Chapter 2: Marcy's Visit

The windows were open but the apartment was already warm on that Sunday morning in August. I watched as Shirley climbed into bed with me, anxious to see what she had in mind. We were on our sides, facing each other.

It wasn't like her to be sexually aggressive but I wasn't complaining. Being in the shower with her the day before had opened my eyes; she had been transformed into an untamed savage, taking what she wanted.

Shirley held up her hand and I acknowledged that she was wearing the glove, indicating that I knew what it meant; she wasn't ready for intercourse.

Grinning, she lifted the sheet and looked at my cock, frowning when she saw that it was limp.

"Doesn't it like me anymore?" she asked, feigning sadness.

"It might like you if you introduce yourself," I suggested, unable to stop my cock from responding to the warmth of her body, the closeness of her breasts and the aroma coming from her shaved pussy.

She grinned when she saw the affect her attention was having on me. She eased closer, until her lips were near mine, her breasts were brushing my chest and her pussy was mere inches from my hardening cock.

I could have moved my lips forward and kissed her; I could have taken one of her tits in my hand; I could have moved my cock two inches forward and entered her but I didn't make a move. Instead, I stared into her eyes.

She swallowed and I felt her fingers wrap around the base of my cock. She raised her knee to rest on top of my leg, radiating warmth from between her separated legs. Her arm was wedged between our stomachs, already damp with sweat.

"Hello, Mister... what's his name?" she asked, seriously searching my eyes. Her breath splashed onto my lips, feeling warm.

"K."

"K.?"

"You can call him Mister K," I said, feeling the pulse at the tips of her fingers, matching my own. Her eyes lowered to my lips and then back to return my gaze, making me wonder what she was thinking. Was she going to kiss me?

"Mister K., my name is Shirley. I'm the one shaking your... hand."

"Shirley, that's not my hand but it's very nice to meet you."

"Mister K., would you like to visit me some time?"

"I would love to visit you, Shirley."

"You will need to knock on my front door."

With a flick of her wrist: SLAP.

The touch was soft and brief but it sent a chill down my spine. Her lips were two inches away and I fought an urge to kiss them.

"Who's knocking at my front door?

"It's Mister K."

Her hand swung my cock freely: SLAP, SLAP, SLAP.

The contact was harder and the touch longer.

"Who?"

SLAP, SLAP, SLAP, SLAP.

The feeling was soft, mushy wetness; the smell hypnotic.

SLAP, SLAP, SLAP, SLAP.

Our eyes never wavered. Our whispers were halted, raspy.

"Mister... K."

"I can't hear you. You'll have to knock louder."

SLAP, SLAP, SLAP, SLAP.

There was nothing for me to say. It was all I could do to maintain eye contact. Each time my cock hit her pussy the tingle made me grimace. I was shaking, afraid that the slightest move from me would join us and the trust between us would evaporate.

SLAP, SLAP, SLAP, SLAP.

Shirley's breathing was becoming ragged and I felt her breath against my lips, telling me her mouth was open. I resisted the urge to look.

"Mister K.?"

"Yes?"

"Perhaps you should try my doorbell?"

I could barely hear her. The aroma of sexual arousal, mixed with our combined sweat filled the air around us.

"The doorbell?"

Shirley's eyes blinked as she dragged the head of my cock slowly upward through her wet pussy, pausing at the entrance before grinding the head into her clitoris.

"Ring," she whispered weakly.

I felt my cock being dipped between her lips and 'ring' her doorbell with increasing pressure until her eyes closed, her head hit the pillow, and her hand went limp. My cock was left waving in the air, slightly abused but urgently needing to cum.

I looked down to see her lying flat on her back, dripping with sweat, breathing haltingly, my cock covered in her juices and looking like it had missed the boat. I watched her chest rise and fall for several seconds until she opened her eyes, looked at me and then down at my cock, still waving.

"Poor Mister K," she said, reaching for me and rolling onto her side again. She held me and looked into my eyes. We stayed like that for several seconds, my revived cock pulsating in her hand and our eyes fixed.

"Don't swallow the cherry, Sammy," Shirley warned, pushing her lips into my mouth while beginning to stroke me. I put my arm around her to hold her close, thinking of Brenda as I sucked her lips into my mouth and tried not to 'swallow her cherry.'

We were both out of breath and drenched in sweat when I sprayed cum on her stomach. She rubbed against me, making a slippery cum sandwich.

"I'll make breakfast if you strip the bed," she offered, grinning at me as she wiggled off the bed.

After a quick shower to wash the mixture of cum and sweat off, I changed the sheets while Shirley started breakfast.

She sat on the other side of the table and smiled at me as we ate our first meal in the apartment. Everything was delicious and she beamed when I complimented her on her cooking.

"My sister Dora never let me go near her kitchen, not that I had any desire to learn how to cook, until now. I was always busy with other things, like studying, looking after her kids or patching my clothes."

"You must have picked up some skills along the why. The eggs are just the way I like them and the toast is perfect."

"I owe it all to Betsy. Not long after you left she discovered that I didn't know the first thing about cooking and took it upon her self to teach me. Somehow, she got the idea I would be cooking your breakfast soon."

"Somehow?"

Shirley grinned sheepishly. "I let it slip that we usually ate breakfast together and by the time I thought to explain about the breakfast group it was too late. She'd already concluded that we lived together last year."

"Remind me to buy a coffee maker," I said as I took a sip of coffee.

Shirley looked hurt, like it was her fault that the instant coffee wasn't up to my taste standard. "I'll make a list of things you'll need for the kitchen," she said.

"We'll need," I corrected her.

"Stop talking that way, Sammy. You know it's not certain that I'm living here with you. I'll visit; let's leave it that way."

"Okay, I'll not mention it again until September the thirtieth."

"I don't know why you attach so much significance to that date. I only promised to come early and stay all day. It's a Sunday. Maybe I'll have the curtains ready to hang by then."

I set up the computer in the living room while Shirley washed the breakfast dishes.

"Are you going to leave it there?" she asked, looking around at the crowded living room. In addition to a couch and two chairs, there was a stack of the clothes we had brought in from the trailer the day before, some of it Shirley's and some of it mine. Our golf clubs had found a place in the kitchen.

"There's not going to be enough room in the bedroom. Besides, I don't want Charlie coming in there to use my computer."

The apartment really wasn't very big. I had chosen the bedroom at the rear because it was larger and less noisy than the other bedroom. I was beginning to wonder if inviting Charley to share the apartment was a good idea.

Shirley didn't have a better plan or perhaps she didn't think it was any of her business where I placed things.

"Let's go for a run," I suggested.

Her wrinkled brow told me running wasn't a good idea. I didn't asked if it was too hot or too soon after eating. "Walk?" I asked and she nodded.

Ten minutes later we were walking down the alley on a hot Sunday morning, dressed casually in shorts, T-shirts and running shoes. Shirley's hair was bunched in a ponytail and it was obvious from the way her breasts bounced as we walked that she was braless.

I headed in the direction of the river to see if I could find where Luke Foster, the cabinetmaker Olli had told me about, lived. I was also mapping a running route.

Church bells began to chime in the distance and this triggered a thought from Shirley.

"About this morning," she said.

I looked at her and could see that she had something serious on her mind.

"Yes, what about it?"

"Thank you."

I laughed. "Thank you?"

"We can't do that again."

"The knock-knock, doorbell game? Why not?"

"It's too dangerous. You could have entered me, I wouldn't have stopped you and I wouldn't have blamed you, but it can't happen again."

"Because you think I might take advantage of you?"

"No, it's that sometimes I don't trust myself."

"I respect your decision but we've fooled around several times and I've never taken advantage of you. You know you can trust me. Didn't you like having your doorbell rung?"

The church bell was still ringing. Shirley put her arms around my neck and I felt her body lean in to me. "I liked it too much."

"There's another game we could play," I suggested.

Her wrinkled brow told me that I was treading through dangerous territory. "Does the game have a name?"

"Yes, it's called Oral."

Shirley broke away from me, blushing but she still held my hand.

"Sammy, you're corrupting me. You taught me the thing we did in the shower and I liked it so much I wanted to do it this morning."

"I taught you the knock-knock part but you added the doorbell."

I felt her squeeze my hand and she led me toward a dusty road.

We heard the river before we heard the kids. There were five of them, ranging in ages from eight or nine down to two, all with blond hair and lots of freckles, playing in front of a small, ramshackle house.

A little girl ventured out to the road and Shirley squatted down, coaxing her to come closer. She was using her T-shirt to clean the little girl's runny nose when her older sister approached us.

"Christina, what does momma tell you about talking to strangers?" the older girl said in a scolding tone.

The younger girl just looked at her sister, not heeding the warning.

"We're not strangers," Shirley assured the older sister. "Is your daddy's name Luke?"

Both girls nodded.

"We're here to see him," Shirley informed the sisters.

The older girl ran toward a metal building that looked to be new. There was a sound of a machine running when she opened the door.

The younger girl stuck with us, well, near Shirley.

"I didn't bring a drawing," I warned.

"That's okay. We'll just meet him today," Shirley assured me. She was running her fingers through Christina's hair. The little girl loved the attention.

"You're making a project out of this little scene, aren't you?" I said, gesturing toward the house, the little girl with us and kids in the yard.

Excitement glowed in Shirley's eyes as she admitted, "Yes."

Luke Foster appeared at the door to the metal building, followed by his oldest daughter. The younger children, including Christina ran to greet their father. He patted them on their heads and they followed him. It was obvious where the children had gotten their blond hair. Luke was thin with blond curly hair and a few freckles on his cheeks.

"We're friends of Carl Oliver. He said that you can build a study-table for me."

Olli was right. Luke needed a drawing with measurements before he would commit to building what I wanted. We made arrangements to come back the next day.

There was no question that Shirley would accompany me when I delivered the drawing. I could almost smell the excitement she felt about the Foster family. By the time we reached the apartment she had an outline for the study in her mind.

Shirley was so intent making notes for her project that she didn't notice that I was trying to fit two work surfaces in the small bedroom. She didn't ask why I was rearranging the furniture until she saw me moving my footlocker to the front room.

"I don't need a place to study here, Sammy."

"Yes, you do."

"I'll have a room in the dormitory, remember?"

"How come you took over part of the chest-of-drawers?"

She became embarrassed when she realized I had caught her filling one of the drawers with her things.

"I didn't know you were watching," she whispered, her arms wrapped around my neck and her cheek tucked next to mine.

"I was happy to see you taking over one of the drawers. I thought it meant you had decided to stay with me but later you said you're still getting a room in the dorm."

"You know why I've got to have a room in the dorm. Please don't try to talk me out of it."

"You can take the dorm room. It doesn't mean you have to stay there. I'll order two desks. If you decide you don't need the second one I can always give it to Charlie."

Shirley seemed satisfied with that arrangement. We went back to the see Luke Foster the next day. Shirley managed to be invited inside the house while I went to the workshop with Luke. We compared notes on the walk back to the apartment.

"The house is in shambles and that poor woman doesn't seem to know it's falling down around her," she decried.

"That's strange. The woodworking shop is full of equipment and Luke pointed out several pieces that are almost new. He's very proud of his shop."

"Is he going to build the tables?"

"Yes, but it'll be a month before they're ready."

Shirley stopped in her tracks. "He's that busy?"

"Yes, he showed me orders he's working on. I don't know anything about woodworking but I don't see how he'll get to my order a month from now."

"Perhaps he needs a helper."

I laughed and told her there wasn't room in the shop for anyone else to work. There's not even any space for another piece of equipment. We talked about the contrast between the workshop and the house. Shirley described the furnishings as dilapidated. Edna, the wife, had pointed out one small table that Luke had built when they were first married but everything else was ready for the scrapheap.

We were puzzled by how a man could be so obsessed with his occupation that he let his wife and children do without. At least, that was the way it looked to us.

"That's how it looks on the surface," Shirley observed. Somehow I knew that she intended to find out if our assumption was correct and if so, why.

The phone was ringing when we entered the apartment. It was the telephone company calling to tell us the phone was working and to give us the number. We called everyone we knew to give them the number and I dialed into the Oldham network to send emails to a few people within the company, including Neil Fenton's daughter, Cassie.

Shirley teased me about Cassie, saying that I was more infatuated with the young girl than she was with me. "When she gets to be my age you'll be an old man," she said as she pushed me out of my chair and took a seat in front of the computer.

"I'll still be younger than you," I countered.

Shirley looked at me from the kitchen chair we were using.

"I'll be twenty-eight and you'll be twenty-seven. Where do you think we'll be?"

"I'll be working for Mr. Oldham and you'll be home looking after the kids," I responded without thinking.

Shirley looked at the computer screen as if she were trying to view what I had described. I noticed the line form in her brow before she looked back at me.

"I'll be Shirley Pennington, PhD, probably an assistant professor at a top college or I may be a research assistant in a prestigious think-tank."