Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Reluctant, Heterosexual, FemaleDom, Humiliation, Oral Sex, Slow,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Selling insurance can be fun, if you have the right attitude. Not all insurance salesmen wear polyester.
"Sunnyslope Terraces." The name conjured up two disparate images of "senior oriented" facilities: one, a cramped "assisted living facility" crammed with old folks waiting to die, a twenty-first century geriatric concentration camp smelling of disinfectant with fresh flowers in the lobby; or, two, a bland collection of suburban condominiums with safety rails next to the toilets and walk-in showers. I was hoping for the second, but I steeled myself against the possibility of the first.
I had picked up the condo for what I had hoped was a below-market price. At worst, I could turn it around in a few months and get back my money. At best, I could move in and use it as a base of operations.
I sell insurance to the "senior market:" long-term care policies, "final needs" policies, annuities. Moving into a building full of seniors with assets to reposition would be like placing a shark in a fish tank: free lunch for quite a while if I swam in the proper direction.
I had picked up the condo in an "Estate Liquidation" in Atlanta. I smiled, remembering my adventure.
As I said, I sell insurance, so I need to have a full set of insurance licenses. Since I do "asset repositioning," I also need a full set of securities licenses. And with securities licenses comes the requirement to spend about a week each year performing "compliance training." "Compliance training" is bureaucrat-speak for hours in a classroom being lectured about recent changes in securities laws and about the procedures necessary to "protect the client." If they really needed protecting, they'd have a conservatorship already established and the money would be in gold coins in a safety deposit box.
My securities dealer offered compliance training as a week-long marathon in various resorts around the country. I picked a week in Hilton Head. The program offered fifteen modules, of which I needed to complete ten different ones. Rearranging the program with a scissors, I found that I could take two different modules each afternoon for the week, leaving mornings available for golf. Afternoon golfers could only get two tee times in the week in order to achieve their ten different modules. The sole downside of morning golf was that I would have to pass on the convivial evenings in the bar, if I were to get up to be ready for a seven am tee time. Sitting around drinking Scotch with insurance agents is not my idea of a good time, but five rounds of world-class golf on someone else's nickel, ahh, that's joy. By the time I got in my reservations, I was able to arrange tee times at seven and seven-fifteen and seven-thirty. Start at eight, and I would have to either cut my rounds short, depending on the speed at which my unknown foursomes would play, or cut into lunch. Neither was a desired fate.
I found that my golf partners at the dawn tee times had all come to the same conclusion regarding scheduling: we included three AA members, an Orthodox Jew, two Baptists, and a follower of some unpronounceable guru, who was from, of all places, Philadelphia. We had all come up with the same plan, and were all in the same sessions. By Tuesday lunch, we were known as the "fearsome twelvesome." We sat together on the breaks, drinking iced tea (I preferred what was referred to as "that Northern stuff," without the sugar) or lemonade and swapped lies. On Thursday, Mordecai, who I found was an avid real estate investor, handed me a copy of the Atlanta paper, folded to the classifieds.
"Take a look at this 'out of area.' Isn't that your neck of the woods?"
The ad was the smallest possible: "1200 sq ft senior condo. San Mateo CA. Attorney. 404-555-1212."
I nodded. "I could invest a nickel."
Mordecai was emphatic. "If it was probate, they'd have to say 'probate, ' even down here where the laws don't apply." Once a cynical New Yorker, always a cynical New Yorker. "Since it says 'Attorney, ' it might the family's attorney liquidating granny's estate. If the family wants out fast, you might pick up a sweet bargain."
I called, and indeed it was the family's attorney.
Southerners seem to want to tell you everything. And sometimes it's even what you want to know. "At least Mrs. Abernathy had the sense to put everything into the living trust. I tell you what. The kids want cash fast, so make me an offer I can't refuse. Twelve hundred square feet, senior, so it's not luxury. I don't like messing with out of state real estate brokers. Sharks, I tell you, sharks, sharks, sharks. And in California folks don't even have lawyers protecting you in real estate deals. Give me a quarter of a million and close in thirty, it's yours."
"Two seventy five, you carry the paper, and we close as soon as we can."
"You know, you've got a good attitude. Sure you ain't from these parts?"
I laughed. "California born and bred. I'm stuck in class through Friday afternoon, out in Hilton Head."
He laughed, now that business was out of the way. "I tell you what. You talk to my secretary: she's a real crackerjack with those damn airlines. You rent a car, drive to Hotlanta, stay at the Mariott, and we can sign papers Monday morning. I'll have fleeced my quota of foreigners for the week, and you can fly out Monday night on Delta. That's a real Southern airline, not like whatever you flew in on, and they fly to foreign countries like California."
I gave his secretary my flight information, and she placed me on hold for a few minutes. "Y'all fly out Monday at five. You'll have to give the girl at the counter a hundred bucks to change the ticket, but that's the way it is. I can get you into the Mariott for Saturday and Sunday."
Of course, Monday morning the lawyer hit me up for nine thousand, eight hundred twelve dollars and some odd pennies for "closing costs," but I had the condo for nothing down. He was a good ol' boy, though, and took a check after he had his secretary call my bank to verify funds. The paper was against the condo, so I figured that I could walk away from the whole thing if I needed to.
Wednesday morning, I drove over to "Sunnyslope Terraces." At least to the address that I had from the attorney's papers. I found a twelve story concrete tower, with balconies on each corner, and landscaped grounds and a triple-decker parking structure. One I saw the inside, I would find out if my bargain was worth triple or only double what I had paid.
I parked in "visitor parking" and headed for the lobby.
The forty-something brunette at the concierge station was friendly when I showed her the sheaf of papers that I had from the lawyer. "Oh, you bought Mrs. Abernathy's unit? Such a nice, nice lady. Such a shame. I can show you the unit, but you can't do anything with it until I find out that everything all got recorded. Let me get the key."
She fiddled with her telephone for a moment, then disappeared into a back room.
"Will you be moving in?"
"It will be nice, having a bit more male attention around here.' She idly unbuttoned the second button on her blouse as we waited for the elevator. "It's warm today." Another button.
Things were definitely heating up.
Eleven E was a corner unit, with a view to the northeast, overlooking the San Francisco Bay. I could just make out the Bay Bridge in the distance. Two decent-sized bedrooms, a large living room with a gas fireplace, a semi-formal dining area, a nook that could pass for a 'den, ' and an efficiency kitchen. Mrs. Abernathy's possessions still filled the rooms.
The concierge looked around the living room. "We'll need to clean this place up, pack everything, send it to her next of kin."
"I'll call the lawyer, see what he wants to do. I bought the place furnished."
She looked at the walls. "And you may want to get the place painted before you move in.
Most of the couples where a man has moved in to units here have also had the kitchens redone with Wolf and Sub-Zero. This is the original kitchen from when the building was built. I know most of the contractors that have been through here. I could help you, point you in the right direction,..."
I noted that the kitchen was not the only thing that was pointed in the right direction. Two thumb-size nipples were poking at the fabric of her blouse.
She turned to me. "What do you do?"
"I sell insurance."
"You're not gay?"
"Are you, uh, married?"
She stepped over to me.
"I could really help you, um, find your way around, uh, the building." Her head was tilting back. I'm not totally oblivious. My lips met hers, and I put an arm around her back to steady her. She hooked an arm around my neck. The kiss was hot and deep. Her other hand found my crotch, and quickly felt the outlines of my rising manhood. I used my hand to massage a breast through layers of fabric. She pulled her head back and extracted her tongue from my mouth.
"Too damn many biddies in the building, I'll have to share. But you will take advantage of my 'consulting' services?"
"Yes." I figured daily service calls would be required until the contractors were finished. There are worse duties in the world.
"We need to get back downstairs. But first..."
The second kiss was hotter than the one before. She ground her breasts against my chest, her crotch against my tumescence. Her tongue found places in my mouth that I had not found with my toothbrush. Her mouth was warm, and the rest of her appeared to be heating up.
"It will be nice, having working plumbing in the building." I don't think she was worried about the pipes in the walls.
She shook her hips to get her skirt back into a semblance of order, and tucked her blouse back into her waistband. The buttons got rebuttoned.
"Now just a little one, before we go."
This one was chaste, at least compared to its predecessors. She was breathing hard, and appeared a bit flushed. She reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a card case, and extracted a card.
"My name is Marlene, call me any time. Call my cell."
I figured the kitchen, the paint job, some drapes, and moving expenses would eat up the equity in my San Jose condo. That, and the "initiation fee" for the "health monitoring organization" that I would get hit up for, sooner or later. It's a way to enforce a "seniors only" rule. You pay a non-refundable "initiation fee" of sixty or seventy-five thousand dollars a person for each resident of the condo, and it gets you an el-cheapo prescription discount card and someone who checks up on you if you're not seen in the lobby every day. Maybe even buys you a ten thousand dollar "final needs" policy, so there are funds to ensure that they can cart your remains out of the building. At a quarter of a million bucks for a family of four, it keeps young families out of the building. Spread over ten or twenty years, it's a pittance to ensure that 911 gets called if you don't come down to pick up your mail.
I'd have to keep working, and probably have to adjust my circuit north. I had a series of nursing homes and "assisted living" facilities where I showed up once or twice a month to put on a seminar about insurance. At the nursing homes, folks weren't too happy to discover that once in, they couldn't buy a long term care policy. Companies want you to buy that sort of policy when you're young and healthy, so they can get years of payments out of you before you need to claim a dime. And you can always do something stupid, like walk in front of a bus, before you ever go on claim. So I would explain to Junior that granny or grandpa was pretty much out of the insurance game, but there were things that could be done to minimize the damage in paying for the nursing home. I'd pick through twenty years of brokerage statements and find what was left after the Enron and WorldCom stocks were subtracted. Usually it was illiquid crap. I charged full commissions for performing financial triage.
Marlene's invitation was intriguing. I may have been volunteered for stud service just by showing up as an adult male with functional plumbing, but the possibilities could be endless. A building full of horny women couldn't be all bad. At worst, what a way to go.
I called the lawyer about the contents of the unit.
He was effusive. "Y'all sort it all out. Memorabilia and jewelry y'all send down here. Books and the rest goes to charity or whatever. You don't want that furniture that you bought, you sell it, it's yours. I sold the note already, gave 'em two-fifty after I pulled your credit report. Y'all just send those payments to me until I tell you which trust company is going to service the note. Family's happy, I'm happy. Y'all want to do some more business? I like furriners like you."
I called Marlene to set a time to pack the unit. I figured she'd qualify as a third party to protect Mrs. Abernathy's interests. I called a moving company to send fifty moving boxes to Sunnyslope Terraces, and left messages with couple of brokers about getting a marketing proposal for my condo.
Back to work.
Rita, the trim thirty-something administrator at the assisted living facility where my seminar was scheduled for the second and fourth Thursday afternoons of the month, noticed the lift in my step when I stopped by her office to check in.
"Frank, you old goat. Been stealing little old ladies' lunch money again?"
"Better, picked up a new condo."
She whistled. "I didn't know that stealing lunch money here was that lucrative."
"It isn't. I got a great price. Trade in my old condo, and I come out even."
"You've got more charm than I realized. So now you'll be stud-in-residence?"
"I guess I've been elected."
She smiled. "Let me let you in on a secret. Not every woman in these places is toothless and decrepit. If you're willing to let a hot date be a chick flick on the DVD in the rec room, you can make Errol Flynn look like the Pope.
"And now, we've got a half hour until your seminar. What do you say I check out your qualifications?"
I arched an eyebrow.
She laughed, "I'm serious. Part of my job description is to stay current on amenities offered by competing facilities. Let me lock my door."
She didn't leap over her desk like Superwoman, but the deadbolt on her office door was latched before the echo of her words died away. Her shoes appeared to have been kicked off under her desk. Her pantyhose landed on the floor somewhere in the two steps that it took her to return.
"Now that we've got the difficulties out of the way, let's see if you qualify."
She was in my arms in a third step, and we were performing mutual tonsil inspections. I massaged her breasts through her blouse, and two happy nipples came up to greet me.
She growled. "If I had known that you provided services like this, we would have gotten off on the right foot long before this."
I toyed with one nipple, then the other. I reached behind her and yanked her blouse out of her skirt, and fumbled for the catch on her bra. She reached around behind herself to my hand, and unsnapped the catch.
"Senior services. Can't have you injuring yourself in the line of duty."
The loose fabric bunched in front of her. I ran my hands around her flanks to massage her bare breasts under the tangle of blouse and bra.
"Ooooh. That feels so good. I'll give you a half hour to stop. Ooh, we only have a half hour. I guess we'll have to chance getting stains on your tie."
Her hands had been massaging my manhood though my slacks. She leaned back to pick at my belt buckle.
"I can never figure these things out. No way to make them work in reverse."
I reached down and pulled the tongue of the belt out of the keeper.
"There, that better?"
"I can do the rest."
We kissed again, and she rubbed her breasts against me as her hands worked to undo my belt and open the waistband of my slacks. She fumbled happily with my fly.
She reached into the fly of my shorts to find the object of her attentions. I took advantage of her leaning back to undo the buttons on her blouse. When I had all but the bottom button opened, she reached up, undid it, and twisted her shoulders to shrug the puddle of fabric to the floor. I reached down to the back of her knees and swept my hands up her thighs, bunching her skirt around her waist.
She laughed, "I'll need to walk out of here wearing something."
She undid the catch at her waist, and shoved the tangle of clothing to the floor. She rubbed her nakedness against me, breasts rumpling my tie, my manhood twitching against her belly.
"Naked in my office. I've never done that."
She rubbed my member up and down her hot slit. I had the sense I was leaving a trail of pre-cum in her tight curls.
"Wow, on my own desk."
She turned and spun us around and caught her hips on the edge of her desk, spreading her legs.
"You know, I could get used to this."
She grabbed my manhood and pulled it into her hot tangle. Mr. Happy seemed to be capable of following instructions. I thrust my hips forward, and she responded by thrusting forward as well. She was hot and wet and I found my belly hard against her pubic curls. I held her to me and we kissed wetly.
She let her hands fall back to support herself against the desk. I slid my hands down to her hips and pulled her to me. We thrust together in a primitive rhythm. She moaned.
"You qualify on part A. Now for part B."
I laughed. "Injections and medications?"
"Inject. Cum in me. Uhnnnh."
She threw her head back and thrust her hips at me. I pounded into her. I came in three hot jets, as she moaned again.
She looked up at me, a damp tangle of hair in her face.
"Yes, Sunnyslope Terraces has better resident stud services than we have. But as long as I can get visiting services, I won't badmouth the competition." She smiled. "I may have to goodmouth the visiting services, however." She giggled.
My deflating manhood slid out with a wet 'pop.'
"I've got a towel."
She levered herself off her desk and disappeared into the private bathroom off her office. She emerged with a washcloth and a towel.
"Now let's see, if I wash, and wipe..." She hummed to herself as she cleaned my cock. She patted it dry with the towel, then reached for my boxers.
"Bye-bye." She used the same intonation as the stewardesses waving you off an airplane. She tugged my shorts into place and raised my slacks by their waistband. "I can get these up, but you'll have to get your own shirt into place. We wrinkled your shirt, but we didn't stain your tie."
Stains on my tie, I know how to excuse. The wrinkles on my shirt, I figured every woman I met this afternoon and evening would know that that wrinkle pattern did not come from the cleaners. Well, from that sort of cleaners, not the shirt laundry. I tucked in my shirt, bucked my belt, and adjusted my tie. I looked rumpled and probably smelled a little gamy. Thankfully, my prospects here would be more concerned about granny's misfortune than my good fortune.
Rita grabbed for her clothes.
"It may take me a while to reconstruct. Why don't you go down to the rec center and wait for your guests? I'll be along in a while."
I ended up starting my talk without her introduction. Rita poked her head in towards the end of the session, wearing a sweater that didn't quite fit and a pair of slacks. She murmured a couple of words and disappeared. There were two couples who showed up that afternoon. In both cases, gramps had passed about a decade ago, and granny had sat quiet without changing a thing regarding her finances until her health failed. Both sets of kids were clueless. I had two new clients.