Servicing the Tenants Pt. 01

When I finally collapsed onto the mattress, Adriana rolled up against me. "Wow," she breathed. "That was a hell of a first time."

"Yeah, it was," I agreed, stroking her hair. "You inspired me."

"Thank you!" Adriana replied with a tired giggle. "If that's the response I get, I definitely want to make a habit of inspiring you." I smiled at that. She stretched langorously against me, then made a small sound in her throat when she noticed the time. "Unfortunately," she said, the reluctance plain in her voice, "not today. You should probably get going so I can be sure I'm showered and everything's straightened up when Paul gets home."

"Yeah, you're right," I agreed, starting to crowbar myself out of her bed.

"But I want to do this as often as possible," Adriana continued. "I think I'll need you to come by to do regular maintenance on my pussy. I think it will need it three times a week, at least."

"That sounds wonderful."

*****

We carried on in that vein for several months, until her husband had a stroke; Adriana ended our affair to focus on taking care of him. He declined rapidly, and shortly after my one-year anniversary in the building, he died. She settled up his affairs and moved away, and I never saw her again. I was sad to see her go--I'd done everything I could to support her as she cared for Paul, and we were honestly good friends--but I didn't try to resume our sexual relationship. I'd long since moved on at that point. In fact, Adriana had moved me on.

Oddly enough, she was sort of the house mother for a lot of the young women in the apartment building. When she sat down with me to tell me she needed to end our affair, I was expecting it. When she said she also wanted to talk about one of the other tenants, I wasn't surprised, because she'd given me little tips and observations on multiple occasions. But she did surprise me when she told me I should ask Robyn Archer out on a date.

I knew Robyn, of course; she was an aspiring fashion designer, two-plus years older than me, sharing an apartment with three other young women (two of them sisters). I'd been in and out of their apartment several times, and I'd talked with her more than once. Like Adriana, she was a stunning brunette with big tits, and I was pretty sure her ass was equally spectacular. Personality-wise, she was quite different, if equally vivacious. I couldn't have said more than that, though, as we hadn't exactly progressed to the point of deep personal conversation.

*****

"She's lonely, Iain," Adriana says. "She wants a lot from a man, and she's gotten frustrated. She's told me she wants a man who has real goals, who's thoughtful, who's interested in a lot of things; trust is big with her, and so is being treated as an equal. She's had some bad experiences with men in the fashion industry. Plus, of course, she wants a man who'll leave her well and thoroughly fucked, and she wants it often."

"And you think that's me?" I ask.

"I'm sure it is," Adriana responds matter-of-factly. "I told her so yesterday. She laughed at me, but I set her straight."

"Oh, really," I observe dryly. "And how exactly did you do that?"

She proceeds to describe me in terms that make me blush harder than I have since the first day I knocked on her door. Her opinion of me is apparently much higher than I would have guessed--we've done more than just fuck, sure, but I don't think I've given her reason to think that well of me. (Plus there's the fact that I've been fucking a married woman, which many people would consider a serious blot on my character.) I'm starting to think she's been researching me.

Anyway, it sounds like Robyn took it seriously. "She admitted she'd checked you out a few times and thinks you're pretty hot," Adriana says. "But then she started being contrary--her resistance reflex kicked in, and she said sarcastically, 'And I suppose you're going to tell me he's good in bed, too.' When she said that, I knew I had her."

"Huh?" I interject, confused.

Adriana smirks. "I've done my share of complaining to Robyn about my own sex life," she admits. "She'd heard all about my frustration with Paul's diminishing sex drive and how horny I was. Since you got here, I've spent so much time raving about you and how well you eat me and fuck me, she got jealous and told me to shut up."

"Ohhhhh," I breathe, understanding.

"Yeah," Adriana grins. "When she made that snippy little comment, I said, 'I've been telling you that for months.' Her jaw practically dented the floor, it dropped so hard." The satisfaction is strong in Adriana's tone. "She gibbered for a while, then finally spluttered, 'You--you mean--he's--him?'"

I laugh, and Adriana laughs with me before going on. "I nodded and said, 'He's a great fuck, and he eats pussy better than any other man I've ever heard of. But we haven't only been fucking, you know. I didn't expect it when I seduced him, but I enjoy his company.'" (Hearing that makes me feel good.)

Adriana continues, "Robyn's next question was absolutely predictable: 'If he's so good, why are you willing to share him?' So I told her I'm not--I'm giving you up. I have to. I have to take care of Paul, and I can't do that if you're getting so much of my energy and attention. But I want to take care of you, too, and I think this way I can take care of both of you. I said that to her, and told her that if you asked her out, she should give you a chance.

"She looked at me for a long moment, then asked, 'Are you going to tell him to?' When I said yes, she said, 'Well... we'll see.'"

I smile, and then an alarming thought occurs to me. "What about the old lady?" I ask. "She'll have my balls for earrings if I start dating a tenant. There's no way--"

"No, she won't," Adriana interrupts calmly. I stare at her in disbelief, but she continues, "I've already talked to Jean about this." My jaw drops a little; she pauses to ask, "What is it, lover?"

"Just--surprised to hear you use her first name," I say. "I mean, I know she has one, but I've never heard anyone use it. Mostly it isn't even 'Mrs. Birch,' just 'the old lady'--or something much less polite."

Adriana snickers a little. "She intimidates you, and most of the tenants, but not me. It's one reason she likes me so much. As I was saying, I talked to Jean and told her Robyn wants to date you. She started barking about that, so I swatted her on the nose with a newspaper." I gaped at that, and she grinned. "Not literally, of course. But I bragged about you some more and told her you're bound to be snapped up someplace better, but you'll have more reason to stay if you're dating one of the tenants.

"Of course, Jean couldn't let it go that easily. She went off fussing about preferential treatment, so I gave her another swat and told her you have too much integrity for that. If anything--and I'm not blowing smoke up your ass or hers, I truly believe this--I think you'll be a better building manager if you're dating Robyn, because you'll have an even better idea what's going on in the building."

*****

I stopped writing at that point (why, I no longer remember), so I had no record of the beginning of my romance with Robyn; but I had of course written about my first meeting with her. Reminiscently, I flipped back to find that account.

*****

I knock on the door of #204. There are four women living here--one who's 32, two in their mid-20s, and a 19-year-old who appears to be a younger sister. A blonde in a salmon-colored top and white shorts answers. "I'm sorry, we're all on our way out the door, you'll have to come back later," she says energetically.

"Excuse me, I'm Iain Roberts--I'm the new building manager," I say. I hand the girl my card. "I'm just going around introducing myself to the tenants. My cell phone number is on there--it's the best way to reach me if you need me."

"Oh," the blonde says, calming down a little. "Well, I suppose you can come in; we have a couple minutes, really. I'm Jordyn Campbell, by the way."

"Thank you, Jordyn, it's good to meet you. One of the things I'm doing is collecting pictures of all the tenants so I can keep everyone straight; do you mind if I take yours?"

"Sure, right here is fine," Jordyn says. She turns to face me; I snap her picture.

"Hey, that's a good shot," Jordyn exclaims in surprise. "Send me a copy? That's the best picture I've had taken of me in quite a while."

"I'll be glad to," I tell her.

I hear a voice coming toward me from behind and turn to see a busty brunette in an amazing black dress that leaves her shoulders bare. "You think this looks good?" she asks someone. "I've put a lot of effort into this design--I'm hoping it's going to be my breakthrough. Heaven knows I need one."

"You look amazing," a female voice replies. " The only question I have is whether anyone who doesn't have your figure can pull it off. "

"Well, if that's the biggest question I get, I can handle that," the brunette says, sounding relieved. She turns and starts walking toward me before her head has made the turn. "I just--" She sees me and comes to a dead stop. "Who the fuck are you?"

"This is Iain Roberts," Jordyn says. "He's the new building manager. Iain, this is Robyn Archer, our resident aspiring fashionista."

I hand Robyn my card. "It's good to meet you, Robyn. I'm just going around introducing myself to the tenants. My cell phone number is on there--it's the best way to reach me if you need me."

"Robyn, he's taking pictures of everyone, and he has a really good eye--and a pretty good camera," Jordyn tells her apartmentmate. "He's doing it to help remember names, but you might get a good shot out of it."

Robyn looks at me. "I'm sure it will surprise you to know Jordyn's in PR," she says wryly.

"Hey, that's not fair!" Jordyn responds, blushing.

Robyn waves it off. "I'm just amused, is all. I'm sure you're sincere. Doesn't change the fact you're shilling for our new building manager--and not even as building manager, but as a photographer. In any case," she continues, turning to face me, "feel free."

I take her picture and show her the result. Robyn looks at it thoughtfully, then turns to Jordyn. "I take it all back. You were right." She looks up at me. "Send me a copy, 'K?"

"Gladly," I tell her.

"Thank you," she replies. "Now I need to get out of here. Later, owl."

I turn to Jordyn with a raised eyebrow. She has no trouble understanding me.

"She means 'all,'" Jordyn says. "It's just one of her standard jokes. Come on into the kitchen, I'll introduce you to Amy."

*****

I set the document down, not seeing it, as my mind wandered to a far more consequential conversation with Robyn. I had called her, and she of course knew why before she even answered the phone; she sounded uncertain, but agreed to a low-key date. We met at a coffee shop near BSU that we both loved called Espress Yourself. I got there first, which was a good thing because she saw me immediately when she walked in the door, and I'm not sure the same would have been true in reverse. Robyn was a vibrant woman who could light up a room with her presence, and she usually dressed in vivid colors; that afternoon, though, she was subdued, even somber, and wearing jeans with an unremarkable brown top. I smiled when I saw her and held out my hand; she took it, favoring me with a small, shy smile of her own as we got in line to order.

When we sat down, she took a long slow drink of her latté. She looked at it for a moment after resting it on the table, then sighed deeply. I could see her shoulders relax a little. When she raised her head again to look into my eyes, she seemed happier, or at least more comfortable. I reached out my hands, palm up, and she took them in hers. She looked at me for a long moment, then shook her head a little. Looking at our hands, she said softly, "You don't really care, do you?"

I didn't want to take that the way it sounded, so I asked cautiously, "About what?"

Robyn's eyes met mine again and she giggled uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, Iain, that came out awful. You don't care if I make myself beautiful or not, I mean."

I blinked at her in surprise. "Robyn, you are beautiful, for whatever that matters to you. To be sure, it doesn't hurt that you're an artist with clothes, because your designs do an amazing job of highlighting your beauty."

"Only that?" she murmured, lips twitching in a small smirk.

I knew what she meant. "OK," I conceded, "a lot of your designs also make me really, really hard. Some of them would look sexy on anyone, I think, but--on you, they're positively lethal."

"Good," Robyn whispered.

"But where I was going--you see beauty, and you create it, and your ability to do that amazes me. That's part of who you are, and that's what's important. I mean, it's fun to get dressed up and go out sometimes, and if a woman makes an effort to look good for me, I'm going to appreciate that; but while some of it is, 'Oh, she's looking really hot tonight' or whatever, it's more about why she did it. Am I making sense?" I asked. "I feel like I'm not doing a great job wrapping words around this. I'm better with the written word, I'm afraid."

"No, I get you," she replied in a low voice, squeezing my hands.

"You know, I sort of got captured by Adriana, or I wouldn't have thought to get involved at all with anyone in the building," I continued. "I wasn't letting myself think of you or anyone else in that way, because dating in the building would have gotten me fired. I still find it hard to believe Adriana was able to convince the old lady otherwise. But since she got me thinking about you, I haven't been able to stop."

"Really?" Robyn asked softly, her eyes lighting.

"Really," I affirmed. "And yeah, some of it's that you're gorgeous, and I have a number of mental pictures of you modeling your stuff, and now any time they come to mind, my pants get too tight." She giggled at that, blushing a little. "But you know, if you were selfish and entitled, or if you didn't care about anything but your own appearance, I'd leave you to it. You're not. I know that from the times I've talked with you, even if there haven't been all that many, and I know it from the way Jordyn, Kennedy, and Amy talk about you."

"Remember, Jordyn's in PR," Robyn retorted with a small laugh.

"Yeah, I know," I grinned. "All the same, she thinks the world of you--and so does Kennedy, and that's a harder trick."

"True," Robyn sighed.

"But even if you wanted to downplay Jordyn's opinion, Amy values you highly as well, and you can't play that down," I told her.

Amy Murakuma was a 32-year-old quality engineer for a company that made artificial joints; she told me once, "You can't fool the metal, so trying to fool people will only hurt you in the end." It seemed to be central to her philosophy of life. She wasn't tactless by any stretch, but if she felt it appropriate to say something, she was going to be sure you knew exactly what she thought and believed. She trusted Robyn implicitly and enjoyed her company as someone who could keep up with her in conversation--which wasn't easy, because Amy had wide-ranging interests and a penchant for making connections no one else could see coming.

"You're right," Robyn admitted, her tone a little surprised. "I've never thought about it, because--well, I'm concerned with how we're getting along and whether she's happy with me, not about using her as a reference. It's all the day-to-day stuff. But you're right, she treats me the way she treats people she respects, not the way she treats Kennedy--wait a minute, that sounds awful... it's not that she treats Kennedy with disrespect, and she's clearly fond of her, but she treats her as a kid sister, not as her equal."

"I knew what you meant," I assured her. "But here's the point: once I started thinking of you outside the box labeled 'tenant,' I realized you're extremely attractive to me as a person, not just physically, and I really want to get to know you better. And I want you to get to know me better, because I know you well enough to have no doubt I could fall in love with you, but I don't think you can say the same."

"No, that's true," Robyn replied, sounding relieved. "So, tell me, Iain, you don't seem to be the sort of guy I would expect to find as a building manager. How did you end up here?"

I grinned wryly at that and plunged into the story. I told her about my journalism plans ("So that's what you meant when you said you're better at writing," she observed) and how things had gone awry. She made some affirming noises and paid me a couple compliments, then asked what had pointed me toward journalism. I ended up telling her all about growing up in Kinnewa, a decent-sized town about two hours away from Clarksburg, and being solid at everything but nothing spectacular. I played wide receiver and center field, and I was a decent starter but nobody any school was going to recruit. My grades were good, but I wasn't going to earn high honors. "But I always did well in English and history, and my teachers praised my writing; it was almost the only way I stood out."

Robyn pounced on that "almost" and wouldn't let go until I gave in and told her about spending my senior year eating pussy. She blushed nine shades of red at that, but she also got a look of interest in her eyes that I hadn't seen up to that point. She tried to get me to demonstrate the tricks I can do with my tongue, but I refused. "I'm not going to do that in public," I said firmly. "Too many memories of scoldings from my mother, and too many disapproving comments from little old ladies. You want me to demonstrate in private, sure, but not here."

"I'll... have to think about that," Robyn said.

We left soon after that, since both of us had other commitments, but we left hand in hand. I walked her to her car, and if we didn't kiss before she got in, she at least looked like she was thinking about it. When I called her the next day, Wednesday, to ask her to dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant, La Bella Vita, she accepted happily. We made plans for Friday at 7; she giggled charmingly when I told her I'd pick her up.

Thursday we had thunderstorms all day, making me very glad I'd picked up all the parts I needed on Wednesday. I was in the middle of replacing the shower cartridge in #504 when my phone rang. It was Robyn. "Iain," she asked, sounding upset, "can you come get me? I was driving, and my engine just died, and now it won't start. No one's home. Can you come help?"

"It's OK, Robyn," I said gently. "I can come get you, and I might be able to save you a tow, at that. Give me a couple more minutes to get 504's shower working again, and I'll be on my way. Where are you?" She told me, and I was as good as my word, after grabbing a can of Coke and making sure my heavy-duty jump pack was in my car.

It took a while to get to her, since it was sheeting rain. I pulled up behind her and called her to tell her to pop the hood. "Are you going to jump it?" she asked. "Don't you have to have your car in front of mine?"

"Yes," I told her, "but I'm not going to use my car to do it--I have something better that will mean less standing around in the rain." I had a Bluetooth headset, so I kept Robyn on the line when I got out of the car. When I got under the hood, there was a fair bit of corrosion on the battery terminals, as I expected. I poured some Coke on them to clean them up, then put the jump pack on and told her to turn the key. The car started right up.