Observed, Then Noted

Years of teaching had made Ian Abercrombie oblivious to being observed. Having been a reporter readied him for public speaking. Daily peppering strangers about their lives most intimate or mundane aspects strengthened his confidence. Already possessing a commanding presence further eased his transition from well into fountain.

Furthermore, if he retained any nerves among the public, early semesters of instructing students grammar and composition eroded that fright. Before tenure, still during newspaper days, he had launched his second career as a part-time teaching assistant.

This new generation of students dismayed him. They compared badly against his own undergraduate terms. Although freshman and sophomore comp had been mandatory courses then, he and his classmates saw these as nuisances. Basics their respective secondary school teachers had drilled into them through repetitious exercises.

Too many of Abercrombie's first charges, aspiring business majors mostly, entered college barely able to slap together shopping lists. Those apprentice years let him recall times spent tutoring jocks for beer and gas money. Except maintaining eligibility motivated the athletes.

Therefore, despite Monte and Fili Vargas' close scrutiny he remained unaware of their attention. Only after weeks under consideration did his ignorance end.

Abercrombie never asked the Vargases, the couple who ultimately deemed him acceptable, their criteria. That ego-stroking question of why they selected him for fun and games dissipated unasked. He supposed himself flattered to be regarded as a desired object.

Both Vargases worked out at his gym. Monte Vargas' schedule matched his with greater frequency than Fili's. Brazilians, Vargas himself occupied an executive title in a corporate suburban boardroom. His wife filled no occupation other than wife.

Vargas, just over 40, was tall and sinewy, his muscles cords. Sharp angles composed his face. A salt and pepper brush cut squared his head. Five o'clock shadow perpetually darkened his jaw. By his countenance Abercrombie saw him as a man who'd known hard labor before reaping executive suite comforts.

Unlike many who'd ascended without callused palms or physical labor's honestly acquired aching muscles , Vargas seemed the sort who realized what his elevation entailed. Not only grateful for the view, he also fully appreciated the climb.

Several inches shorter, Fili was obviously an easy decade younger than her husband. If her body suffered blemishes, exposure through gym wear failed revealing them. Her posture and bearing lent such clothing undeserved elegance. Feminine muscularity complemented womanly curves.

Hazel eyes glimmered under regularly bound dark hair. Thing was when Fili caught someone whose sight had settled on her she smiled apprehensively and turned her heart-shaped face away from admirers. She reminded Abercrombie of a doe. One who cautiously stepped into a meadow after ascertaining no predators lurked before lapping from a stream. As wide and as sparkling as her smile could be, one pool of flee-ready fraught bubbled just beneath her placid surface.

Equatorial latitudes had ground sun into both Vargases' skins. Their taut cinnamon complexions advertised effortless vitality as well as enviable health.

While Vargas completed circuits around the weight room, Fili muscled ladies dumbbells before Pilates or ab classes. The resulting sheen which encased her aroused Abercrombie.

Exertion adhered fabric against her chest, emphasizing the twin high-riding perfections she carried. Clothing also clung to Fili's back and often neatly halved her fine round ass. She strode somewhat self-consciously, as if attempting to limit the switch of her hips.

Surrendering completely to fantasy, sometimes Abercrombie wondered how her perspiration tasted, the feel of her skin along his tongue. Her ducking away always broke the spell.

Abercrombie knew her husband well enough to nod. The Brazilian didn't socialize much during his sessions. In the locker room and showers he might respond though rarely initiate discussions. Abercrombie knew Vargas was corporate by his rig. If his German woman's gifts had taught Abercrombie anything, it was facile appraisal of other men through the cut of their suits.

But back to Vargas' reticence. Since he neither incited nor maintained conversation, he unbalanced Abercrombie one early evening by launching himself out of silence.

Tie properly knotted, handkerchief blossoming in suit chest pocket, Monte Vargas introduced himself. He spoke lightly accented confident English. First, though, he stunned Abercrombie by addressing him by his title. Beyond class and campus, it slightly disconcerted the literature professor to hear himself referred to so formally. No three lead letters could've weighed as much as that "PhD" trailing his name.

In easy almost cheerful tones, Vargas prompted deft inquiry which besides filling in the sketch he already had of Abercrombie, revealed little of himself. Only afterwards did Abercrombie realize how one-sided their chat had been.

Vargas waited for Abercrombie to finish dressing and walked him out. Between locker room cool and parking lot heat, Vargas heaped esteem on the lecturer's profession. Vargas nipped his praise just before it became fulsome. Rather, he branched onto the essence behind his new manner.

Instead of getting its usual mass mailing offering continuation courses, the college solicited a donation from him. As repeated by Vargas, the request gained even more urgency.

Abercrombie was familiar with his institution's pitch. These appeals usually put the touch on better-off alums and susceptible townies whose egos were inflated through such gown affiliations. For the fundraising committee to reach out past the guilt-ridden and nakedly striving showed somebody had finally learned how to jibe newspaper financial sections with real estate abstracts.

Indeed theirs was an institution of higher learning geared towards the 21st Century.

The appeal pricked Vargas' conscience. Yet before sending a check, a "substantial check," the unabashed potential benefactor raised questions about the school's mission. He needed information about where his money may go and what it might do.

Abercrombie considered foisting Vargas on the school's fundraising committee. However, instinct told him that Vargas would've found glib statements trite. Although nowhere near a salesman, Abercrombie believed in academe. He even became obdurate if pushed. No. He determined Vargas had already written and signed the check. He needed his benevolence bolstered, if not altogether assured, before presenting his gift.

An organic rather than calculated response.

The instructor suggested a meeting with the school president, lunch in the regents dining room, then a campus-wide guided tour. Slyly as possible, Abercrombie broached that Fili should attend. She might've found the environment more agreeable than her husband, thus pressuring his favor.

Abercrombie didn't care whether education enthralled Fili or not. He was stirred, though, by the possibility of her sitting across or beside him liberally sampling a decent vintage while the administration and benefactor exchanged lofty opinions. Perhaps a good year decanted might let her eyes linger, become merry and dance.

Vargas needn't have once been a scout to know where Abercrombie's trail led. The husband grinned.

He regarded the teacher's offer as too extravagant. Vargas countered by floating that he and Abercrombie meet at one of the area's better restaurants.

The outright dismissal vexed Abercrombie. He suddenly believed himself in an inexplicable bind. If he didn't jump through hoops, the school likely forfeited a big boodle. Moreover, a nagging thought overwhelmed him. Was Vargas dangling his money as a lure towards some unpleasant compromise?

While respecting same-sex proclivities but too straight to possess "gaydar," homosexual conduct disinterested him. If that what lay behind his offer, Abercrombie hoped the sponsor man enough to accept and understand.

Vargas surprised him.

"Nah. I'm in an office all day. Between meetings and conferences I see enough wood and fabric wall paneling. I figure we sit down and we can talk. You know, like a couple of guys. This thing, the potential really excites me. I don't want to deaden it with good manners and careful words."

His explanation mollified Abercrombie. He felt foolish for having misjudged Vargas' intentions. They agreed to meet towards the weekend. Unsaid, Abercrombie hoped Fili accompanied her husband.

If Abercrombie suffered cold feet, a curious incident the day before dinner revitalized him. Usually the Vargases timed their work outs so they concluded simultaneously, allowing them to depart together. On this early evening Monte Vargas did not escort Fili. In fact he was nowhere to be seen.

While Abercrombie melted miles away on the stationary bicycle, Fili detoured on her saunter to the ladies locker room. She glowed and pulsed from exertion. Accent thicker than her husband's, Fili's English also skipped against full red lips.

Whether by chance or design thin material comprised her top. Heavy perspiration matted the shirt upon her sports bra, another lightweight garment. Breathing, moisture, HVAC vent drafts all roughened her nipples into muddy peaks.

Pleasantries exchanged, Fili said, "Monte looks forward to tomorrow night. He's quite happy about the potential. He wants to make it happen. I do wish you could make it."

Despite struggling not to home in on her chest, Abercrombie heard her words as scripted, her pitch rehearsed. Since Vargas had gone to such an extent, mild intrigue displaced all of the teacher's doubts.

He assured Mrs. Vargas of his attendance. She smiled in response; her manner let him think she'd winced first. Fili left the gym leaving him to dream about the discrepancy as well as her nipples.

Next night Abercrombie kept his appointment with Vargas. Fili was absent. The restaurant chosen was expense account expensive. The obsequious deference shown almost exceeded menu prices. Almost.

Catching Vargas unawares pleased his guest. Knowing educators earned comparatively little, Abercrombie assumed Vargas figured he'd share his table with someone whose wardrobe would reflect their financial disparity. Instead, Abercrombie drank deep from Vargas' admiring eyes as he measured his suit and shoes. Upon inquiry, struggling with modesty, Abercrombie relished disclosing his tailor and cobbler.

"If you like, I can give you their addresses later."

Vargas smiled sickly in thanks. Each man ordered simply. Prime rib for both. Vargas sipped Scotch. Bourbon filled Abercrombie's glass.

Conversation quickly focused on the teacher. Under prodding throughout their meal and drinks, he related how he'd come to American Literature, his journalist past, and why he had no unfinished fiction manuscript secreted in some drawer. Vargas listened adroitly. Even when Abercrombie mentioned how his intermediate class confused "The Luck of Roaring Camp" with "The Ransom of Red Chief," the host commiserated.

The last gesture struck Abercrombie as false. He reviewed their discourse. It became clear he'd been pumped. Willingly. He marveled at Vargas' smooth interrogation talent. His host's benign expression admitted nothing.

"Enough about me," Abercrombie said. "What about you? What's this all about?"

Vargas exhibited practiced reluctance then waded into explanation.

"You've seen my wife. You know how lovely she is. How she walks. Stalks actually. She reminds me of those big wild cats. Like pumas. I see how other men look at her. Mind you, I don't get jealous. Because she's absolutely faithful I have no reason to feel threatened. Matter of fact those stares make me love her even more."

Such tenderness aside, Abercrombie wished Vargas got to his point.

"Let me tell you, though, beauty is not her finest attribute," the husband said. "Pleasing me, obeying me, sustains our bond. She obeys without hesitation. And seeing how other men desire her, me always having her within arms reach, knowing I can love her anytime, makes me insane sometimes."

Abercrombie, feigning he followed the other's course, nodded his head. Vargas continued.

"Insane in the rhetorical sense. Not in the crazy way. Then I got to thinking about all those hungry-eyed guys. It's funny. It's true. You can devour somebody with your eyes."

Abercrombie matched the other's drollery. "An apt metaphor."

"What I want to say, professor, is that I think I've achieved one of the highest levels of adoration. I'm not madly possessive of Fili. I'm not the usual hot-blooded, jealous in an instant Latin man. I understand that through no fault of her own Fili will attract excessive attention. For a long time I've been okay with that."

"Good," Abercrombie said. "That's, uh, manly of you."

Vargas broke out his toothiest smile. "So that's why we're here tonight."

The next sentences from Vargas' mouth elicited grins which failed rising above quivering lips on Abercrombie's face.

"There are many men who ache to pleasure Fili. They all can't be accommodated. Realizing this I've decided that occasionally we should select a stranger we consider worthy of sharing her bed. This time that man should be you, professor."

Abercrombie chuckled after Vargas' badly put utterly ridiculous offer. Apparently his host mistook the reaction for disbelief at such marvelous fortune.

"What?" Vargas said. "You think I had you over here for some kind of gay thing? I chatted with that Paz Diaz --"

" -- Duarte," Abercrombie corrected.

"Sure. We spoke before she quit. Now there was a hot number! I knew you and her had something going on. You know how you act when you think nobody's watching? Well, I was, and I noticed."

Abercrombie shrugged. "It's no big secret. Paz is special."

"She said complimentary things about you too. What's she, Mexican? Anyway, let me tell you something. I've been with a lot of women and say in all total honesty fucking Fili is extraordinary. There'll be other women, naturally, but even still Fili will beat them by miles. So I ask myself how can it get any better than that? The only solution I could find is seeing her with other men. The right men. No, it's nothing perverted. It's just watching her being fully appreciated by other men. Again, the right men."

Abercrombie soaked in Vargas' statement before speaking.

"Monte, you ever consider taping yourselves then watching the playback afterwards?"

"I feel funny watching myself on TV. I'm too conscious of the camera. I'm a harsh critic of myself. Also other guys are more natural. That intense desire in those particular moments, professor, you can't fake them. I cherish Fili. I treasure watching her immersed in passion. Later, man, our sex is better than explosive -- it's frenzied!"

Somehow Abercrombie refrained from asking whether Vargas gave play-by-play commentary during his wife's sanctioned trysts. He didn't regard the businessman's tender as mere performance. Not even the best actor's artifice could be so convincing. This quandary tugged Abercrombie at either end. Fili was available, though with considerable strings attached.

His deliberations finished, Abercrombie soberly asked, "How does this work?"

Vargas happily explained the procedure.

The anointed place: one of the region's more luxurious hotels; the appointed time: an evening during the workweek. Conflicted between feeling shabby yet behaving coolly, Abercrombie crept beneath the desk staff's notice towards the elevator bank. Earlier Vargas had text-messaged him the room number. Thick hallway carpeting swallowed footsteps. No muffled sounds seeped from doors lining the corridor. The quietude nearly spooked Abercrombie.

At the right door a simple knock and Vargas answered. He appeared no more or less conspiratorial than before. Behind the now closed door, a suite. Scrims serving as curtains gauzed the city's winking nightscape. Bowing into the sitting room a wet bar. Only one highball glass sweated atop curved ebony. Vargas'. Abercrombie declined his host's polite insistence of a drink. He asked about Fili's whereabouts.

"She's in the master bedroom," Vargas said. "You can get ready in the junior bedroom. There's a robe for you. A long fluffy thing. Nice. Every time we come here I fight the urge to steal one."

A stab at levity or an inadvertent character disclosure Abercrombie didn't know. He deserted his host for the smaller bedroom.

Indeed stretched across the counterpane a white robe. His fingers sunk into plush cotton. The fabric carried a light scent. Likely the Vargases sprinkled it with the husband's favorite cologne. Shedding his clothes and shoes, Abercrombie enveloped himself in long white folds.

Belt cinched, he stuffed hands in deep pockets. His fingers brushed against numerous foil packets. He inspected himself in the bathroom mirror. There, he noticed several more gray chest hairs. Other than that ...

When Abercrombie walked into the sitting room he found it empty. Devoid of even Vargas' glass. The open master bedroom door beckoned. He padded through it.

Abercrombie planted himself at the foot of the bed then surveyed. The room dwarfed its king-sized bed. Seated in a wingback chair along one side, Vargas, one leg crossed over the other, drink casually in hand. Abercrombie's entrance prompted him.

"Fili," the husband called.

The master bathroom door opened. Out strode similarly robed Fili Vargas. If anything, she stood straighter, her shoulders thrown back farther. Fili's expression betrayed resolve, not ravenous anticipation. Nonetheless her steely demeanor added cold luster to these proceedings. She marched behind Vargas, past Abercrombie and positioned herself along the bed's vacant side.

Vargas gestured. Fili mechanically untied her belt. She pulled the raiment across her shoulder knobs until it piled onto the floor. Head held high, her eyes fixed on a point above the men.

Naked and barefoot, Fili was a lean brown streak of sex. Full defiant breasts leapt off her chest. Large, sharp, nearly black nipples puckered because of the chilly room. Her flat belly narrowed into a waspish waist. A short coarse pubic carpet strip extended the slit between her legs. Abercrombie shifted position to better gauge Fili's rear.

Round and hard, her ass rode high.

Until tonight, he'd only seen her hair bound in scrunches. Now long Moreno tinted hair splashed between her shoulder blades.

Abercrombie glimpsed Vargas observing him stare at his wife. Both men gained evident pleasure from their respective views. Had Vargas vanished undoubtedly he would've left behind a Cheshire grin.

Vargas issued a command in Portuguese. Fili stepped away from the white swirl at her feet to recline face up on sheets. Her eyes remained focused elsewhere. She reclined loosely. None of that stock-still stiffness of the coerced or browbeaten. Abercrombie decided her attitude reflected resignation.

Ice tinkled sluggishly against Vargas' glass.

After pinching a rubber in his ample robe pocket, Abercrombie shrugged off his own vestment. Once sheathed, the latex' foil fluttered to the floor. Under these circumstances he might've felt uneasy about his nakedness, yet he delighted exhibiting himself before women. Otherwise why put in gym time? Save shame for the sloppy and lazy! And as far as Vargas, well, how many times had he seen the other soap his balls? Although admittedly Abercrombie didn't habitually display raging boners among other men. Like now.

He joined Fili in bed. The sightline disturbed him. Not of her. Of Vargas. Abercrombie moved across her body, giving his back to Vargas and avoiding his gaze.