Try #103 again

I might as well give #103 another try. If no one’s home, it’s no loss, and someone is, I won’t have to double back tomorrow. I knock on the door. A rather dispirited-looking blonde answers. “Hello?” she asks quietly.

“I’m Iain Roberts—I’m the new building manager,” I say. “I’m just going around introducing myself to the tenants.” I hand her my card. “My cell number is on there—it’s the best way to get a hold of me if you need me. Are you Erin Starr, I presume?”

Erin nods, looking down at my card. I continue, “One of the things I’m doing is taking pictures of the tenants to help me keep everyone straight. Do you mind if I take yours?”

She flashes me a horrified look. “No—no—not looking like this,” she scrambles, waving her hands. “I have a picture on my phone—I’ll text it to you.”

My eyes widen in surprise. Before I can censor myself, I say, “I wasn’t expecting an erotic photo.” I can feel myself blushing at my words.

“I did a boudoir photo session not too long ago—for my husband,” Erin says hastily. “They’re the only pictures of me I have on my phone. Looking at them makes me feel better. If you’re bothered or offended—”

“No, Erin, no, not at all,” I say, hurriedly cutting her off. “It’s just—not what I was expecting. Better doesn’t mean ‘not surprising.’ No, you’re a gorgeous, sexy woman. Why would I object?”

“You think so?” she asks, giving me a shy smile. “My husband says I’m trying too hard. I’m 30 now, I’m getting older, I should just accept it.”

I look at Erin wide-eyed. “Seriously, you’re gorgeous,” I insist. “Trying too hard? You don’t have to try at all.”

She waves her hand at herself. “Look at me—I’m a mess,” she replies in a low voice.

“Erin, I had more than one girlfriend in college who should have been such a mess. Stop beating on yourself. As your building manager, I’m telling you you’re beautiful, and I get to write the tenant descriptions.”

Erin giggles, then gives me a real smile. “My husband works second shift, and he always works overtime,” she says. “The twins are over at a friend’s house—‘working on a group project,’ officially. Juan’s mother says she’ll make sure they all get a little work done. Tomorrow’s a scheduled e-learning day, so they don’t have to be up so early. —I’m rambling. You don’t care about my kids. The point is, I’m home alone. Would you like to come in?”

“I would love to,” I say sincerely.

Erin offers me a glass of wine. I accept gladly. We sit down on her couch and tell each other a little about ourselves. She complains that her feet hurt. I set my glass down. I slide off the couch and massage her feet. She protests a little, but soon her head lolls back and she moans softly in relief. I work her insteps and arches especially firmly and massage each of her toes.

“Erin, would you like me to massage your legs, too?” I ask.

“Mmmmm, yes,” she answers. She doesn’t even open her eyes. I massage her calves and work my way up her thighs. I wonder if she knows I have a clear view of her black lace panties? Maybe the day is giving me hubris, but I think she might be open to going farther.