On the Beach Ch. 10

Sorry for the delay. I hope I haven't killed whatever interest readers had in the story.

Muriel recalls meeting Ben and Meg. There is FF sex, not that anyone seems to mind that.

For those of you game enough to have read the earlier chapters, you'll recall it started as a voyeur/exhibitionist tale, moved into gay sex, then incest and group but always with a touch of exhibitionism. This chapter has a little, but only a little, exhibitionism. If I focus on this chapter alone, the best fit would be lesbian, so that's where I decided to place it.

Thanks to LarryInSeattle for his help with the editing.

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I was surprised when Ben called to ask about renting the house again. To say Meg and I had not hit it off last summer barely covers it. I got the stink-eye from Meg the moment I opened the door. I kept a smile on my face as I handed Ben the keys to the rental. I gave them a tour, showed them where the beach chairs, umbrellas, and what not were stored. Meg returned my good-bye with a curt nod. I wasn't offended. Lord knows, I've dealt with more than turned up noses and narrowed eyes in my day. Their check had cleared. I could spend her money whether she liked me or not.

I had only seen them one other time that week, when they dropped off the keys. That was too bad; they were both real cute, attractive without being so pretty as to be off putting. They had two little boys with them and Meg was pregnant. I offered to babysit but they chose to use one of the sitting services. I wasn't sure if Meg had heard folks talking about me or if she just didn't care to have a woman near her own age around her husband but it was clear she had no use for my company.

So, when Ben called the next spring, I was surprised. They had baby Jill with them that year. The next year it was the same and every year after that. He hadn't called this year and I'd been surprised at my disappointment. Ben was always friendly. Meg was a different story. She was never rude but, over the course of a decade, I don't suppose we spoke more than a dozen sentences to each other. They always rented the house next door. At first that wasn't hard to explain; it was the only rental I had at the time.

I'm careful. I never rush. I make sure I never have more debt than I can handle for a couple of lean years. I watched others over-reach and then I moved in when the time was right. By the time our tenth anniversary rolled around, I had me a half-dozen houses renting, in addition to the three spas. Folks think my husband left me the houses but he didn't. True, he fronted the money for the first spa but he'd made that back before we married and he up and died on me. He left me the house I live in and the rental next door. The rest I did on my own. I'm doing just fine, thank you very much.

Ben hadn't called until mid-March, the Ides I couldn't help noticing. He knew it was the last minute but this year he was hoping I had something, anything, open for two weeks. I hadn't. The rental next door was rented except for a single week. I had another place, bigger, closer to the pier and a lot more expensive, available the following week. I told him he could have the usual place for one week but he might have to move for the second week. I could tell he wasn't thrilled but he didn't have a lot of options. I called the folks who'd booked the house next door the week after the Caseys and offered them the nicer place for the same price. They accepted. I called Ben back. He fell all over himself thanking me and that was that.

When the doorbell rings, I suppress a surge of joy, surprised at myself. Ben is his usual friendly self. Meg, looking a little embarrassed, thanks me for re-arranging the rental schedule. I tell her it was nothing, which is mostly true. I look down the stairs toward their car. I don't see any kids.

"Where are the young ones?"

I'm surprised when Meg answers. "My folks are watching them. This is supposed to be a sort of delayed honeymoon for us."

"That's wonderful," I smile at her. "I'm sure the two of you deserve a break but I have to admit, I'm gonna miss having them running around in the back yard."

I try not to let my smile fade. I've recently realized children are not likely to be part of my future. I have passed the big "three oh" and I got no prospects of a long-term relationship, mostly cause I'm not looking for one. I've always wanted to give a couple of kids the kind of home I'd wished for. I shake the thought away. I've plenty to be thankful for. I remind myself that though the long hours and sweat were all mine, I've had help. Shoot, even growing up in the kind of home I had was a kind of back-ass-ward blessing. It sure lit a fire under my butt to get the hell out. I left when I was sixteen. I left mama a note saying I knew she'd done the best she could. I made my way to Savannah, Georgia not Tennessee, and was lucky enough to walk into a salon owned by a wonderful woman, Wanda. She gave me a bed in return for cleaning, shampooing and running the front desk when she needed me to. I'm smart. I knew an opportunity when I saw one. I worked my ass off and did my best to learn everything I could about the business. She was the first person I'd met that didn't take my quietness for stupidity. When she discovered I liked to read she loaned me books. She made sure I got my GED. She hadn't been a whole lot older than I am now when I meet her.

I lost my virginity, at least in the sense of voluntarily giving myself, to one of the stylist. He was an asshole. I knew he was an asshole. I knew he was only flattering me to get in my pants but he was cute enough and, for the first time, I began to wonder if being with a man could actually be fun. It was. I could tell Wanda knew what was up. I could even tell she wanted to warn me to be careful but she didn't butt in. I could also tell she was impressed when she realized I had no illusion about what I was doing. I had an itch. There was one straight, mostly, stylist in her salon. He was an ass but he was cute and had a nice dick. I let him scratch my itch and I scratched his.

More than a few of her competitors were offering massage services. Massage had become acceptable, more or less. She offered to pay my tuition. I'd pay her back by working there and giving her a slightly larger percentage of the fee back. Win-Win. I loved it. Before I could legally drink I was a licensed massage therapist and had worked off what I owed Wanda. I knew it was time to move on. So did Wanda. She took the responsibility of mentoring seriously. She was my boss. She did what she did for no reason other than to help me and if it helped her business at the time, well like I said already, win-win. But after I told her I was moving to North Carolina, it wasn't hard to get her into my bed.

The years that followed were a blur. The Outer Banks. New job. New business. Marriage. Widowed. Hell, I've like more life than most in my thirty plus a few years. I shouldn't complain if kids weren't part of that.

I shake off my mental funk and give them the keys, tell them to holler if they have any problems, and close the door behind them. The surprising surge of happiness has receded, leaving me feeling a little down. I'm not use to that. I decide to get off my ass and get some work done.

I sit myself down. The window in front of my desk faces inland. If my desk faced the ocean, I'd never get a damn thing done. I make a few phone calls. Then get ready to go look at a house my realtor has given me a heads up on. I've paid off the last house I bought and I'm looking for a good opportunity. I stick to middle-of-the-road properties. I don't want something so cheap the only people interested in renting it come from the same trailer park as my relatives. On the other hand, folks that rent $10,000/week places tend to be a total pain in the ass. Like I said, I go slow. If something good comes along and I got the cash, I buy it, usually paying well over half up front. A few good seasons and it's paid for. A few bad seasons won't be any fun but even on a slow season, I have enough cash coming in to pay one mortgage. "Slow and steady goes far" was one of Granny's favorite sayings.

The house is nice. It'll need some work. It's overpriced. I make a low, but not insultingly low, offer. I'm willing to go higher but if my first offer is accepted, good. If there's no counter offer, I'll let it sit. No one sells here unless they have to. I don't want to fuck anyone but I'm not bending over to get fucked either. If the seller wants to wait and see if he or she can get a better offer, fine by me. I'll be here if they don't.

Hubbard Dyer was a good man and, whatever nasty-minded folks might say, I loved him and he loved me. I was never a whore. I was a massage therapists and that was all. He was a client first, a business partner later and a husband last. He and his first wife had no children. She'd died young and he focused his attention on making money. To be honest, he wasn't all that great as a businessman. I'm cautious and I've done well. Hubb, however, was always looking for a quick payout and the bigger the better. Still, he was a good man, a good husband and he'd gotten me started. I can't abide folks that don't appreciate the help they've gotten over the years. No one, leastways no one I know, ever did it all on their own. Maybe it was nothing more than an aunt babysitting for free, but somewhere, someway, they always had a bit of help.

When I get back home, I change, head out on the back deck, and do my yoga. Yoga, is something I managed get ahead of the curve on. I had been introduced to it as part of my massage training. Real estate wasn't my first business. I started with a spa. Hub, put the money up for half interest. When that one took off, we opened another. A few years later, another. I'm not overly fond of odd numbers but I had stopped at three. We had been married by then. I focused my spas on serving my neighbors, 'the locals'; they're my core business. The summer folks are a bonus. The spas turn a nice profit. It's nice to have a little cash flow in the off season.

As I step out onto the deck, I see the Caseys down in the pool next door. I surprise myself by going to the far end of my deck. It's my house and my view. Why I'm changing my routine to avoid having Ben's wife's eyes on me while I do my exercises on my own deck is a mystery to me.

I shake the thought away as I stretch and lose myself in the exercise. This is what I love about yoga, the narrowing of my world to my body. For an hour or so there are no spreadsheets, no worries, and no desires within the little wedge of world framed by my mat.

Finished, I go inside, peel off my sweaty clothes and drape them over the washer and dryer to air out, make a cup of tea and a sandwich and return to the deck. I may be willing to move my exercise spot but I'll be damned if I'm going to sit and have my lunch in hot sticky clothes. Besides, once I'm seated, the Caseys won't be able to see me anyway. I make my way outside, set down the plate and mug, spread out a blanket, and ease myself into my lounge chair. My deck faces more south than east. I'll need to grab an umbrella after I eat.

I don't hear any sounds from the pool. The yard is empty when I take my dishes inside. I pull the sun umbrella closer, read for a while and then surrender to sleep. By the time the sun clears the umbrella, it'll be low enough in the sky that burning won't be an issue. If you ask me, among the many contributions of the Hispanic culture, right up near the top of the list, is the siesta.

I wake to the sounds of water splashing. I allow myself to enjoy the last of my dream before it wisps away and is lost. I sit up and stretch. I glance at the pool. Meg is topless and splashing her husband. She's smiling. I smile, though she can't see it. She's beautiful. I find myself hoping she's bottomless as well, and that so is her husband.

I get up quietly and go inside. I liked her smile. I don't want to see it run away because she thinks I'm spying on her.

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She is sitting by the pool when I carry my coffee out onto the deck the following morning. She's alone and wearing a cute little orange bikini, not too daring.

"Where's your hubby?" I call over the top of my coffee.

She turns and looks at me. At first I'm afraid she won't answer, that saying "thanks" the other day was as far as her friendliness would extend.

"He offered to do the grocery shopping. I took him up on it."

"Smart woman," I tell her with a nod of my head. "You a coffee drinker? I have a whole pot. It's not bad if I do say so myself. Come on over and have a cup."

I can tell she is weighing her response.

"I don't bite," I reassure her. "I'd sure enjoy the company."

"Okay," she says with nothing I can detect that could be called enthusiasm. "Give me a sec to get dressed."

"Don't be silly, darlin'. You're at the beach. Just come on over. The gate in the fence is open."

I wait as she crosses the yard. She looks like she's on her way to the dentist. I'm wearing my favorite old lady housecoat. It's comfortable. It's not see through but it's thin cotton and it's old. I don't have a stitch on under it. As Mrs. Casey approaches, I wonder how'll she'll respond.

She does that eye narrowing thing again. Lord, could I take this woman for everything she's got if I could get her to sit down at a poker table.

I decide I have nothing to lose. The world always has more renters. I take her by the shoulders like a mom looking at her baby girl in a prom dress.

"How on earth did you keep that figure after three babies?" I gush, in all sincerity. This woman is a beauty.

She eyes me for a minute, looking for any evidence I'm digging at her. She sees none because I'm not.

"I didn't. I feel like a whale," she whispers. "That's why Ben is going to leave me," she continues and her voice starts to crack. She looks at me horrified. One does not share one's feelings with a stranger, not in the South we'd grown up in. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what in the world is wrong with me. I should go," she says as she turns.

My hands are still on her shoulders. I don't tighten my grip but I don't let go either.

"Don't be silly. Why go? You haven't had your coffee yet. Cream or sugar? Want to go inside or stay out here? You want tea instead?"

"Coffee is fine. Black. Out here would be lovely, Mrs. Dyer," she replies in a voice barely above a whisper.

I give her a look. "Mrs. Dyer? Honey, I suspect we're about the same age. You don't owe me any money. The rent check cleared." She smiles at that. "You call me Muriel."

"Okay, Muriel." She holds out a hand. "I'm Megan or Meg."

I shake her hand. "Nice to meet you, Meg, official like as it were." I shake my head. "What in the world is wrong with us? You've been coming down here for what, ten years? But it seems like we're just getting around to introducing ourselves, proper like."

Meg nods. "That's true," she agrees. She has the decency to look out over the ocean and not in my face as she adds one of those little lubricating lies we tell to keep down social friction. "We've just always been so busy, with the kids and everything."

"Oh, I can only imagine," I say, letting her off the hook, as she follows me inside and I pour her a cup of coffee. "I love your little boys but I get tuckered out just watching them run around."

Meg favors me with a smile, perhaps the second genuine smile since I've known her. "They can be a handful. I tell you though," she continues as we return to the deck, "Jill is more of a struggle than the boys. The boys? They just run around, getting in messes until they collapse in exhaust. Jill? She's a stubborn, onery little thing."

After that we drink our coffee in silence. I see, and feel, Meg tense up as she drinks. She's embarrassed about what she'd said, worried about it, worried about the kids, nuclear war, you name it. She finishes her coffee and sets the cup down as she rises.

"Muriel, thank you so much. That hit the spot. I should get back. Ben will worry."

"Sit a spell. He'll come out back to look for you. We'll see him. He appears to be all growed up. He can put a few groceries away."

She hesitates.

"You sit back down. I insist. I know just what you need. I'll be right back."

I don't give her time to reply and duck back inside the house. The damn massage table hasn't gotten any lighter over the years and I resist the urge to cuss it. That would set the wrong mood.

I feel Meg's eyes on me as I open up the table. I set the bottle of oil I'd slipped into the pocket of my house coat on top of the deck railing. As I do, I think again that I ought to have the wooden railing replaced with something more modern that doesn't obstruct the view. The sun will warm the oil up nicely, too nicely. I'll have to careful that it isn't too hot.

"Come on, Meg. Hop up. Face down."

"I don't understand."

"On the table. Hop up. Haven't you ever had a massage?"

"No," she says shaking her head.

"Then you are in for a treat. Massage was my first love. It's what allowed me to have a life better than I'd ever dared dream of as a kid. You'll love it."

She shakes her head again. "Oh, Muriel. I can't afford a massage. We're trying to be careful..."

I cock my head. "Did that husband of yours forget to tell you the rental includes one massage a week?"

She shakes her head.

I smile at her. "Well, don't kill him. I just added that bonus to the rental agreement this minute. Come on hop up. Face down."

She rises and walks toward the table, looking both worried and interested.

"Normally, I have a towel for you but we're both ladies. I can turn my head if you like but this will work better if you take off your swimming top."

She hesitates then reaches behind her back and unties the top. She drops the top on one of the chairs. If she breast fed those youngster of hers I can't tell it. Her breasts are firm and altogether lovely. She lies down on the table. I help her adjust her position so that her face rests comfortably in the cradle.

"Any particular place you carry your stress, Meg?"

"I don't know. My shoulders I guess."

"I usually start at the top anyway. You opposed to have your hair mussed up a bit?"

"No," is her somewhat muffled reply.

I put my thumbs on the top of her head, my fingers over the sides of her head. My fingers remember their skill and I begin. I take my time. There is no clock ticking. I love the fact that my fingers, my hands, my arms can bring such relief and relaxation to another. As I finish with her head, at least for now, I see Ben in their backyard. He's looking over at me.

"Meg, you okay if Ben joins us?"

"Uh, okay, sure, I guess."

"Ben," I call. "Meg is over here. Come on over but be quiet. I'm giving her a massage."

He looks surprised but heads toward the still open gate. He climbs the stairs slowly and sits down on the chair upon which rests his wife bikini top.

"Hi, baby," he whispers.

"Hi."

"Okay, no more talking," I tell them as I reach for the oil. I keep one hand on her shoulder so she'll know where I am. "This'll feel warm. If it's too warm let me know." I let a drop of oil fall onto her back. "Is that too warm?"

"Uh-uh, feels good," she whispers.

I drizzle a trail of warm oil over her back and then set the oil aside. I use one hand to smooth it over her skin. She has beautiful skin.

"I'm sure you're right, Meg, you do carry your stress in your shoulders but I'm going to start with your lower back. I'm going to work all that stress up to your shoulders, then out through your arms. Ready, hon?"

She nods, as best she can with her face in a cushioned cradle.