwell to come back empty-handed. There wasn't any ant spray in the shed, but at least she'd gotten him out of the house long enough to count the number of additional times he could ... make her do things.

Make her ... want ... to do things, she guessed. He wasn't FORCING her, just offering her a dollar to do them. And she "voluntarily" did accept the terms of the deal each time. But she didn't WANT to want those damned dollar bills. And if she didn't WANT them so bad, she wouldn't be doing all these demeaning things for him.

Like necking with him – her OWN SON! – while she was shirtless.

God, she was going to be glad when this was over!

Her son had been irritated he'd gone in search of nothing, but Madolyn brushed it off that she must have used the ant spray up and forgotten to replace it.

He looked at his watch and thought a minute, then headed back to his room.

And reappeared holding up one of those damned bills. "Madolyn, I'll give you a dollar if you'll be my date tonight."

"Yeah, right," she scoffed, pointing to her bra-clad breasts. "I'm not leaving the house like this."

"And you don't have to. The deal was just to leave your shirt off while you were in the house here. For the date, you can wear a blouse. But I'll expect you to be braless underneath it."

"Bob–?! Mr. Caldwell?! You can't be serious!"

"Yeah, I am. But you don't have to take me up on the deal. You know, if you don't want the dollar." He waved the dollar slightly side to side.

Goddammit! "What, uhm ... would this date ... entail?"

"Oh, we'd just go out to dinner and a movie." He grinned, "Probably an action movie – sorry."

"I mean," she swallowed, "how much would you expect me to, uhm ... 'put out'?"

She couldn't believe she had just asked that question. To her own son. They both were going to need therapy when this was over.

"Oh! No!" he shook his head, seeming to be actually surprised she'd asked that. "I'll be a perfect gentleman. You know, just some kissing at the movie. Nothing 'untoward'."

He seemed sincere. But ... braless?! She hadn't gone braless since she was thirteen. Not in public, anyway.

"Sweetie, I could just wear a, uhm, small bra–"

"No, that part is firm. You can wear a blouse, but no bra under it."

"Then ... no."

"Really?" he grinned.

"Yes. I– I can't accept those conditions."

"'Kay," he shrugged and tucked the bill back in his shirt pocket. They looked at each other a few moments, then Mr. Caldwell turned, "Well, I'm going to go back to my room and read a bit more. Just let me know if you change your mind."

"I won't."

She sat at the table. And braced herself for a ... long fight against compulsion. But she was determined.

Mosquito bites itch. And all you have to do is ... not scratch.

But the itch never gives up. You can decide that you will not scratch – because it will only make it worse when you're done, you know that – and you can do exactly that. Not scratch. And still not scratch.

And still ... not scratch.

And still ... just don't ... don't scratch it.

But the ... damned itch ... just keeps on, and you have to willfully decide once again, "I. Will. Not. Scratch. I will NOT."

And a minute later you have to decide and resolve again. Because ... just a little scratch ... just a little one to make it slightly bearable ... would feel so much better ... but that has to be decided against too.

And again.

Anyway, Madolyn's resolve collapsed about 4:00.

And she scratched the hell out of the damned thing.

Marching back to the little bastard's room – in her bra – she stood in his doorway and declared, disgusted, "I'll be your damned date, Mr. Caldwell."

He looked up from his book and grinned. "Madolyn, great! Braless and everything?"

"Braless and everything." She did not end that with, "damn you" – she wouldn't damn her own son, but she was nearing the end of her patience with his perverse deals. Just four more after this.

She held out her hand, and he plucked the bill from his shirt pocket and put it in her hand, then she tucked it in her bra cup. She had nine damned bills now; she just had to make it through four more and he would be out of them.

She strode to her bedroom and looked through her closet. She finally settled on a pink fuzzy sweater. The little bastard might be expecting her to come out with her breasts jiggling under a blouse, but she was going to wear a sweater. It was within the terms of the deal. She wished it were a thicker sweater, but regardless, it would show less jiggle than any of her blouses.

She selected a white skirt and some low heels. Also a turquoise necklace that might distract others' eyes from the jiggling of her braless breasts.

God, the things she was doing, for her own son.

For a dollar.

Gawd.

Just four more. She just had to make it through tonight – and he'd promised to be a gentleman – and then just four more damned dollar deals.

She walked out after pulling everything on, and her son was waiting for her in the living room He'd ... dressed up slightly – like it was a real date or something. He was in jeans, but they were a nice pair, and he'd pulled on a dress shirt. And washed his hair and shaved, so that he was ... well, handsome. She even thought she smelled cologne.

"Well, sir," she smiled at him.

"Madolyn, you are just lovely."

"Thank you. And you're ... quite handsome, too, Bo– I mean, sir."

He nodded.

"Do I, uhm, get to call you something other than 'Mr. Caldwell' tonight? Seeing as I'm your date and all?"

"Ha," he chuckled, "yeah, that would sound a little strange and all. Call me 'Rob'. Instead of 'Bobby'. 'Bobby' is your son; 'Rob' is your hot date."

Madolyn almost rolled her eyes, but didn't. "Thank you, 'Rob'."

They stepped out the front door, and Rob locked it, then took her hand, and they walked to the car holding hands.

Madolyn was conscious of every step, of how her breasts jiggled and rippled under her sweater. Gawd, what was she doing here?

He opened her door and helped her into the car, then walked around and got in himself.

"So I hear you have quite the handsome son, Madolyn" Rob made conversation as he drove.

"Yes, he's pretty handsome. It seems that he's grown up to be a real pain in the ass, though."

He looked at her – she didn't usually curse. "Really? A pain in the ass? How so?"

"He has no respect for his mother. And it seems he just wants to demean her."

"I see," he nodded, and they drove for a couple minutes in silence. Eventually, Madolyn stopped glaring at him and looked out the car window.

"So I hear you have this collection of special dollar bills," she chatted back finally.

He looked at her, not sure whether to grin or frown. "What do you mean?"

"Well, they're these dollar bills that make people jump through hoops to get them. They make people do horrible, demeaning things. Rumor is that they're Satanic or something."

"Hungh. Satanic? Really?"

Madolyn nodded. "That's the rumor."

Rob drove silently a couple minutes then.

"So how's your boyfriend? Rob? I hear he really likes you, that he'd do almost anything for you. Even ... be a pain in the ass to his own mother."

Madolyn looked over at him, but he was watching the road. Normally, she corrected either of her children when they cursed, but – this wasn't the time.

A couple minutes later, Rob pulled into the parking lot of Chez George. He parked, came around to get her door for her, then held hands with her and they walked to the entrance.

"Reservation under Caldwell," he told the hostess when they entered, and she looked up their table and walked them to it.

Madolyn didn't know whether to be complimented that he'd made reservations at such a nice place for them, or to be horrified that he'd been so confident that she'd fail and sell herself for a dollar that there'd been no risk to make dinner reservations.

And still, she could have nearly died as her breasts jiggled beneath her sweater during the long walk to their table. It probably wasn't as obvious to all the other patrons as to her – no one was staring at her – but she just felt naked walking without a bra in public. She was even blushing slightly when Rob helped her with her chair at the table.

"This is ... a pretty expensive place," she commented after a minute.

"Like I said, rumor is that Rob guy really likes you."

She nodded silently.

The waiter brought menus, and Rob ordered for them and selected a wine, which was delivered a few minutes later.

"So tell me about yourself, Madolyn. I know you have a daughter and a son, so you've been married before?"

She looked at him. And raised an eyebrow. "I'm divorced. We all make mistakes, and he wasn't the person I thought he was. So, we finally parted ways." She spread her napkin in her lap. "The children certainly were no mistake, I just wish I could have picked a better father for them."

"Like you say, we're all allowed mistakes. And from what I've seen of your children, they're no worse off for the one bad choice. They seem like good natured kids, and it's obvious they both love you very much."

"Maybe too much," Madolyn looked pointedly at him.

Rob sighed. "So what are you hopes and dreams? What do you want to do with life?"

"Well, I'd hoped to raise two fine children. And I'd thought I was doing pretty well on that. But recent events ..." she felt herself glaring at him but continued, "Well, I have an awfully long way still to go on that, it seems."

Rob took a sip from his wine and set the glass down. "Do you just want to have a miserable time tonight, Madolyn?"

She pursed her lips and stared at the table.

"Because I can accommodate that if you really want. You know I can."

They sat there without talk for a couple minutes.

Finally Rob took another sip of wine and smiled. "I have a sister – her name is Julianne. You'd like her. When we were kids, she would sometimes get sullen and pout too. I always found that the best thing to do when she got like that was to just go ahead and have a good time with wherever we were, and she'd either work out of it or not. Most of the time she felt better if she did, but it was her choice."

"I am not pout–" The waiter came with their meals then, and Madolyn cut herself off.

Rob smiled and joked with the waiter, then began cutting up his steak after he left.

"I am not pouting," she whispered loudly at him.

"That's right," he said after a minute, "because my date wouldn't be sullen."

Her eyes flicked to him. And she swallowed. He wasn't going to ... take the dollar bill back? That wasn't what he was talking about, was it?

They ate another couple minutes in silence.

"I'm, uhm," she gave a soft laugh finally, "sorry. I don't mean to be bitchy, Rob. I'm just ... I don't know what's in my head."

He just continued eating.

"This is ... really good lobster. How's your steak?"

"The food's good," he nodded without looking up and cut another piece.

"And the wine is ... just fabulous. Sweetie."

He looked up at her, and she put on a sweet smile. Then he looked back down at his plate.

"So I was talking with a girlfriend from work, and she was talking about how cheap men are these days," she continued on cheerily. "She thought it was a nice touch for a guy to buy a lady a nice dinner on a date, like lobster," she held her fork up with a bite of lobster speared on it and waited for him to look up at her to give him a nice smile.

He didn't smile back, but she continued on anyway. Because she'd already demeaned herself, sitting here sans bra. On a date. With her son. For a lousy dollar.

She sure as hell wasn't going to have him take that lousy dollar back because she hadn't acted the part of a date!

"Ha," she chuckled musically, "she was even telling me how she can gauge the personality of her date by the color of tie he wore. A red tie wants to dominate her, so she cuts the date short; a black tie is bound up in convention and doesn't expect much; and purple tie guys think they're royalty but are usually pretty good lovers. According to her." She was relieved he was maintaining eye contact and following what she was saying. She'd already bitched enough earlier for him to take the dollar back for her being a bad date; she just needed a little time and a chance to turn it around, though, and she could keep the dollar.

"Hmm," he smiled – yes! he smiled! – and cocked his head, "I'm not wearing a tie."

"Well ... I guess that means you're not bound by social conventions, maybe?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, I can live with that. I saw a similar article, but about women's bras. A red bra is passionate; pink is romantic; and white is innocent but open to suggestion. What color bra do you have on, Madolyn?"

"I'm, uhm," she couldn't help her eyes from flicking down to the table, embarrassed, but she brought them back up and sighed, "I'm not wearing a bra, Rob."

"So you'd be what? Carefree? A free spirit?"

She opened and closed her mouth a couple times, trying to think how to respond in this situation. "I'm, uhm, wearing white silk panties, though." Crap – why did she include mention that they were silk? They shouldn't be talking about her panties. Did dates normally talk about their panty colors? She didn't know – she hadn't been on a date since the divorce.

"Ah," he nodded, "so innocent but wanting to be corrupted just a little bit."

She swallowed. How DO you respond when your son suggests you want to be dirtied a little? While you're on a date with him? Without bra?

She was saved from having to respond by the waiter showing up then and asking if they were done. Rob told him they were and that he was ready for the check.

Madolyn reached across the table and wrapped her hand over his while they waited for the bill, "Thank you, Rob. For a good dinner. I had a good time."

He turned her hand over to grasp her fingers in his and squeeze lightly.

She did not ... thrill slightly at the look he gave her. It was something else. Something non-romantic, non-sexual. Because this was her son. And ... enough said.