Real Estate Games Pt. 01

1401 Cavalry Way

"Hello. Anybody home?"

Customers. Time to put my slightly erotic romance novel down and sell houses.

"Good afternoon. I'm Janis Moorehead of Southside Realty. Welcome to our open house. Feel free to explore. Refreshments are in the kitchen."

The ice-tea and cookies were the owner's idea. Her house had been on the market for several months without a single offer. She'd already dropped the price to below what she owed on her mortgage, so now all she could offer was chocolate chip cookies as an incentive. Not that there was anything wrong with her three-bedroom, two bath bungalow... nobody could sell a house in this market. The cars that used to be made in Merryville were now products of Mexico. Jobs weren't scarce, they were non-existent. Families were leaving Merryville faster than Moses exited Egypt. And just like those ancient Jews, the former auto workers roamed the wilderness in search of the Promised Land.

The middle-aged couple spent less than five minutes looking through the house, sampled the snacks, and left. They weren't looking to buy. They were trying to sell their own house and were checking out the competition.

With the false excitement over, I returned to the study and my e-reader... which was in the hands of a strange gentleman. Dark brown hair with eyes to match. Casual but stylish clothes. Well-built while not overly muscular. An inch or two over six feet. Definitely not strange looking. But somebody I'd never seen before.

"Interesting reading material Miss Moorehead." His smile reminded me of a mischievous little boy who was up to no good and didn't care that he got caught.

I ran over to snatch the electronic book out of his hands, but he was too quick and too tall, holding the reader just out of my reach.

"I guess that confirms this belongs to you and not the lady who lives here. You can tell a lot about a woman by the books she reads. I think I've made the right decision coming here."

I jumped up in another attempt to retrieve my book, but landed empty handed with only a popped blouse button to show for my effort.

"What do you want?" I growled.

"To buy this house. And the one next door. And the one across the street. If things go well, I'll be buying everything you have."

"I don't understand."

"We'll discuss it over dinner tonight. Your choice of restaurant. As long as it's not in Merryville. Text me the address and I'll meet you there at seven."

He laid my Kindle and his card on a table. "There are thirty-five realtors in this horseless town. If I don't get a text in half an hour, the offer's off the table."

He walked out the front door, closing it behind him.

Offer? What offer? The invitation to dinner? The offer to buy this house? The fantasy of selling everything in my inventory? Is he serious or just a good-looking man with an unusual pickup line?

I hadn't sold a house in a year and the prospect of a free meal also sounded appealing. I Googled the address of a steak house in the neighboring town and sent it to Mark Seiman... if I could trust the name on the card.

I searched the entire study and then the adjoining hallway but couldn't find my departed blouse button. I went home and changed before going to dinner... five times... until I found something appropriate for the occasion. Something competent yet distant. An outfit that said, 'Hard charging businesswoman with a wild side you will never get to see.'

The All Hands Steakhouse

I pulled into the restaurant parking lot ten minutes early, sat in the car listening to the radio for a while and walked in the door at 7:10. Punctual but not eager.

"Good evening Ms. Moorehead," the hostess said. "I'll escort you to your table. Your date will join you shortly."

How in hell does this woman know me?

The pretty brunette led me to a booth in the far back corner of the room. "The gentleman told me to give you this." She placed a picture on the table... a photo of me. Recent. Taken earlier that day, before I lost the blouse button. My name was printed on the bottom, which explained how the girl recognized and called me by name. I turned it over and read the note.

"I'll just be a minute. Have some wine while you wait. M."

Ten minutes and a glass of Merlot later, Mr. Seiman finally blessed me with his presence.

"Sorry about the delay," he said as he placed a half-full glass of beer on the table.

"Where have you been?" I demanded.

He pointed to a bar at the other end of the room.

"You left me sitting here by myself while you drank beer at the bar?"

"I had to make sure you weren't followed."

"By whom?"

"Merryville city council members."

"Why would they follow me and who cares if they do?"

"I'll explain the why in a minute. And the 'who cares' is you and me. We have to keep our relationship under wraps."

"I didn't know we had a relationship."

"This is our relationship." He held up a large envelope and then slid around the booth, so we were sitting thigh to thigh. I moved over slightly to put a few inches of separation between us.

"Read it while I peruse the menu." He placed the envelope on my lap. I took it from his hand, which lingered on my knee before returning to its rightful place on the menu.

By the time Mark ordered a steak I saw all I needed. The envelope contained a signed offer for the house on Calvary Way. A ten-thousand-dollar earnest money check was paper clipped to the offer.

"What's the catch?" I asked.

"My people need to close in thirty days."

"Shouldn't be a problem. It's not like I have anything better to do."

"Oh, but you will. In the next two to three weeks, you and I will be extremely busy." His hand returned to my knee. Just a quick squeeze, perfectly choreographed with the conversation.

"Doing what?"

"Buying houses. Like I said this afternoon. I plan to buy everything you have."

"Why? You have to know the town is dying?"

"My people think otherwise. We believe Merryville will see a resurgence, an 87% increase in market value over the next three years. If you work with me, I'll make sure you not only get to sell houses to my people this month, you'll also get to sell the same houses all over again in the not too distant future."

"What if you're wrong? Suppose the town doesn't recover?"

"Then you only get to sell them once. Which is a lot better than you're doing now."

"Won't people catch on? If I go from selling one house every three months to a house every week, people will know something is different."

"First off, you need to start thinking bigger. I plan on buying two or three houses a day. And people will only become suspicious if they know about the sales. That's why we're meeting here and not in Merryville. One of the key elements of my offer to you is a temporary non-disclosure clause. You and your clients will not tell anybody about the sales until the end of the month."

"What happens then?" I asked.

"By then, we'll have all the contracts in hand." Possibly the same hand that inadvertently stroked my thigh. "Merryville will wake up at the end of the month to discover we've bought the town out from under them... at fire-sale prices."

"Won't that make people hate us?"

"Only the ones who sell and leave town. When the market turns around, those that remain will look at you as a prophet."

The business discussion continued through dinner, dessert and after dinner drinks. While his tone was completely professional, his hand continued to explore the soft skin of my knee, thigh, and points north. Not something I usually do. Steak, cheesecake, brandy... or under the table finger play. But I kept staring at the envelope... and he did have a gentle touch.

"How does this work?" I asked as he walked me to my car. "Do we sit down in my office and go over the inventory?"

"Unfortunately, it won't be quite that simple. My people insist I at least walk through each house we purchase, so you line up two or three showings a day and I'll do the rest."

Upon reaching my car, our business handshake turned into a hug, then a kiss. My hands clutched the magic envelope... his, my ass.

Mr. Seiman. Upon reflection of your conduct during dinner tonight, I cannot continue in either a business or personal relationship with you. If you wish, I will be glad to recommend another quality Merryville realtor for your project.

It took me an hour to compose those few lines. Wasted time, since the text I actually sent was the address of a four-bedroom, three-bath ranch on the south side of town; where I told Mark to meet me at 9:00 the next morning.

1103 Sundress Street

Charles, an older realtor from our office, accompanied me to the showing. How much harm could Mark do with a seventy-three-year-old former cop in the house with us?

What part of 'discreet' did you not understand? Mark's 9:05 text read. Lose your friend.

I sent Charles back to the office and Mark pulled up in a blue Ford a minute later.

My second line of defense was the most conservative business suit I owned. Clunky shoes. Long pants. Blouse buttoned to the neck. Jacket over the blouse. Not appropriate for a hot August day but I wanted as much material as possible between his hands and my skin.

"Who died?" he asked as he walked past me and headed directly to the master bedroom. No. Strike that. He went through the bedroom and into the larger of two walk-in closets. It was one of the main selling points of the house, but I didn't think that's what attracted him.

He rummaged through the owner's wardrobe, tossing items to the floor, until he found three dresses that met his satisfaction. He gave the same treatment to her bra and panties drawers until there were three separate outfits on the bed.

"Let's see how you look in those?"

"You want me to try on the owner's clothes?"

"I'm certainly not going to spend the day with a woman dressed like she's going to a funeral."

Unusual. And certainly unethical... trying on a client's clothes in her own house. But probably not illegal... and the man did have a flair for fashion. I bundled up the light blue sun dress with matching undergarments and excused myself to the spacious master bath, complete with dressing area.

"The bra's too small. I suspected it would be." I didn't hear him open the door and, even though my back was to him, strategically placed mirrors gave him a complete view of my partially undressed body.

"Your mother didn't teach you how to knock?"

"Try this one," he said, ignoring my question while offering a different dress. "You can probably wear it with your own bra... or maybe without one."

When I turned, he got an even better view of my overdeveloped bosom shoved into an undersized bra. I took the proffered dress and waited for him to leave. A hint he either didn't get or ignored.

"There are several things I prefer to do in private," I said. "Dressing is one of them."

He shrugged and left the bathroom, not bothering to close the door behind him.

He was right. The pink sundress looked better without the bra. Not that I walked into the bedroom with the ladies hanging free. But I was wearing the client's dress and panties.

"Much better. I want you to wear that to the next showing."

"I can't take a client's clothes."

"Sure you can. Look at the size of her closet. She'll never miss them. Especially since they just sold their house for five thousand under asking price."

He handed me another envelope, just like the one he gave me in the restaurant. Another contract with another check.

"Next showing is at noon," I said while staring at my second contract in as many days. "I'll text you the address."

"Will lunch be offered?" he asked.

"If you wish?"

"I do."

He gave me a mocking bow and left. No kiss. No hug. Not even a handshake.

Strange man.

It took me nearly an hour to clean up the mess Mark made in the client's closet. The owner of the dress I was wearing surely had a wardrobe organization system -- dresses hung over matching shoes perhaps? I did my best to mirror the client's method. The few bras Mark didn't throw on the floor were neatly folded with the C cups pointing towards the front of the drawer. It took me a couple of tries, but I finally mastered her technique and hoped there wasn't a particular color or style order. The panty drawer was equally over organized. I probably spent too much time folding each delicate sliver of cotton and silk, but the feel and smell of the fabric calmed me.

I texted the owner the good news just before I drove away -- wearing a stolen sundress and panties. A signed contract covered my rumpled business suit in the passenger seat.

1200 Picnic Place

Noon was a two-bedroom condo close to town center. Perfect for people who worked downtown... like the young owner... before he lost his job and could no longer afford the mortgage payments. The poor boy was desperate. He couldn't find employment in Merryville and didn't want to leave town until he sold his condo. He asked to meet with the perspective buyer, but I strongly advised against it. I could see begging in his future and there was absolutely no telling what the afternoon had in store for me.

I got to the condo ten minutes before noon, turned on all the lights and straightened up the bachelor pad as best I could before Mark arrived.

"I'm starved. You ready to eat?" Mark said to me as he came in the front door. Normal pleasantries such as 'Hello, how are you?' were obviously foreign to Mr. Seiman.

"The Merryville Diner is just down the street. I thought we'd stop in there after you've looked over the property."

"No need. Let's see what's in the refrigerator." He made a beeline for the small kitchen.

"Come on Mark. We can't take this guy's food. He's barely making it."

"Not to worry. As long as you cooperate, he'll be rolling in dough by this evening."

"What does my cooperation have to do with selling this condo?"

"Wow, you were right. Pretty slim pickins in here," Mark said as he pulled items out of the pantry and fridge. "It won't be a feast, but enough to tide us over until dinner."

Resigned to the fact that I couldn't stop Mark from raiding a starving man's pantry, I started pulling out plates and silverware.

"Did you shower this morning?" he asked.

"Of course, I did."

"Then we won't be needing those plates."

"You're not making any sense."

"Just put them back and see if you can find a bottle of wine."

Instead of asking why my morning shower negated the need for luncheon plates, I went on a short wine hunt. Fairly certain I wouldn't find any.

"No wine, but I did find a few bottles of beer in a cooler in the back room." I was going to ask if Bud Light would be okay, but his lack of shirt caught me off guard.

Bronzed. Toned. Male model material.

Don't stare. Say something.

"What... did, did you spill something on your shirt?"

"Just a precaution. These impromptu meals can get a little messy."

"You ever heard of an apron?"

"Not my style. Now let's get you out of that dress so we can eat."

"I don't think so," was what I planned on saying. But before the "I don't" escaped my lips, my stolen dress was unzipped and on its way to the floor.

It looked like I'd be dining in my bra and panties... No... Scratch that... Somehow my bra magically fell on the dress. It would be panties only.

"I'll organize lunch while you get the beer." Perfect eye contact. His dark browns never left my baby blues. Like he was speaking to a fully dressed business associate.

I tried to downplay my situation as I fetched the long-neck bottles.

Okay. A little creepy. But it could be worse. Lots of women expose their breasts for a lot less money. I'm not turning tricks. I'm just entertaining an unusual client. Nothing I haven't done before... except for the naked part.

While I was gone, Mark lined one side of the kitchen table with fruit, cheese, crackers and whatever else seemed to catch his eye. A small pillow, which wasn't there before, rested at the head of the sturdy rectangular table.

"We'll need some chairs," I said as I placed the beers on the counter.

"I'll be eating on my feet." He lifted me into his arms and laid me, face up, on the table with my head resting on the pillow. "And you'll be eating like an Egyptian queen."

"Now you've gone too far." I immediately tried to sit up but a strong hand on my chest kept me in the prone position.

"Miss Moorehead, I think it is time you understood the rules of the game. My job is to give people large sums of money for property they otherwise would never be able to sell. I can do my job the insanely boring way, with lawyers in a corporate office, or I can have some fun. I choose fun. I also choose you to have that fun with.

"You are under no obligation to play. Say the word and I won't stop you from getting up and leaving. But if you do, I'll be forced to find another realtor and the young man who lives here will never sell this poor excuse for a condo. So, what will it be? The dress and the door? Or lunch and a contract?"

His hand left my chest. I never said the words "I'm in" or "Yes, I want to play." I didn't even give him a nod of consent. But I also didn't immediately spring up from the table, recover my clothes, and sprint for the exit. Instead, I relaxed into the pillow and accepted the grape he dangled in front of my mouth.

My lips parted again to transfer an apple slice from his to mine. My hands remained immobile as he spread jam on my breasts. My nipples involuntarily hardened when he licked them clean. I lay perfectly still so the trail of fruit that extended from my collar bone to my belly button wouldn't slide off and heartily ate the portions that ended up in my mouth.

My hips naturally rose off the table as his hands grasped my panties. My thighs came together as the silk slid past and spread when no longer encumbered. I shivered slightly as his tongue retraced a line of chocolate sauce that ran the length of my right leg and then giggled when he repeated it on the left with caramel. I might have protested slightly when the maraschino cherry entered me, but my complaints were short lived and transitioned to whimpers of gratitude by the time he tongued the well saturated cocktail condiment from its hiding place.

He swallowed the cherry, gave each nipple a last kiss, and walked out the front door. Leaving behind a partially satisfied, totally naked, extremely confused real estate agent... and his shirt, which I wore while cleaning up our mess.

Not wanting to put my newly acquired sundress over a body that had recently been smeared with chocolate, caramel, whipped cream, guacamole, and numerous other treats, I showered before leaving the condo. As a hundred tiny jets of hot water washed away the remnants of our indoor picnic, I considered my situation.

Yes, he has seen me naked. He has put his hands and mouth on nearly every inch of my body. But his pants have remained on and we haven't really had sex. At least not in the biblical sense. Yet.

I can still stop. Three offers is not bad for just over twenty-four hours of labor. Better than I do most quarters. However, if current history repeats, there is a good chance my personal price for the next offer will go up.

But how much higher could that price go? Best I could tell, we'd already done everything short of actual intercourse. I certainly wouldn't be the first woman to bed a man for personal gain. Those who do it for a hundred dollars are called whores. Those who get millions for the exchange are called "ma'am" by their servants. It's not like I picked him up on a street corner. I'm not seducing an eighty-year-old widower for his inheritance. He chose me. He said so. Of all the realtors in Merryville, this extremely good-looking businessman wants to combine his pleasure with my business.