Interdit

premise: official visit becomes an erotic 'paddles and balls' contest

--------

She knocked confidently on the door. "Hello? Anyone home? Assessor..."

After a short wait and a second knock, the door opened, revealing a fortyish man. His frame was thin and fit, with just a few beers worth of belly; his squarish face was open and friendly, though a bend in his nose hinted at a past disagreement settled physically. Uncombed hair and facial stubble suggested that he was not yet expecting visitors. He had hurriedly pulled on a pinstriped dress shirt but only one button had found its matching hole. Faded jeans and black socks completed his ensemble, for which he apologized.

"Geez, I'm sorry...didn't expect you til eleven. I'm not quite ready for company. But if you want to come in and wait a moment... I'm Jeff," he said, stepping out of the way.

"No, I'm sorry," she replied, scanning his face, down his open shirt. "My earlier appointment went quicker than I expected. Straightforward...square footage, tally the rooms, take a few photos...done deal. So I'm early, but I can wait." She stood hesitantly for a moment, then stepped in as he opened the door wider.

"I'm Sarah," she said, pointing to her name tag, then offering her hand. "I'm the assessor -- real estate taxes, you know. I understand most people aren't wild about our visiting, but the schools, police..." Her voice trailed off.

He took her offered hand, pressing lightly, as he had learned to do with women. His gaze swept over her, semi-consciously picking up details...all instinctive, natural, primitive, unavoidable. Who is this new person? Friend or foe? Be welcoming or guarded, open to...what? Her hand was warm, dry, slender and carefully tended. Maroon polish decorated manicured nails. A silver bracelet dangled from her wrist. A sharply cut black velveteen jacket. Shoulder-length, gently curled hair, plum tones among the dark brown suggesting added coloring. Her face: half-smiling, eyebrows carefully highlighted, lip gloss. Forties? And...beautiful. A green crystal adorned each ear. Thin gold chain necklace. White shirt in a soft, clingy fabric. Black skirt, black tights, black boots, chunky heels. She stood confidently, weight on one angled foot. Up again...thin legs...black leather skirt, narrow, constraining--and her other hand--a ring? All this in a second or two.

"I'm glad you've got your Assessor name tag. Otherwise I'd think you were selling something very high-end...Real Estate, maybe?"

"Well, it's kind of real estate, but I'm not selling, just collecting data." She shifted her weight to the other foot, putting her hand on her hip.

"Okay--A cup of coffee?" he queried. "I just need a minute to...Please help yourself--over there. I only have skim milk, I'm afraid..."

"Skim? Heavens! I'm afraid I take only freshly squeezed from an Angora goat!" She raised her nose in the air, gave a haughty sniff. "Nothing else...Maybe not squeezed...I'm not sure about goats," she said, nervously laughing. "Kidding! Goats! Thanks--whatever you have," as she moved to the coffee-maker on the counter. They exchanged awkward smiles.

As he padded to his bedroom, his quick glance back showed the leather skirt, tight around her buttocks. He pulled off the shirt he'd grabbed from the couch and took a clean one from the closet. While no longer a wrestler's chiseled chest, his torso was still well-muscled -- three days a week at the gym at least slowed the decline. He buttoned and tucked in his shirt, centered his belt buckle, ran a brush through his hair and returned to the kitchen.

Meanwhile, she had poured a mug of coffee for each of them. "Cream and sugar?" she asked. "I mean, skim and sucrose?"

"Thanks, but I take it black. Seems to be your choice as well..." Puzzled, she looked at him. Hurriedly, he tried to clarify. "I mean, you're dressed in black, I just noticed. Elegant--classic--uh, sorry...I didn't..."

"And you didn't have to dress up for me. I'm assessing the house." A smile appeared briefly on her lips. "So can you give me the tour? I'll take a few notes, shouldn't take long. But I see you're in your socks--no-shoe house rule?"

"No big deal; just a habit I have."

Setting her coffee down, she bent to pull off a boot, but struggled. "At home I use a boot jack..."

"Well, I'm not a 'jack-booted thug', but I can give you a hand. Have a seat." He pulled out a kitchen chair; she sat and extended one leg. He knelt before her, grabbed the boot with both hands and pulled hard. Too hard -- she slid forward in her skirt, balanced precariously on the chair's edge, grabbing for support. With an athletic twist she recovered, freed her foot from the boot and extinguished his view up her skirt.

"I'm so sorry! Those boots are really tight," he said, red-faced and looking away.

"That's OK...I didn't expect...but can you do the other one?" She anchored her stockinged foot while extending the still-booted one. "I'm ready..." This time their efforts were coordinated; the second boot was removed without mishap. He placed them together under the chair.

"Okay, thank you...where do we start?" She stood and fished a small notebook out of a jacket pocket. He led the way around his small house, pointing out the obvious features. "This is the bathroom...closet over here..." She took a few photos with her phone camera. When he paused at his bedroom door, she brushed past to take a look inside, unexpectedly turning toward him to squeeze through the doorway. He caught a subtle perfumed waft as her jacket opened to shaded contours draped in white.

"No race cars, no pinups, no superheroes?" she asked with a smile.

"It's been a few years...Actually, I took down the racy stuff when I heard you at the door." He grinned.

"Racy...that could be something..."

"...fast," he finished for her. He left more room in the doorway but this time as she passed him she stepped on his foot. Neither of them spoke.

"Basement?" she asked, pausing at a closed door.

"Yeah, not much down there but a ping-pong table. Take a look if you want." He opened the door, flipped the light switch and took a couple of steps down. She followed, so he continued to the bottom. The space was unfinished but clean; a single bright lamp hung from the ceiling over an old and well-used green-topped table. A small refrigerator, a few bottles on a shelf and a worn La-Z-Boy recliner were in shadow along the wall.

"What passes for my man-cave," he apologized. A couple friends, serious ping-pong, not-so-serious drinking -- what's not to like?"

"A very local bar scene...and what does serious ping-pong mean? Play for drinks, a few bucks?"

"Billy and I ruled the table at our frat, lo these many years ago. I'm not as fast as I used to be but I like to think I'm a bit smarter. Him, too, so we usually come out pretty even. It's a good time." She turned to face him.

"Well...it happens you're looking at the Central Tennessee Table Tennis champion, two years running. I trounced a lot of guys getting there. I'm rusty but still play pretty often."

They looked at each other silently for a few breaths, then she spoke quietly, "My next assessment appointment isn't til three...play a game?"

He looked at her more closely. Her smile was confident, maybe cocky?

"I work from home -- web designer -- and my project's due tomorrow," he said. "Can't really take much time off. But, hell, I can spare a few minutes."

"Great! That's how long it'll take me to beat your frat-boy...butt. Paddles?" she asked.

"Whoa, girl! I try to be a respectable -- and respectful -- gentleman, but trash talk riles me up. I'm gonna have to show your Central Tupelo League champeen how this game is played!" He opened a drawer and offered several paddles. "Pick your poison..."

"At least you've got some decent tools, looks like... I'll try that blue one." She examined and ran her fingers over both surfaces. "OK, let's warm up a bit."

"Ah, I don't want to be your coach here, but maybe that jacket...?"

"It's chilly in here. I don't expect to need a tournament outfit."

"You're a cheeky one, aren't you? Let your paddle do the talking, I'll do the same, and we'll settle this thing."

They warmed up. Both were off their best chops, but each felt good. And each was impressed -- also a bit unnerved -- by the other's play. He had the power edge while her spin control excelled. He thought her business dress would hinder movement, but her skirt turned out to be pleated. Her footwork was unimpeded. She thought his untamed hair and not-recently-shaven face betrayed sloppiness, but his crisp movement and confident grace proved otherwise. They saw each other in a new, warmer light.

The first game's score was back and forth. He'd win a few points, then net a shot and lose momentum, and she'd catch a streak, followed by a fade. When his lead reached 18-15, he tapped the table with his paddle. "Looks like the home team's got this one," he grinned.

"It ain't over til... It's champ time..." She pulled off her jacket, hung it on the chair, twirled her paddle a few times, and settled back to receive serve. The front of her white shirt swayed gently.

Crack! He fired a serve that nicked the corner of the service box; she lunged and got her paddle on it, but returned it wide. She shook her head, stared steely-eyed at him. "Serve!" she commanded.

"Nineteen serving fifteen..."

His first was a fraction wide, and she pounced on his second, spinning it unreachably into the corner. Silently he tapped the ball back for her serve. She became an icy machine, showing no emotion as her 'A' game emerged. Her shot nicked the corner: 16-19. Her next serve he returned into the net: 17-19. He netted the following as well. The next point, and the next, she spun that plastic orb in a way he'd rarely seen. Score: 20-19.

"Game point," she announced, taking a deep breath.

He nodded. "I'm ready...bring it." Her first serve was long. He inched closer for the easier second. But she blasted her second serve even harder than the first, only outrageous spin clawing it down to tap the line. His late lunge failed.

"Game..." She came around the table. He extended his hand. She brushed it aside, wrapping one arm around his waist and the other behind his head, pulling it down and kissing him with breathless open mouth. After a second she drew back, but he pulled her to him again and brought his mouth fiercely back to hers. Wrapped tightly into each other, she lost her balance, took a step back, banged hard against the table edge and cursed.

"Shit! That hurt! But...you...you're a real player...your basement cave league... Oh, I meant ping pong player...competitor...you know." She held his shoulders, he held her waist, they searched each other's faces with both desire and caution.

"I'm getting the feeling this is not just about ping-pong anymore...I'm open to...but I don't know what you want...and I see you're...wearing a ring. Are you married?"

She looked at her left hand. "Well....yes, I am. Sorta...still...but it's not going too well. He's on an overnight 'marketing trip'. With her...his assistant... She who must be obeyed...enboobed! Doesn't care if I know, and..."

"Okay, I don't need all the detail. You just beat my ass -- one game -- you're a beauty, you're in my house...and you're married. Your call...By the way, I'm divorced about five years now. Still trying to figure out how..."

She cut him off. "I decide, I pay the price...if there's a price." She held his shoulders tightly, still at arms' length. "That was a fine game. I think I'm better but you're in my league. I've got another assessment appointment at three...but maybe I'll call in sick. You: screw your project, I've got a better offer: me. Maybe." Her smile teased him deep inside.

She continued. "Here's what I'm thinking. We play for stakes--vetements. Game loser removes an article of clothing, their choice. Winner's the last one wearing something, who gets to choose what happens next. Can you honor that, gentleman?"

He took a deep breath and felt her breathe as he tightened his hold on her waist. "Okay, screw the project...there's tomorrow. I like your stakes, but I propose we add a college rule: winner does a shot. Tends to even things out a bit. I've got a bottle of -- vodka, I think -- over there. Deal?"

"Deal," she said firmly, and kissed him again, quickly. "But we should do a clothing count, y'know? So it's kinda even? I've got," she did a quick inventory, "about five, plus a couple jewelry?"

He ran the numbers. "Just five for me. But I could put on a cap?"

"That works. Just one more thing..." She paused.

"The skirt stays on...the rest is negotiable." Her smile was both wicked and pleading.

He leaned forward on the table. "Okay...but I'm all negotiable." He rustled around in the closet, found and pulled on an LA Rams ball cap.

She announced, "And I did hold the title: Central Tennessee Table Tennis Tournament Open Champion... engraved right on the trophy."

"Hmm...Cee-Tee-Tee...Tee-Tee-Oh-Cee... See titty; titty oh see. HeyZeus! You didn't just make that up?"

She blushed. "Total coincidence!"

They stood facing each other, the basement lit only by a bare bulb centered above the dark green table. The numerous chips in its surface betrayed countless hours of hard-fought battles to hit a hollow plastic ball out of another's reach. Most of the balls were white, but scattered in the basket among the anonymous herd were a few odd characters. Some sported multi-colors reminiscent of Easter eggs. Several yellow ones appeared almost to glow. And a few had a name scrawled onto the surface -- targeted opponents? Hated persons outside the scope of the game? No matter, now; a ball was a ball, regardless of color. Any of them would serve -- as they were served -- in the anticipated contest.

For the first three, she played her 'A-minus' game; he played nervously and badly. He lost 21-18 (right sock, shot #1), 21-6 (left sock, shot #2). His pride was injured with each loss, but he admired her smooth and practiced movement as she returned even his trick shots. The third game he lost: 21-14, shot #3.

"Now the cap, I guess..." He shook his head and reached for the bill, then stopped. "Nope, shirt..." He unbuttoned slowly as she watched his hands and he watched her eyes. He pulled the tails from under his belt, folded and hung the shirt carefully on the chair, covering her jacket. Smiling, he flexed his chest as though modeling. "Cooler this way."

She watched, only half-smiling. Three shots of vodka were working their way through her system. Her head felt fuzzy and light. "Switch sides," he reminded her, and started for her end of the table. She chose to take the same narrow route. Neither moved to let the other by, so they challenged each other for a moment, her white shirt, now spotted with perspiration, against his bare chest, hair fuzzed with dew. She again stepped on his foot, this time with force.

"Ow! Ref -- disqualify her! Unsportsmanlike conduct!" He stepped out of the way, but tapped her leather buttocks with his paddle as she passed.

"You big baby! An accident..." She smiled as she took another ball from the bowl and prepared to serve.

Whether from the vodka, or distraction by his shirtlessness, or her overconfidence, or his rekindled competitive fire, the scoring shifted. Bare-chested, he felt looser, more relaxed. The next game they battled back and forth but he squeaked to a victory: 25-23. Wordlessly she peeled off her tights, revealing slender, unsunned legs and well-tended feet highlighted by ten perfect maroon toenails. She smoothed the flimsy black fabric on the chair over his aqua shirt as he downed and refilled the shot glass.

The next game he again came out on top: 21-17. Silently she removed her necklace, bracelet and earrings, placing them carefully on the shelf next to the shot glass. He drank again, and they played again.

"Mother-of-god-fucker!" She had just lost her third game: 21-18. Her now wet and clingy white shirt was the next to be removed. Matter-of-factly she unbuttoned and peeled it off, this time just tossing it on top of the growing pile of clothing. He now faced a delicate white bra, lace curving over the tops of her breasts, just shy of the nipples that bulged slightly from solid fabric. Her face shone from perspiration, determination and rapid drinking. He tossed down his third shot.

Perhaps the visual distraction to his concentration, or his rising blood alcohol tilted the table again. Now even at three games, shots and unclothing count, they had learned each other's style of play and psychology grew in importance. She played fiercely and in the next game thrashed him, 21-7.

"Your hat, sir?" she asked politely, holding out her hand.

"Not yet." He took a deep breath, then in a quick movement unbuckled his belt, undid the button and zipped down the fly of his jeans. Another moment and he had pulled them down past his thighs, from where they settled around his ankles. He stepped out of one leg, lost his balance and grabbed the edge of the table. Regaining equilibrium, with the other foot he flipped the jeans up in an arc that just missed the chair.

"Show-off!" she said, but her eyes returned to his nearly-bare figure. Boxer shorts nicely bulging, solidly-muscled, hairy legs.

"Drink?" he asked, smiling. Once again she managed to swallow the clear liquid but she coughed as it burned down her throat.

"Let's get on with it," she said.

Now unconstrained by jeans, he regained a groove and this time she managed only six points to his twenty-one. He leaned on the table, watching her carefully. She turned her back and hitched up her leather skirt. Awkwardly she bent over and reached under the front. Hidden from his view by the table, her hand fumbled for a moment, yanked down as she swiveled her hips, and black cloth dropped to the floor. As though choreographed, she grabbed it with her toes, raised her foot in front, took her underwear in her hand and tossed it onto his side of the table.

"Service. No return. My point," she said, trying to sound cheerful, but she wasn't smiling.

"Defective ball -- serve again." He picked up her soggy underwear, hesitated, then hung it from the end of the net. "Air dry?" This time the vodka shot pooled for a moment in his mouth; he struggled and managed to choke it down.

The next game was a mess. Both of them were slow and their aim poor. Several balls disappeared into the shadows and were left unretrieved. Strategy and subtlety fled as they struggled just to keep the ball on the table. He failed less often as she totaled just eleven points.

"Your game, but still my choice," she said, pouting. "Running low on options...I guess it's time to...bare my bodkin...make a clean breast of it." Again she turned away from the table, reached behind, unclasped her bra, took it gently by the shoulder straps and let it slide down her arms to the floor.

He coughed. "Ah, actually, you know...a bodkin is a sharp, slender instrument for making holes in cloth."

She turned her head, looked over her shoulder and put her hand to her mouth in mock horror. "How embarrassing," she cooed. "And I thought it was my..." Suddenly stern, she challenged him, "And how the hell do you...what, you memorize the dictionary?"

"I do some writing...part time...and it helps to..." As he spoke, she gathered her hair behind her head and slowly turned to face him, expressionless.

"Now I'm beginning to see more of the TT champion...and I like what I see. I like her a lot..."