The Interview

The offhand compliment broke the slight tension. We laughed and joked about students and campus life as I drove by the university center, more dorms, the intersecting academic quadrangles. "And there, the heart of any scholarly endeavor, is our library." I braked at the crosswalk to allow a gaggle of backpack wielding students through.

"You'd make a fine Disney employee, John," she said as I drove the back way through connecting lots to the admin building. "My rental's over there." During the ride she'd surreptitiously checked the ashtray to see if I smoked, felt around under her seat for errant trash, accidentally knocked open the glove compartment to check for weapons and whiskey, browsed the CDs in the compartment between the seats. It might have been the generational connection between Donovan, Enya, and Pearl Jam that lighted her face, but she was also looking through them at me.

I stopped the car and she climbed out. "You know the Sheraton?"

"That's where we put up all the high rollers that come in. Prospective professors go to the Howard Johnson's down the road. The best cappuccino, however, can be found at a gas station."

"Are you going to tell me where?" she asked, leaning in the window. The décolletage was pale and lacey blue, and she caught me looking.

"I probably shouldn't. You got the purity thing going."

"What's your plan of action, then?" She seemed comfortable hanging out, not pressured, though how far that 'hanging out' might go was an unknown. We loved flirting with each other, I knew that much.

"Dinner, your treat of course," I said. "I try to eat on the college whenever possible. It might also quell the latest rumor concerning my sexuality."

"Yes, a single man in academia. I can see how that might confuse the powers that be. Are you a vegetarian?"

"I'll have the filet, butterflied and pink, please."

"If you know the way then I'll follow you. I did make a few wrong turns on the way."

"I'll be stopping at my place to drop some laundry in, put on a clean shirt."

"And do you know how to wash delicates, John?"

"By hand, of course."

Laughing, she told me how wicked I was, but we both knew something tangible was available. This was the fencing, dodging, the enticing chase, both of us being obvious in the outside world, neither giving up much substance.

She turned in the lot to see what I was watching, then quickly turned back and walked to her rental, a blue Taurus. I drove off campus and checked the mirror, she was back there. It's a twenty minute ride on the back roads out of town to my place, an old farmhouse that had been fixed up a lot, but needed a lot more. It sits on a couple acres, the remnant of a working farm. There's a rusted out International Harvester tractor in the front yard behind a stand of old maples.

The trees were why I'd bought the place, forty and fifty year old maples that gave shade and cover, and along with the lilacs provided a fence of privacy. It still looked kind of dilapidated from the road, a big old farmhouse with a dirt driveway, set about fifty yards back. During the winter it could be a bitch to drive out of, but I liked the dirt.

I drove in and stopped short of the old barn, which had a distinct lean to the left. The barn was sturdy, it just leaned.

"Well," she said, getting out and looking around, "a house in the country. Rolling hills and the lilacs are in bloom." She looked happy enough.

I grabbed her bag from the back seat and went to the porch and the back door. "The place is kind of like me, a little worn around the edges, but serviceable and efficient."

I opened up and walked in. She would take her time looking around. The covered wraparound porch had been redone a couple years ago, had a grill and stairs leading down to the backyard flagstone garden that was the current project. Lilac perfume wafted through as I opened downstairs windows. Perhaps it was the scent that charmed me. It was certainly an aphrodisiac. I'd have to go out and clip some fresh blooms.

The back door led directly into the kitchen, a huge room where all the cooking and eating took place. The washer and dryer were also there, next to the big old porcelain double sink. I dumped her things on top of the washer and turned it on the gentle cycle. I picked up her sports bra and fondled the cups, no tissue residue inside. The last thing in were the panties, that blue silk all dark with sweat and womanly juices. I held them up and sniffed the crotch. She had all the smells, pungent but not unpleasant. Thongs always smell a little like ass simply because of placement.

I poured diet soda and took a glass outside, found her around the side of the house sniffing lilacs. I hadn't pruned them, ever, and for two years had fed them Miracle Gro. In another couple years they'd have to be trimmed or I wouldn't be able to look out my downstairs windows. She was so relaxed and into it I hated to interrupt, and used the time to stare at her ass, slightly cocked as she leaned into the flowers. Those stockings drilled me hard in seconds, and I wondered if she had changed into fresh panties or was going al fresco. I sat in a lawn chair and put my feet up on a big wooden cable spool, courtesy of National Grid.

"I love the smell," I said, and I meant her as well as the blooms. They almost matched her Prussian blue. There were some purple and white lilacs out front by the road, but I loved the real lilacs, pale blue and more fragrant, less sweet."

"Now I have pollen all over me," she said. "It's just beautiful, John. I figured you for an apartment in town."

"I lived in one until I found this place. Want some soda?"

She came over and sat in the other chair, demurely crossing her legs. She drained the soda. "I should drink water after that sweat."

"There's an old well. Want some fresh stuff?" I got up and she followed. "What impressed me about the place was its authenticity, the fact that it was a working farm for a couple generations. The planks are two inches thick. All the beams are barn beams, the stonework done by hand."

"Are you leading me down the primrose path?"

I turned to her in the short space between bushes, and now we were close. I could hear her breathing, feel the heat. She put up her hands reflexively and touched me, almost pushing, but then just touching the thin worsted material of my suit. "Are you?"

"Just now I'm between bushes, on my way to the well for a frosty drink of sweetwater. It's always cold and the underground spring is clean. I've had it tested." I reached up and touched her hair lightly, pushing it back behind her delicate ear, stroking the ear as it passed.

"A man of the moment." It came out barely above a whisper. The intimacy in that close space was intense. "With a stocking fetish."

"On my way to the well," I said softly, and took her hand. The space around the well had become overgrown with bushes. One had to know the way. I started cranking. "The stonework needs mortar, but it's a nice well."

She bent over to look down and I glanced at her breasts. She really was physically beautiful, slender and proportionate, no implants or artifice. "My purse is in the car."

I gave her a penny and she dropped it in, listening for the plop. "It's darling." The gleeful tone pleased me. I'd put a lot of hard labor and money into this place, and it was the place rather than the job that kept me here. The land had words to speak, and lately I'd been trying my hand at poetry, something I'd engaged in only a lark previously. The land had words to speak and no one to translate them.

I hauled up the bucket and dipped the ladle. She cupped it and drank, then dipped and drank again. "If I knew how to make whiskey, this would be good water for it," I said, pouring out the wooden bucket. There wasn't much grass here, not enough sun, but the tall bushes always wanted more.

We walked around back of the barn to survey the uncut fields. "Farmer in the adjoining lot behind will mow it for hay. He's one of the few farmers left around."

Lisa took it all in. Yes, this was real country. Flagstones are hell on heels so she had taken my arm. "I live in an apartment in Cincinatti. This is a treat, John. Thanks for the look."

"You going to take the job?"

"It's a question of timing. At the University of Cincinatti I'm the assistant giving consultant, have leeway to do my job, great benefits. This would be a step up, managing my own little division, but also building it from the ground up. You don't like to cut trees, do you? All the foliage looks heavy, like you haven't touched it."

"Things need to grow. Some of the maple branches over the house would cause a lot of damage if they fell. Contractors always want to slice them off. I was nervous last year during an ice storm, but the maples are still growing. Do you know what ironwood is?"

"I've heard of it but don't know what it is; presumably a hard wood."

"There's a stand of hornbeam trees at the west edge of that meadow. That's ironwood, ignore an axe and might resist a chainsaw. The maples aren't that strong, but that's the image I carry when I think of them, tall, strong trees that won't fall on your house and fuck up the barbecue."

She giggled and held my arm, pointed to a pile of flagstones and a hole in the ground. "Eventually those will complete the flagstone arrangement back here, and that's for the open pit cooker I'd like to build. In grad school I got a taste for slow cooked brisket."

She simply pointed to the barn as we passed it. I went to a side door and tugged it open. "See those beams? This won't fall down for a hundred years. Besides that, however, it could use an alignment and new roof, fresh pour, new windows, etcetera. It's on the list. It'll get done sooner if the new book sells."

"Can I get an advance copy? I'd like to read it. What's it about?"

"It's a literate romance, slightly formulaic, about a professor's travels through the South Pacific. It's called Bikini."

"Any Atom bombs involved?"

"Only the one in his pants," I laughed. Out front there wasn't much to see, no work being done, only a lawn with potential that needed mowing, and a big old house that could use a paint job.

"A work in progress, I like this," she said, still holding my arm, but lightly, without clutching. She'd worn heels for years now and didn't need the practice. "You should plant some flower beds out here, catch the morning sun."

"That's on the list, too. Think I should apply for a home makeover?"

"Looks to me like you're doing all right."

"Am I?"

For an answer she leaned into me and brushed my cheek with her lips. "The grand tour is appreciated. Do you take this much time with all the tourists?"

"Only the Prussians. It's the hegemonic thing to do. You hungry?"

"I was just going to ask you the same thing. I'm starving!"

"But for what?" I chuckled, and she poked me.

The majority of the work I'd done and had done couldn't be seen outside. I'd had the foundation firmed up and insulated. There was a ten foot cellar and an eight foot root cellar below that. The first floor had the kitchen, a huge living room with native stone fireplace that could roast a pig, a full bath, sundry closets, and my library/office that took up where two bedrooms used to be. Lisa explored while I went upstairs to change.

I came down clean and casual and found her at my desk, snooping. I knew she would so I wasn't angry. I wanted her to, just hadn't said so. And upstairs I'd heard her laugh at something she'd found.

"Pornography," she said lightly. "John, I'm so disappointed in you."

As I had a couple clips on the desktop, I couldn't exactly hide it, nor did I want to. "For research purposes, of course," I responded. There were also several blown up prints of naked people making love on the walls. "Actually, you're sitting in the exact spot where I like to masturbate to Brahms Beaver Sonata, and your right hand is in the exact spot where a big glob of spooge stained the arm of the chair."

She seemed to take that into consideration, and slowly moved her fingers around the spot. "And you masturbate often?"

"Only in emergencies. Let's get some chow."

She leapt up and we hit the road, again in convoy fashion.

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The Sheraton is very good at machined luxury, always the same temperature, same flowers, lobby, shuffling employees and clean silverware. We got a table in the corner, ordered stuffed mushroom caps and lobster bisque for appetizers.

"Long day," she said, stifling a yawn. "I'm hungry enough to eat the bear. What are you smiling at, John?"

"I was just thinking how fortunate I was to hit admin today."

She liked that and got busy with the rolls. Between bites we discussed politics and religion, the two things that join people together. Small talk to indulge the smaller passions while holding back the larger ones.

"And do you have any stains on your chair back in that apartment in Cincinatti, Lisa?" I asked casually.

"There might be," she answered noncommittally, more anxious to discuss my sexuality than hers'.

I wasn't going to let her off the hook so easily. The mushrooms were excellent. The table next to ours was vacant and I spoke in low tones. "You don't masturbate? When you're alone, you don't give yourself a nice scoop?" Her eyes played with mine, but she said nothing. "When you're alone and horny, you don't sit down and gently pull your panties to one side, rub your finger up and down those slippery lips?"

She did squirm a little in her chair, but continued nibbling on the roll. She liked butter, got some on her finger and licked it off.

"You don't scoot lower in the chair, kick your panties off, put your feet up, slide your hands down your thighs, pull the lips apart, and ease your middle finger inside?"

A rosy flush started to creep around her throat.

"And you don't mash your clit with your thumb as you wet your fingers and slide two or three inside, hmmm? That wouldn't feel good at all, would it, Lisa? It would feel just awful if you used both hands to flip that little nubbin from one side to the other and finger fuck yourself. Worst of all would be having a vibrator in the drawer, reaching for it and turning it on, wetting it with saliva and rubbing it around your nipples, then sliding it in zig-zags down your belly to that hot and juicy snatch. Torture of tortures would be holding your lips open with one hand, and sliding that vibrating monster inside your pussy, pushing it in and pulling it out, pumping yourself faster and faster until your insides turn to fire and jelly."

The rolls were gone and she had no choice but to listen, hear, and imagine. The imagination can be a curse, but more often it's like a glistening picture show on the horizon that's as big and magnificent as you can wander.

"Lisa, wouldn't it be truly horrible to feel those contractions start in your toes, and by the time they hit your hunched-over hips and breathless lips, it would be like an earthquake in your shorts, and for those euphoric seconds you almost pass out. And wouldn't the waking death be cruel as your fingers explore the slippery cum as it oozes from your burning hole? Those little gasping cries, held down because of the neighbors, couldn't possibly be tempered by bringing your cum laden fingers to suck on, either

"How do you feel about the word 'cunt,' Lisa?"

Our entrees arrived and she asked the waiter for another napkin. She already had one bunched between her squeezed thighs. I'd seen it slide off the table but hadn't inquired further.

She had the swordfish. I had the mentioned filet, and both were going down with gusto. I couldn't get up if I wanted to, and ate feverishly, shoveling it all in. Lisa's eyes had pooled in the evening candlelight and looked wet. She drank her water and mine, and when the waiter came by to ask if everything was "all right" she asked for the check.

"Wouldn't you like any dessert, Lisa?" I asked sweetly, as condescending as a rock in the head.

Lisa finished eating and wiped her hands. Apparently they were moist from fiddling with herself.

"What you need to do, John, is learn how to talk plainly." At that we both laughed. "You are a very subversive character, John Hubbard. Although I must say that Cincinatti has a rather pedestrian atmosphere."

"Yes, I can see that you would never indulge those kinds of prurient tastes or activities. Or if you did, you'd at least put a towel down. And if you indulged such things in the bathroom, I'm sure you would apply an enema before sodomizing yourself with that vibrating monster."

The table vibrated a bit for some reason. "And you're not going to sneak off to the ladies' room to engage in any, shall I say, emergency measures."

The check arrived and went in one scrawling flourish. Lisa was very good at math. But then, she would be.

The walk through the restaurant was an exercise in restraint. Her legs were very stiff and tight. I simply strolled with my hand in my pocket. Pockets are wonderful things, aren't they. In the lobby a semblance of practical control emerged, at least to her. I was ready to walk into a lava pit.

By the elevators she grabbed my lapels. "It's my first time here, first visit. I can't have you come to the room." She did some quick thinking. I was thinking with my cock and rubbing against her hard, pushing her back. "I'll grab some things and drive out."

"What if you get lost?!" my prick whispered loudly.

"I never get lost," she returned, looking kind of hazy. Her tongue snaked out and nicked my chin like a razor. She backed into the elevator and it closed on my last request. We could do it in the parking garage, vacant planter, anywhere...

The girl at the desk backed away from her keyboard. Apparently she knew the look. I could've fucked her through two pairs of overalls. Thank god the Sheraton had a fountain out front. I didn't stumble, but did scoop water for my brow. It sure was hot.

By flicking Lisa's switch I'd also activated my own. First thing I did in the car was move my cock to the other side, give it some breathing room. "You're a shithead," it said, no longer whispering the faint murmurs of love and spelunking.

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I pulled out and drove away, hitting numbers on my cell phone. Information gave me the Sheraton and Lisa Price's room. It range eleven times before she picked up, sounding out of breath.

"You're not getting an early start, are you?"

"Hello, John. That was a lovely dinner."

"You eat swordfish awfully fast. One might say you swallowed the sword."

"You're very good at being erotically specific, I like that. But you wanted to ask if I'm really coming."

I don't like driving with one hand, particularly when my prick was trying to take the wheel itself. I needed sanctuary, badly. "I know you're cumming. I just want to know if you're coming. The need eases off a bit after you rub one out. I bet it was furious. Do you spank your clit when you're in a hurry? Would you like me to spank it for you, tell you what a bad girl you are, what an evil thing you've done?"

She couldn't help laughing, probably picturing me driving home with my pants like a Boy Scout tent. "I'm thinking about it," she said, very serious now, earnest as they came. "I'm not going to fuck you because I don't do one night stands."

"So bring your stuff and stay the weekend. Keep the room, go back each day and muss up the sheets, pick up your messages. Better yet, forward everything to your cell, leave a voice message saying you're scouting the territory."

She huffed, flustered. "Damn it, why does this have to happen now?"

"Okay, Lisa, breathe deep and pause. Your virtue and image aside, what are the issues?"

"Well, I want a better offer, a higher starting salary, an assistant and a secretary instead of just a secretary. I want to attend two meetings tomorrow and a party tomorrow night. I want them to be so impressed with me that they'll give me what I want."