I expected Elliot's interest to wane once he added me to his "seduced list" but the opposite occurred. He pestered to see me; said he’d never met anyone like me. I asked how many he’d met. He didn’t reply.
My expected cherry blossom relationship with Elliot, one without pollination, was setting to bear fruit. We needed a place to rendezvous. I didn’t want to become a Governor Hotel elevator mystery woman. Olympia was too small a town for that.
My home turf, and his buck seduction pad were out. For the affair to ripen, we needed a love nest. If he balked, it meant, "wham, bam, thank you, ma'am”. When asked to get a place to meet, he eagerly agreed and only asked where.
I requested downtown, near my office, a place with heavy pedestrian traffic and convenient but covert ingress and egress. A week later he gave an address. I parked near it and did a street inspection from the car.
It was an older, two-story, corner building, two blocks from my office. Commercial outlets were on street level and offices above. A Mexican restaurant was off the secondary street frontage and a French Bakery occupied the corner; both were popular.
I got out of the car and walked over for a closer look. On the secondary street, between the bakery and restaurant was a little courtyard that included a hair salon, public restrooms, and an ornate elevator. It had triple access points, from a rear alley, the frontage street, and a stairwell from the offices above. It looked good, perhaps too good. At my office, I phoned Elliot and scheduled an Eleven AM inspection.
At the office, I announced I was getting pastry and left just before Eleven. Elliot was standing at the corner. Without recognition of one another we entered the courtyard and took the elevator up. Alone together, on the second-floor landing, as if a real estate agent, he pointed out positive attributes. The second-floor corridor had access via stairwells to the building’s main street frontage as well as the courtyard and the elevator we’d rode up on.
“Elizabeth, the elevator was added to meet handicap regulations. It’ almost never used. There are only two offices up here, one vacant and the occupied one used by a national marketing representative who’s rarely in town. The corner area above the bakery is the apartment I want to show you. It has a recessed nook for unobserved entry and exit from the corridor. The building is fire sprinkled. What do you think?”
The set up was ideal, so ideal my initial thought was.
It’s another of his buck pads, one for discreet seductions.
“I don’t know. Let me in to check it out.”
Standing in the entry nook, he handed me the key. With the key inserted in the retro lock, the deadbolt turned and the door opened. The apartment was vacant. Vacancy assuaged my suspicion it was for his discreet married women harem. It was only for one, me.
The windows had retro, wide slat, Venetian blinds.
I did my client walkthrough, surveyed the small kitchen, the dining/living area, the bedroom, and the bathroom. At a corner window, I bent a blind slat open and peered down at pedestrians walking past below. They were so close but couldn’t see me. An erotic purveyor sensation swept me.
He waited for my reaction, as if waiting for a client's agreement to sign a lease. I reached down into my purse, pulled out the pillbox and handed it to him. As he fumbled about, I lifted my skirt, pulled my panty down, gripped the windowsill, bent down, and looked out to the street between skewed blind slats. With him behind, I guided his hands to my hips and as in the Governor Hotel, stuttered, "Hard, do me hard, again!"
He thrust in and out wildly. I experienced another shuddering vaginal orgasm while peering through an open slat at men passing below. Once he was spent and withdrawn, we undressed, laid our clothes neatly on the recently shampooed carpet floor and lay naked on it.
We stared at the ceiling, said nothing until he recharged. Once ready again, he positioned himself between my spread legs, kept himself raised up, knees on the floor, his eyes staring into mine and ground in and out until we finished again. While he rode, I enjoyed the smell of bread baking below and imagined his breadstick in my oven.
Spent he rolled off with a bad case of knee rug burn.
As he stood up to get dressed, he said.
"I assume you like the apartment."
"It needs a bed or you won’t be able to kneel at church. I love it like I do you."
The last sentence, spoken casually, regretted as soon as said, unable to be retracted or redacted. I got up and directed the conversation to furniture shopping while redressing then suggested a company name on the apartment entry door for additional ruse cover. It was all to diminish the tongue slip.
Redressed, I picked up my purse and turned my cheek for a quick parting peck kiss. Instead, he turned me toward him.
"Do you really love me?"
I broke free, hurried out the door and down the stairs without reply. In the bakery, I bought a dozen croissants by simply pointing, afraid my voice would crack. Safely back at the office, mulling over my mistaken, “I love it like I do you,” I set the croissants on the lunchroom table. The employees quickly gathered to gobble them up but I salvaged one for hubby, then went to the restroom to double-check my appearance.
Composed, I went back, heated and buttered the set-aside croissant and brought it to his office. He glanced up from his computer. I was sure he would notice something amiss and question my two-hour absence.
He took the plate, munched the croissant and thanked me between bites. Relieved he noticed and asked nothing, I walked out nervously checking my hair to feel if it was all in place. He commented I had a nice-looking butt. He didn’t know it was beet red from sex on a rug.
With Elliot in tow, we went to Seattle for furnishings. I selected a canopy bed, crystal chandelier and lace curtains for the capacious bedroom. I had a dimmer switch put in for the chandelier to adjust the night light mood. Elliot paid for the furnishings. I bought the utensils, dishes, linens, sheets and bed covers. We could observe those below from the bedroom window.
The decor was a woman's seduction pad, with satin sheets and pillowcases, down blanket, lace bedspread, and candles on the dresser. The closet and dresser included his and hers sections. I kept racy lingerie for the apartment's intended use. Scented bars of soap and large fluffy towels filled the bathroom wall hangers and cabinet.
The kitchen and dining/living area retained their Venetian blinds but I added lace curtains. While kept sparse for maintenance ease, it could produce a decent meal with china set for two. The dinette table with lace table cloth was nestled at the corner windows for people watching. An upholstered little sofa and a rocker were available for love games
A stroll from my office, a wary entry, a sexual rendezvous, quick shower, redress, aftermath tidy up, discreet exit and waltz back to the office with pastry could be done in an hour’s lapse time with efficient timing but unhurried movements.
More typical was a dawdled lunch after a romp including French bread from the bakery as we relaxed by the corner windows. When gone two hours my pat excuse was, "shopping". If hubby was out of town, we had an evening date with crystal chandelier and candles.
I taught Elliot things I’d learned from prior affairs. He contributed nothing new on the bed. The breadth of his sexual development was limited to seduction, not action. We did develop a new sex game. Elliot sat in the upholstered swivel rocking chair with his legs together. I straddled him on his lap, penis in, legs over the arms of the chair.
Nestled, we gently rocked, tension building but thrusting forbidden. The goal was to experience oozed climaxes. More often, however, one could no longer stand it and suddenly thrust to a quick finish to the exclamations of censure by the other.
Once, in a final forbidden thrust, the rocker was knocked over and broke as we tumbled entwined to the floor, fortunately at night with the bakery closed. Afterward, shopping for a new one, our innuendos and snickering at the furniture store perplexed the saleslady.
I wasn’t essential at work and could do my assignments on my schedule with the few times I had to be there. Hubby's business mistress, in contrast, was a demanding one and on his mind 24/7. It included travel. Without Elliot, I'd have been lonely. Instead, I was relationship cramped and time-stressed.
Elliot’s golf course hens knew something was wrong with their rooster. They scouted for and guessed who the guilty culprit was for his sudden lack of crowing among them. They never glanced at me with suspicion when I ate at the cottage restaurant with the golf ladies or my husband. I worried even with hubby’s business preoccupation that he thought something was up, but this was my guilty thinking. He paid little attention and rarely noticed new clothes I wore or asked how my day went. If suspicious, Elliot wouldn’t cross his mind as a suspect.
I never thought Elliot would be true to me but he swore he was while I was unfaithful to him with hubby. On our affair anniversary, we stayed and ate at Seattle’s Mayflower Park Hotel for a night of sex. From the hotel bathroom, I presented myself in a silky negligee purchased for the occasion and gave Elliot a gold rooster with diamonds comb tie pin. He gave me a large sapphire ring and a dozen red roses. It was his second trophy ring, grander than all the others except my husband’s. I hid his rings as I had no explanation for them.
Things continued smoothly and soon almost another year of "apartment" bliss drifted past. Elliot and I grew closer while my husband and I drifted apart but I ensured he was serviced and was the initiator when his business preoccupation suppressed his libido. Hubby assumed all my sexual attention needs were filled and he was number one in my life. He was right on both.
Author Notes: The love nest turns into a domestic affair.