Stanley Steamer Ch. 03: Frieda Tells

Disclaimers: This vacuous stroker is total fiction, even most places. All sexual actors are over 18 and avoid condoms. Tags: clusterfuck, multiracial, bisexual, pregnant, photography, steam engine, Rancho Relaxo, temperature. If you object to any such, stop reading. Details may be incorrect. Views expressed may not be the author's. Read the first two chapters first. Enjoy!

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Stanley Steamer 03 of 03: Frieda tells
Steamy workouts, another rescue, and the heat!
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FRIEDA
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I sat in Lorna's cubicle in the Cahuilla Indian reservation's publications office while she called him. I hoped he would not be difficult. Or nosy.

"Hey Stan, it's me, Lorna. Yeah, you too! So how was Boston? That sounds about right. I hate that. What, Halifax and Syracuse also? You've been a busy boy! Oh yeah, sure, but that's not why I called. Are you free for a few days? You have a job if you want. Yes, the tribe will pay costs and a per diem and you can pad it some. What? HAH! Later for that, buster. And not on this line, they may be monitoring. Anyway, what it is, is that we have a new intern photographer. Umm, well-"

She looked at me and rolled her eyes, but smiled.

"But yeah, that's how interns go here. She's fresh from a good school, and she's connected, and she needs experience. No, not that kind! Isn't it early for Long Island Iced Tea? What, you only had Mormon tea? That'll do it to you too, pilgrim."

More smiling eye-rolls. She mouthed to me, Do Not Worry, He Is Okay.

"Enough of that, Stan. So here's the skinny. Frieda's student portfolio, and her uncle who happens to be related to management suits, persuaded my boss to take her for a test run. Our museum magazine needs a special issue on traditional Cahuilla cultural sites around the Mohave Desert and the rest of the tribe's old turf. So our idea is that you'll be out for a few days to take her to the more inaccessible sites in Waltzing Matilda, so she can shoot those, and she's good at that, you'll see. You'll be camping out of Tilly, right. Probably for a week or so - does that work for you? Yeah. Yeah, I think she knows how to camp."

Lorna's look questioned me. I nodded but said, "Maybe I should talk to him?"

Lorna told the phone, "Maybe she should talk to you? Oh? Well okay then. After work. You won't be too groady, right? Or too naked? Right. Till then."

She looked at me. "Bring your masterpiece portfolio, and a bikini if you don't want to wash-down naked in a horse watering tank. No horses there, so it's clean. Might be chilly, though." Naked wash-down? Was this part of the job interview?

Five-ish rolled around. Most cubicles had emptied early. Lorna was dedicated.

She shuffled vital papers aside and shut down her terminal.

"Okay, enough now. This is a couch-less casting call, not a dress rehearsal. We go to Rancho Relaxo, we talk with Stan, see if he's up to it. Then we return. Tomorrow we either gather your stuff for this assignment or I put you to work in the casino shooting easy overpriced portrait packets of drunk gamblers and their hourly babes. Those are your options. Don't worry, Stan is sweet, once you get to know him."

"Once I get to know him," I said. "What does that take? How long does that take? And do I need vaccinations, or splints, or a radiation badge?"

"Knowing Stan takes maybe ten minutes or maybe forever. I only met him recently but I got his drift within an hour. Just don't try to bullshit him. He has zero tolerance and many sneaky responses. But where the pedal hits the metal? He won't try or offer to fuck you unless you say you want to. It's up to you."

That was a relief, I think. I won't HAVE to fuck the help. Lorna gathered papers. I toted my portfolio. Would it impress him? I hope he did not laugh. Or maybe he SHOULD laugh.

Lorna's sensible, boring, not-too-noisy Camry whizzed past the Cabazon dinosaurs; down that atavistic two-mile-deep slice through the Coast Range that was Whitewater Pass; up the steep desert grade to Yucca Valley; and then north on the twisty byway to what Lorna said was Flamingo Heights.

"What's with this flamingo shit?" I asked her.

"Back before Spaniards and other degenerate gringos arrived, a mountain cove up there hosted a massive swap-meet, a trade fair. Not as prominent as Pecos, New Mexico, or around the Moundbuilder sites, but pretty important. Native Americans from the Maya world to the Yukon and Nova Scotia and Florida and everywhere in between rendezvoused to trade stuff."

I knew some of that already.

"Flamingo Heights sat on the route from Pecos to the California coast. Skinny messengers ran the thousand miles from Pecos to the coast in a week, stopped here a day out, fueled by chia seeds and rabbit jerky. They might carry light, super-valuable stuff. Like rare beads, and Gila monster testes, and parrot and flamingo feathers. More than a few feathers were found at this trading site. The Yankee invaders who stole California and named places decided that Parrot Heights just didn't sound right, so it's Flamingo Heights. Sort of like down below where Elephant Hills became Ganesha Hills after the Hindu elephant deity. That is the story, anyway. Take it for what you will."

The last kilometer or so was on dusty gravel that passed for an improved driveway here. It would be a major thoroughfare in some places I had been. Lorna tooted a few warning beeps before we rounded boulders into a rocky compound graced with yucca family plants. I saw a big steel barn, scattered sheds and tanks, a large fieldstone house earth-nestled into big rocks, and a steel horse watering tank. A craggy, muscled, slightly shaggy=haired man stood in the tank and waved lazily. Water rose to his navel.

"Come on in now if you want to wash off dust before it ices over," he called. "We've still got daytime warmth but it's only good for another half-hour."

Lorna appraised me as we stood by her car. "It's up to you if you forgot a bikini," she said, stripping off her work clothes, outer and inner. She dropped those in her back seat and stepped bare feet into old zorries. "I do not recommend barefooting unless you're tough," Her fabulous boobs and butt swayed toward the tank. The rest of her, too.

I hesitated. Did the job interview include this? I guessed so. I saw more zorries in Lorna's backseat. I shed all my clothes, protected my feet, and walked over, not too nervous.

Lorna's fabulous bare body climbed a half-dozen smoothed railroad-tie steps to the horse-less water tank. She slid in, dunked her head, emerged halfway, and hugged the man. They kissed awhile. I reached the steps, kicked off the zorries at the bottom, climbed in, and dunked myself also. Nice water. Not too murky. Better than some pools I had risked.

"Welcome to Rancho Relaxo," the man said. "Coyotes call lights-out here, and roadrunners wake us at dawn with their clunky stomping on sheet-metal roofs. The only rule here for humans is, don't be normal. Are you normal?"

He did not move toward me. I did not move, either, until Lorna pulled me.

She sang, "Why don't you and me get normal? It don't have to be too formal," badly, and then said, "You can shake hands at least."

His right hand left Lorna's near boob and reached to me. "Glad to meetcha, mucho gusto," he said.

I shook. He did nothing weird, only shook formally. He did not reclaim either of Lorna's fantabulous breasts, now submerged.

I started the flexible speech I had prepared. And I sank my boobs underwater, then thought better, and sat up at nipple level.

"Hello Stan, I'm Frieda Lagarda. Yes, like THAT Lagarda. Don't hold it against me, okay? Yes, I've camped rough, here with the Girl Scouts out of Pasadena. We did many deserts and mountains, not easy. And then in the field in central and southern Mexico, usually not TOO rough, and in groups."

"Lorna says you're just out of school. Want to talk about that?"

"I grew up with cameras and stuff, with lots of time in Dad's garage darkroom in the 'burbs. Well, Uncle Lennie got me into CalArts, that's the California Institute of Arts, funded by the Hollywood studios. But I didn't click with the photog section's factory vibe. I'm not a formula togger. So next thing I know, I'm in central Mexico, at the American school in San Miguel de Allende, down in Guanajuato state."

Stan whistled. "I've been there. Nice town, a little pricey for Mexico. The school has a first-rate photography program, world class. You did well."

"It was rough but it was fun. We did lots of theory and technical evolution and history, and studio time in as many formats as possible, and then field work. We went on safe little 'expeditions' through the historic areas, and to lots of little protected sites where nobody ever goes, almost to Guatemala. I got good at rendering unseen details. That's why they thought I'd be a possible intern for the tribe's press, at least for projects like this."

At least the water was not too cold for my nipples. I had never job-interviewed naked and semi-submerged before. How was I doing?

Not that the job would enrich me anytime soon. I would get room, meals, darkroom space, a bicycle rack, and a few bucks. And a résumé and a fatter portfolio. That was my target.

"I guess," Stan said, "when we all feel clean and cooled, we should maybe dry off and get dressed, or not, and look at your so-called 'portfolio'. But what do you expect this project to be, where will it go, and what do you need?"

"We've mapped a slew of sites," Lorna said, after dunking her head and rising to nipple-level. "I brought marked topo maps and a memory stick with GPS coordinates and site descriptions. Your well-paid job is to just get her to the right places to photograph in the right light. We've a rough itinerary. Tomorrow is a good time to start, if you're free." Her hand did something underwater.

"And the best photographic and artistic light will be in the "magic hours" at dawn and dusk, right? With long shadows, dramatic textures, and soft colors," Stan said. "Which means we won't be active during washed-out midday light. We'll have lots of free time. Bright time. Warm time."

"The next week will have good moonlight, too. I'll shoot a lot at night, long exposures and strategic lighting," I said. "That's all worked-up in the plans. But sure, full daylight doesn't work well, so we'll be day-camping, and moving or napping between mid-morning and mid-afternoon. Lorna says your magic truck, the only wheeled thing that can reach lots of these places, has magic silent air-conditioning you can pump into tents. Will that save us?"

"You haven't even seen Waltzing Matilda yet and you're already asking her for favors. Maybe you should be introduced."

He rose, climbed out, found his Teva sandals, and shook like a dog. A very male dog. He neither toweled nor dressed. Neither did Lorna, following him, sliding into her zorries. Her shake-off was spectacular. "When in fucking Rome," I thought, and copied her. Copied, except for the great bobbing boobs and fabulous ass. I made do with what I had.

Stan leered politely at our naked forms. He led us bare-skin babes to the barn's people door. "Come on in and see what's what." Lorna and I followed, bare cheeks flapping.

A strange, rambling sort of workshop lay inside, with benches and tools and barrels, and mysterious clumps of machines and materials here and there. Overhead fluorescent tubes harshly lit a lovely pearl-grey convertible with a low racing wing and white leather upholstery. A classic Volkswagen Karmann Ghia lurked just inside the door.

"This beauty is Heidi," Stan said, "a sweet girl with many hidden talents. Maybe you'll get to know her later."

"And here," he continued, pointing to a contraption looming behind Heidi, "is our good friend and faithful companion, Waltzing Matilda. Say hi to Tilly."

I almost forgot I was naked in a strange man's domain.

"Hello, Matilda," I said.

Did I sense a whisper of reply? No, of course not. Do not be silly.

I saw an impossible monstrosity of a vehicle, a thin, long pickup truck body perched high on ridiculously tall bicycle wheels. Lorna had called it a rolling daddy-long-legs.

I did forget my now desert-dried nudity, briefly. "What...???"

"We - that's my guy in Barstow and me - we started with an old four-by-four long-cab Jap pickup. We stretched the bed to full length and added cargo holds. We found huge, thin farmwagon wheels and reinforced tires. We swapped the gas motor for a Volkswagen ZEE, their pricy steam-driven Zero Emissions Engine. Burns anything cleanly and safely and makes no noise. All we hear is crunching gravel, the wind, birds, and traffic. A guy in Stuttgart owed me the ZEE. Tilly is great at sneaking anywhere with 30 inches, say 75 cm of ground clearance, and her winch will pull us from other troubles."

"We rode her up and down the mountain," Lorna said. "She was eerie silent. And she just swarmed over obstacles no jeep could survive, not without lots of winching."

I walked around Matilda, my bare ass forgotten. I saw shadows under bright vagrant lights. I noticed her anatomy. She had strangely-reshaped fenders to cover the absurdly delicate-looking wheels. Instead of the usual plain steel sides, two rows of steel cabinets shaped around those fenders rose from the bed, their locked doors facing out. That narrowed bed and thus the tailgate were four feet off the ground. A low shell rose to cover the back, with a door over the tailgate.

I circled Matilda and saw her savage grace. She was for go, not for show, but her beauty shone through. Her skin was unblemished, undented, loved. Her high eyes would see far. Her long legs would take us to wonderlands, I could tell. She looked spry.

Lorna pinched my butt. "Think you could live out of her for a few days, Frieda?"

I pinched Lorna's bouncy bun in return. "Is this guy as good as her?"

Stan was on Tilly's other side so we were maybe private.

"Stan has been constantly stalwart and sexy, and insistently low-key unless you start things first. He knows way too much, and can find his way across most of the unmarked upper and lower deserts and their mountains blindfolded. I only met him a few days ago. I would trust my ass and my liver to him. Literally. And he's fun. And... well, you'll see."

I had just escaped a bad relationship with one of those arrogant A-type-wannabe guys, almost a solipsist - everything revolves around him, nobody else matters or is even real, the sun shines from his derriere, yada yada. I should have known better and left sooner.

I did not need involvement with another dominator. But Stan's vibes... Not bad. So far.

Stan observed our approaching naked selves. He politely leered his approval and then waved at Tilly. His genital package waved, too.

"You see she has a bit of room for supplies and gear. No problem packing tentage and consumables for a week and more. Always take more, just in case. But your photo gear will need space. What would you bring?"

"I have two insulated cases about one by two by three feet, all with rounded edges. That's my cameras, lenses, and debris. There's a two-foot-cube refrigerator running off any voltage whenever any juice is available. That's for fresh and exposed film, and chemicals, and it can stay cold for a couple days. I have a big sports duffel with backdrops and reflectors and frames for them, and my tripods. My personal stuff is in a smaller duffel."

Stan nodded. "Sounds sensible. Your personal duffel goes in the cab back; everything else can be netted down so it doesn't shift, or stashed in the cargo holds, same as our food and supplies. No problem."

He nicely leered again. I remembered I was naked, and so were they. What now?

"Okay," Stan said, "let's cover our juicy bits, or not, and go inside with your fancy pictures and plans, and see what's likely, hey ladies? And is anyone hungry for gourmet burritos and cheap wine? I make the former and I toss over the latter for you to pour. Gotta put you two nudists to SOME use around here." How droll.

I slipped out of my skin and back into my job-seeking skirt and blouse and shoes but did not bother with undies.

Lorna dipped into her daybag and extracted a small pouch dispensing an obscenely sheer grey sundress that covered much and hid nothing. "It's my just-in-case dress," she laughed.

Stan pulled on grey cargo shorts. Lorna and I fetched my hopeful portfolio and other bundles from her car and followed him into his large fieldstone house. The house looked like the product of much manual labor.

All that stone on the outside! All those brick walls inside! All that texture, mostly covered by bookshelves, or by exotic wall-coverings, paintings and fabrics, and carved or wrought artifacts. Lorna and I dumped our papers on an end of a long, heavy table. Was that cedar heartwood? I stared in dizzy circles, hypnotized by the rough splendor.

The pollo asado burritos Stan constructed were scrumptious and not too fattening. If you could gag down the first glass, dirt-cheap boxed wine was just right for them, and for his sinfully good flan. "Just like Mom's Yaqui servant girl used to make," he joked, I hope.

We cleared the big table. First came my fairly fat portfolio, with big color and monochrome glossies but no transparencies here. He inspected them closely, some for some time. He shuffled them back together, smiled at me, and said, "You'll do."

I'll DO? Is that all?

"Don't let him twist your knickers," Lorna said. "That was high praise." She kissed his cheek. "He's such a teddy bear," she intoned. Stan rolled his eyes.

We smothered that long table under spreads of charts and maps, neat or scribbled papers, printouts of times, places, angles, distances, solar and lunar phases, everything but tide tables. Stan produced a tiny mini-laptop computer, and his GPS unit, and some weird round plastic dials with spinning arms.

"That's how we calculate without power," he said. "Slide rules on steroids."

Stan offered comments, alternatives, suggestions. He did not issue orders. He said, "This might not work," and "We can't cross just THERE but back around HERE should be do-able," and "Which of these spots do you want to hit first?" He did not dominate. I started to see there was more to him than his manly facade. And his big cock.

No bad vibes yet from Stan.

We figured out stuff. We drank more wine and cheated with more flan. Then more wine for me, but Lorna switched to cola.

"It's a half-hour return drive to Cabazon and I don't want a drunk bust. I'll still have a job tomorrow, I hope. We should get back. Frieda's stuff is in her room at the resort. Let's figure out a time to start tomorrow, okay?"

"You mentioned something about expenses and a per diem," Stan said. "How much can I stick the rez for?"

"Do not be TOO much a thief, but they won't quibble over maybe a grand a day. They know your rates for fixing system crap. This is a bargain for them, and just another write-off."

A write-off? Does this mean the publications office is just part of a cash laundry? Yeah, it is likely built into operations. My, how those deductible expenses pile up!

Lorna and I gathered the last of our messy papers.

"We should go soon," she said, "but first... Excuse us for a little while, Frieda. Maybe read some good books." She took Stan's hand and led him to the big bedroom. The ironwood door closed on silent hinges.

I heard them whispering, giggling, sucking, and fucking. I heard her moan and him grunt, and then more whispers. The time was not long, but Lorna emerged smelling and looking sloppy and happy. Her obscene sundress concealed absolutely nothing.

"Okay, I'm ready to go now. See you tomorrow, Stan!" she called. "Yowzuh!" he sang without creeping from his lethal lair.