Test the waters with a joke

“Good morning, Angel.” I greet Alison when she steps into the kitchen to get her breakfast. She’s wearing a knit top that curves nicely in the right places and a pair of jeans that have a half-dozen or so rips in them on each leg and end halfway up her calf showing off her pretty ankles. It’s not normally a look I care for, but on Alison’s slender build I don’t mind it at all.

She takes her box of Strawberry Special K® from the cupboard and pours it into the bowl waiting for her at her seat. I hand her the milk - it's almost like a dance we do every morning.

“Thank-you Mr. P.” The alto voice is soft and smooth with a slight hint of Tennessee twang. “I’m sorry about Richard” her cheeks brighten, “being so loud and all…” her gaze drops to the bowl in front of her as she stumbles to an awkward pause. We go through this ritual almost every morning after one of Dick’s booty-calls and I’ve come up with a standard phrase.

“Hey girl,” I put the milk back in the refrigerator for her, “this is a no judgment house remember? I’m not your dad.” Thank goodness for that, because the thoughts I’ve been having lately are most distinctly not fatherly.

“I know Mr. P,” (short for Patterson) she flashes me a hint of a smile that fades as quickly as it came, “I just wish he wouldn’t call out like that.” If I were her, my problem would be with the fact that I had yet to hear her cry out in passion, not the grunts and vocalizations of her boyfriend - no matter how loud.

As she picks at her food I finish wiping down the counter and putting away my breakfast dishes, trying to decide the best way to approach the topic of her rent. This is the one downside of being a landlord.

“Hey Alison?” I begin carefully, “I know Outback is closed and all, but I’m wondering when I’m going to see a rent check?”

“Oh, I’m sorry Mr. P, really I am.” Alison’s big eyes lift from her half-filled bowl and find mine with what I am beginning to suspect is a skill she’s developed over that past few years in her interaction with males. I’ve had plenty of experience with teary-eyed students wanting extensions on assignments, and for the most part I thought I was immune to this kind of emotional manipulation, but she’s good. “I’m starting a new job today, and I should get my first paycheck on Friday.” Well that is a pleasant surprise, I can stuff my pervy plans safely back into the nasty parts of my subconscious, and go back to just being a good landlord. “…they practically sell themselves so all I have to do is find the people to show them to.”

Alison takes a deep breath and goes into a spiel that I’ve heard at least a dozen times over the years. “You don’t have to even buy anything, Mr. P because I get paid just for practicing…” yup it’s Cutco knives again. For every successful enterprising college student who has made a decent income selling these knives there must be at least ten others that sell a few knives to their family and friends and then end up returning the sales package after four weeks of frustration and wasted effort. I agree to let her practice her pitch that afternoon after her classes, and to my surprise she jumps up and hugs me. Her sudden exuberance catches me by surprise, and the feeling of her cheek against my chin and the soft breasts flattening against my chest makes my cock twitch. Luckily she’s out the door before my erection becomes apparent, and I’m left thinking that I might still have a chance to put my plan in action.

The sales pitch later that day confirms my suspicion that Alison is not going to sell many knives, she lacks the confidence and killer instinct of a true salesperson. In the end I buy a boning knife (no pun intended) from her and am rewarded with another full on hug. Who knows, I recalculate my evaluation of her sales pitch, if she can get enough husbands alone and give them a few hugs like those…no, I remind myself, in this Covid world there won’t be many opportunities to hug her clients. It is hard enough to sell these knives in person where the buyer can feel their weight and balance for themselves, I cannot even imagine selling them through skype or zoom or facetime or whatever people are using nowadays to video chat.

“Thank-you Mr. P!” Alison is clearly excited by her success, “I just know I’ll be able to do this even with all my classes.” Over the two months that we've been sharing a roof, I've got to know a little bit of her background. She's talked about her religiously conservative parents and the single-sex private schools that her parents sent her to all her life; she had to fight to come to Wesleyan even with the generous scholarship that they offered. Her father had expected that she take classes at St. Theresa's and live at home and he was not at all happy when his little girl showed a spark of defiance. He would probably be delighted to have his little princess come home with her tail between her legs.

“I hope so sweetie,” I give her bare arm a friendly pat, “because if not, I’m going to have to get my rent out of that pretty little tush of yours some other way.” It is a bit of a risk, joking like that, but it seems like a good way to test the waters before I go all in.