BIMBEAUVILLE
by Downing Street
(dowstreet@yahoo.com)
Chapter IV: Wednesday
Sarah was late for breakfast the next morning. Roger was reading a day-old copy of the Guardian, his breakfast already done, when he finally heard the tap of Sarah’s new heels on the staircase. He looked up as she approached his table. He suppressed the urge to whistle.
Sarah was wearing a dress, again. This one was brick red, with a pattern of dark blue zig-zags running horizontally. The dress was as figure-molded as yesterday’s, and shorter too. She was wearing suntan hose and her blue wedges.
“I hope you slept well,” Roger said carefully. He tried to keep his eyes off her legs.
“Ah, I slept like a baby,” Sarah replied, smiling. “And it looks like I overslept a little.” She didn’t seem very concerned. She giggled.
What?
Giggled? This couldn’t be Sarah. Sarah never giggled. Ever. Someone had kidnapped Sarah and replaced her with a sloppily programmed replica.
Roger decided a test was in order. “Another dress?” he said.
“Oh, uhm, well, there was, like, a sale,” Sarah explained, “second dress half price. So I figured, why not?” She giggled again. She sat down and took a deep drink of water.
Roger inspected the imposter Sarah sitting across from him. She was definitely prettier this morning. Her face no longer seemed angular. Her cheekbones were high and well-defined, her lips a cute red bow. Long lashes fluttered over eyes that seemed both bigger and bluer than he remembered. Her hair was longer now too. It fell over her shoulders. Below the neck, the snug-fitting dress made no secret of her expanded twin assets.
“Look, I expect you to be a gentleman about this,” Sarah said, when she noticed where his eyes were lingering. “Until I can get to a shop for some new foundations I’m going to have to go without. All my bras are simply too small. I must be retaining water, I’ve been drinking so much of it.” She giggled again. Her unrestrained blessings bounced. The outline of her nipples was visible against the stretchy fabric.
“Right,” said Roger. If this was water retention, he would make sure Sarah had a full jug by her bedside every night. “We were going to see the town doctor this morning.”
She shook her head. “Boobie-binder first. Doctor later. I am not going to walk around like this all day.“
“Fair enough. When you’ve eaten I’ll drop you off and you can shop while I do some water tests. I’ll pick you up in an hour or so.”
“Make it two.” She raised a hand to signal Gina for some food. Roger watched her new endowments jiggle. If Sarah noticed, she didn’t seem offended.
Bimbeauville’s only doctor kept his surgery on a narrow lane just off the high street, not far from the Winking Fox. It was well into the afternoon before Roger and Sarah arrived. Roger got the doctor’s name and address from the ever-obliging Gina (“Oh, and he’s like the bestest doctor too!), who happened to be sitting in his lap at the time. Then, while Sarah shopped for new underwear, Roger returned to the pumping station, in the Land Rover this time, to do some water tests.
Wyn was glad to see him. The twins were overjoyed. “Roger! You’re back!” exclaimed Glynis, or possibly Glenys, and anyway who cared they were both awesome. She jumped into his arms and gave him a welcome kiss that lasted at least thirty seconds. Then her sister did the same, with tongue. Today Glynis was wearing a pink hard hat and neon-pink stockings with big ruffles at the top. Her sister was wearing a white hat and white lycra tights. The girlish legware looked incongruous with their shiny black boots, but incredibly sexy too.
The water tests took quite a long time. The twins helped. At least they tried to. They kept spilling samples on themselves. Of course Roger, being a gentlemen, was obliged to help clean them up. The girls preferred that he use his tongue.
It was almost noon before Roger pulled the Land Rover up in front of the lingerie shop where he had deposited Sarah that morning. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, climbing out. “The water testing took a little while. I had trouble getting clean results.” Also it was tricky concentrating on procedures while being constantly, and he suspected deliberately, distracted by the water nymphs. They both managed to spill water all over their T-shirts.
“Oh, that’s all right,” Sarah said good-naturedly. She tossed half a dozen gaily coloured packages into the back. “I made good use of the time.”
“I would say you did. I thought all you needed was a new bra.”
She giggled her newfound giggle. “Roger, a girl never goes shopping for just a bra. Besides, they have such a fabulous selection here it would be a pity not to take advantage of it.”
That was more or less how Roger felt about the amazing two-tongued blowjob he got from Glenys and Glynis. The three of them spent more time “relaxing” in the break room than actually carrying out water tests. Out loud he said, “Right. Let’s get some lunch.”
They found a caf‚ not far away where the fish and chips were excellent, the service was slow but very friendly and the waitress was (of course) a bombshell. Roger had a pint with lunch. Sarah had more water. The waitress had light brown hair permed into perfect waves and curls around her face. She wore a hooters-style uniform of tight, white T-shirt and canary yellow short-shorts. Her legs were dressed in filmy exercise tights along with white socks and gaudy yellow high-tops. The name tag pinned over her left breast said “Delyth”.
I wonder what the right one is called, Roger wondered. When they’re that big, they should have their own names.
“Hey, Earth to Roger,” Sarah said. “When you’re finished staring at the scenery, maybe we should talk about work.”
“I’ll never be finished staring,” Roger said. He was grinning.
“Men,” Sarah rejoined. “Always fascinated by a nice pair of titties.” She seemed more amused than angry. “Did your water tests turn up anything?”
Roger was watching Delyth prance about in her skimpy outfit, flirting with all the men, mixing up orders, and giving the wrong change. Nylon glinted on her endless legs. “No, nothing. Everything is within guidelines. It’s a good well. Although, there’s something . . .” Again he stopped, considering. Every time he had tried to discuss the matter of chlorination, the twins had sweet-talked him out of it. They were very persuasive.
“Although what?”
“Hmm? Oh, nothing, nothing. Anyway the water is fine.” And so is Delyth’s ass, he thought but didn’t say. He adjusted his hard-on when Sarah wasn’t looking.
“And it’s like, double-luscious delicious,” Sarah said, before draining her glass for the third time.
After lunch they proceeded to the doctor’s office on foot. It wasn’t far. The street lay in the oldest part of town. Sarah’s heels teetered on the cobblestones. Once or twice she had to grip Roger’s arm for support. She didn’t seem in a hurry to let go.
The doctor’s office was set in a modernized brick building with big windows out front. The waiting room was decorated in shades of pink, including the plush carpet underfoot. The wall-paper featured smiling pink elephants clutching balloons in their trunks. None of the half-dozen pink, padded chairs was occupied.
There was a nurse’s station on the far side of the room. The blonde sitting there was working at her computer with great concentration. Her tight, white uniform was deeply low cut in front, the better to display a stupendous rack. Roger gulped. I didn’t know they made them that big, he thought.
“Hello,” Sarah said, approaching her desk. “We’ve come to see Dr. Jones.”
The nurse looked up. She had been playing a simple computer game, trying to get cartoon zoo animals into the right cages. “Oh, uhm, hi,” she said. “You want to see Dr. Jones?” She gave Sarah a look of sympathy, as if she were gravely ill. She said: “You’re not from around here, are you.”
Sarah sighed. “No, we’re from the Drinking Water Inspectorate. Roger and Sarah. I mean, Sarah and Roger. I mean, he’s Roger. I’m Sarah. Whatever. May we talk to Dr. Jones for a few minutes?”
The nurse discovered Roger. She bestowed a smile that warmed the whole room. “Oh! Right, of course. Hi! Roger, right? I’m Lili. Do you like, have an appointment?” She seemed to have lost interest in Sarah.
Sarah looked around the empty waiting room. “Does it matter?”
The blonde was instantly confused. “Well I-I mean, uhm, like I don’t know but, like, most people have appointments, you know? I don’t—I can’t let—”
Roger said: “Why don’t we ask the doctor, yes?”
“Oh, for sure!” Relief filled her movie-star face. “We’ll ask Dr. Jones. Follow me!” She got to her feet and led them down a short corridor, past a couple of examination rooms. Her “uniform” was nylon and extremely short. She wore white stockings, gartered just above the hem of her dress, and shiny red, platform ankle boots with white crosses on the side. The uniform transmitted the sway of her behind with every tottering step. Her legs went on forever.
“How does she even walk in those heels?” Roger whispered, behind her.
“I don’t know,” Sarah replied. “But they’re rather pretty, aren’t they.” Roger shot her a glance.
Dr. Jones was a comparatively young man with a head of brown hair and a flamboyant moustache. He was wearing a shirt and tie with an open white lab coat over them. He had his feet up on the desk in front of him. He was reading a technical journal called Advances in Gynaecology.
“Kyffin—oh, (giggle) I mean, Dr. Jones,” the micro-skirted nurse cooed from the doorway, “there’s two people come to see you, from like, a drinking water something or other. Roger and his assistant, uhm, Sharon. They don’t have an appointment. Is that tidy?”
He swung his feet down to the floor. “Yes, of course, of course. Show them in, Lili.”
The dazzling nurse stepped aside so that Sarah and Roger could enter. Roger turned to admire her as she wiggled away down the hall. She walked with an exaggerated feminine gait, hands out, one spike-heeled boot set exactly in front of the other. Neither Roger nor Dr. Jones spoke until she disappeared.
“Bimbeauville Water is a locally owned co-operative,” Dr. Jones was saying, a few minutes later. “I see why periodic inspections are necessary. I don’t understand why the DWI would have an interest in town medical records.” Roger and Sarah were sitting in comfortable chairs in front of his desk. Sarah had her knees crossed. Her new dress slid up her thigh. She was wearing dark stockings with a subtle pattern woven into them.
Inexplicably, Roger was finding Sarah’s legs distracting. That concept, like her earlier smiles and giggles, was simply foreign: distracting and Sarah could not be used in the same sentence. Similarly, the grandeur and perfection of the nurse’s tits was impossible, as was the shapeliness of her legs and the deep-sea blue-green of her eyes. He could see the outline of Sarah’s own breasts pressing against the fabric of her dress. How much impossibleness could one man accept?
“Uhm, well, it’s simple isn’t it,” Sarah fumbled, “uhm, this is like, a sort of follow-up thingie—”
Roger said: “When a new water source goes into production, it’s customary to check for incidents of water-borne infections, as a further quality assurance indicator.” He caught Sarah’s look of relief. He was a little better at lying than she was.
“If we had an outbreak of cholera, I think you would have heard about it,” Dr. Jones said.
Sarah said: “Yes, but what about minor ailments. Stomach flu; diarrhea; bloat; whatever.”
“I haven’t seen any of those,” the doctor replied.
“Fevers?” said Roger.
“Of course not.”
“Allergic reactions?”
“That’s more of a big city thing.”
“There was a nasty bout of influenza making the rounds last winter.”
“We pretty much missed that. We’re rather out of the way here.”
“Doesn’t anyone get bronchitis? Chest colds? The sniffles?”
“Well . . . not bad enough to see me about. We’re pretty hardy stock.”
Roger thought about the empty waiting room. He said: “Doctor, do you have any patients at all?”
The young doctor was looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Uhm, well, we do get a few twisted ankles and such. Cobble streets and high heels, an unfortunate combination. And I do devote a lot of attention to . . . uhm, sexual health. Bedroom dynamics, if you will. Family planning. We have quite a few pregnancies for such a small town. Of course they go to the hospital in Vargasville for deliveries.”
Sarah uncrossed her knees and got to her feet. “Thank you, Dr. Jones,” she said formally. “You have been, like, very helpful with our, uhm, inquiries and stuff.” She tugged down her short dress.
Dr. Kyffin Jones looked Sarah up and down in a frankly appraising manner. He said, “You’re not from around here, are you.”
Back on the street, Sarah and Roger compared notes as they made their way back to the Land Rover. “If the good doctor were aiming to grow rich,” Roger said, “he chose the wrong town to set up practice.”
“A town where no one gets sick,” Sarah replied. “Seriously peculiar.” She stuck the end of one finger in her mouth while she thought about it. Then she said: “I don’t think we should stay here any longer.”
“You’re worried about us being affected by . . . well, by whatever it is, if it’s anything?” He shrugged. “I feel fine.” He wondered if his self-assessment should include the incessant hard-ons he kept popping up. He blamed those on an excess of stimulation.
“So do I,” Sarah conceded. “In fact I feel splendid. But . . . I’m not sure . . .” She let the sentence hang. She was sucking on one finger again. Her lips were red and soft-looking.
“All we have left is to finish checking the end-point pressure,” Roger said. “With luck we can finish that tomorrow and be on our way.”
“I suppose,” Sarah replied, uncertain. “I’m just worried that—oh, delphiniums!” She stopped to admire an overflowing flowerbed. She bent over to inhale the fragrance from the abundance of flowers. Roger noticed that she leaned forward onto her toes, hands flat, fingers spread, as if the aroma were about to lift her into the air.
Sweet mercy, Roger thought. Is that Sarah’s ass? Sarah did not have an ass like that this morning. He would have noticed. It would have been impossible not to notice, especially in that dress. He would have noticed a female rear so round, so smoothly indented and—oh crap he was getting hard again.
“I love flowers,” Sarah said, straightening. “This town is so pretty, full of flowers.”
“Ungh,” said Roger. He adjusted his trousers behind her back.
At length they arrived back at the high street. The parade of beauties passing by did nothing to relieve the strain in Roger’s underwear. A raven-haired fantasy in tiny white shorts and thigh-boots winked at him.
“Do you mind driving?” Sarah said. In response to Roger’s surprised look she added: “Not quite used to the heels.”
“Uh, sure,” Roger replied. “Of course.” This was another precedent; Sarah never let him drive. He hustled around to the passenger side to get the door, then held her hand as she climbed up into the seat. The Land Rover had a high clearance.
“Oh my, a gentleman after all,” Sarah said. She sounded pleased.
Roger did not reply. He was concentrating on not looking at the flash of thigh revealed as Sarah slipped gracefully into her seat. As he got in on his side and started the engine a thought occurred to him. “Does the satellite uplink on this thing still work?”
“As far as I know. Why?”
“I need to use the internet. Cell phones don’t work here and land lines are too slow. I can patch into the Land Rover link on my tablet.”
“Oh. What do you want to look up?”
He started the engine. “Some local history. Taking a leaf from your book and reading up on the sites we assess.”
“Cool. My hair is getting really long. Do you think I should get a perm?”
About an hour later, Roger was sitting in a quiet corner of the pub, working away on his tablet. An empty pint glass stood on the table in front of him. The pub was quiet this time of day. The man Gina referred to as Uncle Gord was quietly sweeping the floor. Roger looked up to see Gina standing in front of him, balancing delicately on her super-high heels. “Another pint, luv?” she cooed.
The bodacious barkeep was looking head-turning, as usual. Her blonde hair swept over one shoulder. She was wearing a tight-fitting top and skirt combo in a red-and-blue pattern. The micro-skirt hugged her ass just as the top strained over her ballooning bust. Dusky hose glinted on her legs, topped off with red suede booties.
Roger considered his glass. “Ah, maybe not right now,” he decided. “Still have a lot of work to do.”
“What’s that your doing?” She was wearing dark eye-shadow, making the blue of her eyes stand out even more.
“Calculating water losses. If we know the diameter of any water main in town and the pressure at each end, we can figure out how much water is leaking out along the way.”
“Ooh, that sounds right hard,” Gina said. Her voice was tinged with admiration.
He grinned. “Not especially. The computer does all the calculations. I just type in the data.”
She looked confused. “I don’t understand. If it’s typing numbers, why doesn’t your assistant do it? I can type numbers!” She beamed with pride.
Roger scanned the flawless exemplar of femininity in front of him. Her legs alone could cause a riot. “Sarah isn’t my assistant,” he explained. “She’s—well anyway it doesn’t matter, she’s out finishing the pressure checks.”
“Oh. Does that mean you’ll be leaving soon?”
“Afraid so. Tomorrow, probably. Unless—” He pinched his chin in thought. “Honey, who’s the mayor of Bimbeauville?”
Gina clapped her hands together. “Oh, I know!” she chirped, as if she had solved a challenging puzzle. “Her name is Crystal Hites. She’s the mayor!”
“The mayor is a woman?” That was unexpected.
“That’s right. But it’s not like a full-time job, you know? The rest of the time she’s a fashion advisor. She works at Trilby’s Fashion Hive, on the high street.” Her tone implied that Roger knew exactly where that was.
“The mayor is also a shop clerk. I see.”
“Oh, but she’s really good! She sold me these shoes. Aren’t they pretty?” Leaning back against the heavy table, she lifted one bootie onto the edge of his chair, between his legs.
Gina’s soft red bootie had a platform sole at least two inches thick, a curved heel as high as the clouds, and a toe like the bow on the Titanic. Above the shoe, Roger found himself with a close-up view of Gina’s lycra-coated leg, all the way up to the edge of her tiny skirt.
“Now, now listen, honey, I know what you’re trying to do,” he cautioned, “but I really do have to wank—I mean work!—I have to work, this afternoon.”
“Oh, but Roger darling, you’ve been working for like, hours. You need to take a break. Relax a little.” She leaned back on her hands. Her foot slid forward until the toe rested against his crotch. She rubbed it back and forth.
“Gaa!” Roger expostulated. “No, wait, Gina, I’m serious, come on, stop that!”
She pouted. “Maybe you don’t really like my pretty shoes. That’s tidy, I’ll take them off.” She withdrew her foot, unzipped the side zipper on her red bootie and dropped it on the floor. It’s partner followed five seconds later.
“There now, is this better?” Her voice was soft, an innocent child. She hopped up on the table, letting her hem ride up to the edge of her rump, and placed both hose-clad feet squarely on Roger’s crotch.
“Oh Roger darling, you do need to relax.” There was no disguising the growing stiffie beneath Gina’s massaging toes.
Roger groaned. Even her feet were sexy. “Gina you don’t play fair,” he moaned. “Now come on, stop that!“
In desperation he grabbed her ankles and pulled her feet off his boner. Gina must have anticipated this because she suddenly spread her legs very wide, half-pulling a startled Roger to his feet. Abruptly he was standing close to her, her face next to his, her breasts pressing against his chest.
He made an inarticulate protest. Gina wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him long and deep. He was still holding her ankles. Without breaking the kiss, the super-stacked blonde reached down with one hand and began unbuckling his trousers. Roger gave up resisting. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized that she had seduced him again—in less than five minutes.
More than ten minutes later he and Gina were still there, making out with increasing ardour. Gina was perched on the edge of the table with her legs wrapped around Roger’s back. Both she and Roger were breathing hard. Cutlery and placemats littered the floor where they had fallen, unnoticed. Uncle Gord had discreetly disappeared.
“Wait, Gina, baby, we can’t do this here,” Roger whispered. “Someone might come in!” Roger wasn’t sure when his trousers had landed around his ankles. He had a hard-on like a crowbar.
Gina said: “It’s not (pant, pant) very busy right now. I think I’ll, mmmmm, close up for a while.” Extracting herself from his embrace, she hopped off the table, skipped over to the front door, and flipped the sign to “Closed”.
Shortly thereafter, she opened.
It was well after dinner time when Sarah finally arrived back at the inn. Roger was a tad concerned. The pressure checks should have been a few hours work. Had she found a problem?
Roger was lying on the bed in his room, propped up on some pillows. He had his tablet on his lap. The bulky satellite telephone from the Land Rover was by his side, connected to the tablet by a black cable. The Ministry insisted that field crews carry satellite phones for the rare instances when they were out of cell phone range. Such as in Bimbeauville, as it turned out.
Roger was using the satellite link to connect to the internet. He was on a mission. Something about that stream, Afon Nyllrym, stuck in his mind. The name seemed familiar in a far-off way, like a name he had heard in childhood.
It took a while. He was about to give up when he stumbled upon an on-line facsimile of an 1863 monograph entitled “Historical Antecedents and Folkloric Origins of the Legends of King Arthur”, in the Seeley Historical Library at Cambridge. The search engine directed him to page 113.
Roger set the tablet aside. He pinched his lip with his fingers, lost in thought. At length he got to his feet and walked over to the window overlooking the street. The day was bright. The sun was trending westward toward a soft summer evening. The street was quiet, birdsong only rarely interrupted by a passing car.
Roger watched a young mother across the street. She was pushing a baby stroller. She was, of course, spectacularly well-figured. She was wearing a white, spaghetti-strap tank-top coupled with a wide, blue-denim miniskirt made of three overlapping layers that still barely covered anything. She wore white, over-the-knee socks with red spots, and high-topped, white sport shoes with inch-thick rubber soles. Her hair was fixed into two long ponytails on either side of her head.
Roger watched her keenly. Her tank-top looked like it could burst at any moment. Her hips swayed rhythmically, swinging her flippy skirt back and forth.
The woman is walking eroticism, Roger reflected. Despite the number of gorgeous women he had encountered since arriving in Bimbeauville, he still couldn’t get used to it. The woman on the street was bopping along as if taking a walk with her baby while dressed like an adolescent sex fantasy were a perfectly ordinary thing to do.
She stopped for a moment to adjust something in the stroller. Instantly her sculpted, round ass came into view; her bikini panties were white with red spots, matching her socks. “Holy morning sunshine,” Roger muttered. He felt a stirring in his loins.
Therein lay the issue: woman like the babe with the baby were impossible. There was no other word for it. No one could be that attractive, that sexy, yet make it seem so effortless. Just as it was impossible that he could be rising again, so soon after a another ball-draining fuck-session with the irresistible Gina. When he came the second time, he coated her marvellous melons with so much hot, white jism he almost apologized for it. He had never come like that except possibly during the first round a little earlier, when he had been sprawled in the comfortable chair with Gina perched in his lap, bouncing and squealing on his pole until he spurted like a firehose into her.
While he recovered, staring at the ceiling with an idiot grin on his face, Gina slipped off him. Ever the considerate hostess, she dropped to her knees and began to gently clean his dick of her abundant love-juice. She used a handy bit of cloth, which happened to be her underwear, and then her tongue to finish off.
Her ministrations gradually evolved into a suckling blowjob that coaxed his member into rising again, followed by a long, lazy breast-fuck. She used both hands to gently press her giant breasts against his staff, which soon lubricated the valley with pre-cum. By this point Gina was wearing nothing above her little skirt. Yet she somehow found a moment to slip her platform booties back on. She looked up at him adoringly as she gently guided Roger to his second climax.
Roger stepped back from the window. This was all impossible. Fabulous, but impossible. How much impossibleness could one man accept? If his theory about Bimbeauville was right, he would have to accept a little more.
The tap of heels in the corridor outside stirred him from his reverie. That would be Sarah, at last. He crossed the room and opened the door just as his supervisor arrived at her room.
“S-Sarah?” Roger stammered.
In the few hours since he last saw her, Sarah had changed again. The slender, unremarkable figure he remembered had been replaced by a sweep of womanly curves. Sarah’s previously bony hips were now soft and full, and her ass had belled into a pretty round bubble. Yet her waist was as narrow as ever. Roger ogled: she must have gained another inch of bust—since that morning!
Roger could see all these improvements at once because Sarah had changed her clothes. Her clinging minidress from earlier had been replaced by a three-button pink sweater and a stretchy red miniskirt set off with a white belt. Her legs were smooth and bare except for a pair of open-toed, white slides with platform, wedge heels. She was wearing an elaborate gold necklace that matched her long earrings.
“Oh, uhm, hi Roger,” she said. She fished her room key out of her purse (her purse?) and tried to unlock the door. She was carrying several more parcels.
Searching for some way to reconcile the curve-baring party girl in front of him with the Sarah that he knew, Roger grasped at the least significant feature: “You—you got you hair done,” he said.
Sarah smiled, nervous, showing perfect teeth and wet-glossed lips. “Uhm, yes, I, I did. I was going to get it cut, it was getting so long, but uhm, when I got in the chair, the stylist, uhm, she convinced me to get it permed instead, and like, well . . . what do you think?” She toyed with a lock with one hand.
“It’s fabulous,” Roger replied, sincerely. “But, how did you end up in a hair salon? Weren’t you going to finish the pressure checks?”
“I—I didn’t quite finish. I had to—dammit I had to buy another bra. The one I got yesterday was too small, or I’m like, retaining water, or something? I’m so big here now!” She ran both hands down her inadequate sweater, emphasizing the obvious. The pink of her nails matched the sweater.
“So I took, like, a quick break to run down to the shops for a new bra, but, like, when I got there, everyone was so damn friendly, and like, excited about getting me out of my old clothes, as if I had come in soaking wet from a rainstorm or something. After I got a new bra—a couple of new bras, several, whatever—they insisted I needed lots of other stuff too. Girls kept giving me things to try on and suggesting this and that and fussing over me and telling me how hot I looked and I, I, uhm, got caught up in the moment.” A nervous giggle escaped her. She shook her head.
Abruptly she said: “I don’t think we should stay here any longer.”
Roger said: “We’re not quite finished the pressure checks.”
“Screw the pressure checks. The system is fine, the rest is a formality. I need to get away from this place. It’s—it’s making me act strange. I’m like, losing my attention span. I get distracted all the time. I can’t seem to get my mind off—I mean, I got into a long conversation with a sales girl in one of the shops, talking about, like sandals. It was interesting. And I can’t stop giggling at everything.“
To prove her point she tittered prettily. The giggles seemed to be involuntary, like hiccups. “Roger, something’s happening to me. I’m, uhm, really horny and confused and—and now I can’t even open the freakin’ door!” She wiggled the key in frustration.
“Try turning it the other way,” Roger said.
Sarah did. The door opened. “I’m such a ditz,” she declared, shaking her head. She giggled again. It made her boobs bounce inside the short sweater. Roger could see lace on her pink bra-cups.
Roger said: “Come down to the pub and have a bite to eat. Then we can decide what to do next.”
Sarah was struggling with her bags. “Uhm, right, yes. We’ll do that. I need to eat something. But, uhm, give me, uh, half an hour. There’s like, something I need to take care of.”
“Sure. I’ll see you downstairs.”
He passed on to the water closet to wash. When he came back, the door to Sarah’s room was closed. There were sounds coming from inside. A buzzing sound like an electric shaver, and long, low moans. The moans didn’t sound unhappy. In fact, it sounded like Sarah was—He stopped that thought before he could think it. He hurried down the stairs to the pub.
Almost an hour passed before Sarah re-appeared. Roger was sitting at a booth in one corner of the pub, with the water-works map spread out in front of him. The evening crowd was beginning to build. Roger was puzzling over Sarah’s notes; she had made numerous mistakes and crossed them out several times. He looked up when Sarah’s approach caught his eye. “Holy shin-a-ding-ding!” he said to himself.
She was looking much more relaxed. She had changed into another outfit: a rouched white pullover and gold leggings that looked sprayed-on. The leggings rode low on her hips, baring her midriff to below her navel. She was wearing some sort of trendy white shoes, like a cross between a high-topped sneaker and an ankle-boot. The shoes had tall wedge heels, gold laces, and decorative gold studs.
Though still an outlier by the preposterous standards of Bimbeauville, Sarah was looking damn fine. More than her physical appearance had changed. She was smiling, for one thing. Until that morning, Sarah had smiled about as often as the Furies.
Roger watched her walk. Her new shoes did not permit her usual impatient stride. The encumbrance didn’t seem to trouble her. Her hips rolled with each step, advertised by the thin gold leggings. There was a feminine delicacy about her now, a new attitude signaled by long lashes, flashy jewellery and big hair. She was sucking on one finger as she walked.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, as she slid in across from him. “Stuff I had to do.” She giggled.
Roger said, “I ordered for you. It’s roast bobwhite quail. Someone around here raises them. It’s pretty good.”
“Thanks. I’m famished. Thirsty too.”
Megan had clearly been waiting because she appeared immediately with Sarah’s meal. Today the waitress was wearing a red stretch dress, not much more than an elongated T-shirt, along with tan hose and purple, calf-high boots. She served Sarah in the usual way, flashing her red bikini panties, and the yummy ass beneath them, at Roger as she bent to set the plate on the table.
“Oh, champion hair-do,” she crooned, admiring Sarah’s new look. “You look soooo much prettier now. Did Tabby do you?” She flexed her hips for Roger’s benefit.
“Oh, you like it?” Sarah said, flustered by the attention. “I wasn’t sure. Yes it was Tabby—Tabby & Co., I think. The girl kinda talked me into it.” She fussed with her hair. New bracelets jangled on her wrist.
“Oh, Tabby can talk a girl into anything,” Megan said with a laugh. “And you should totally let her. That old horse wasn’t pulling the cart. You got your nails done too!
Sarah actually blushed. “Well, I was sitting there in the chair anyway, and it was rather relaxing and everything, so when Tabby suggested a manicure too I said, well, why not?”
“Well now you’re the bright yellow bird, aren’t you. Do you want some water?” She had a pitcher in her free hand.
“Yes, please!”
Megan filled her water glass. Sarah drank half of it at one go. Megan straightened, pretended to tug down the hem of her tiny dress, then waggled her fingers at Roger as she sauntered away. The towering heels on her slick boots no longer surprised him.
Eventually he turned his attention back to Sarah. She was digging into her dinner with gusto. “There’s only a couple more pressure points to check,” he said, indicating the map. “I can do those quick tomorrow morning.”
“Good idea,” Sarah replied. “Then we can get away from here. Bizarre little town. Oh darn, my glass is empty already.”
Roger was distracted. Over by the dartboard, a typical Bimbeauville stunner was trying to play round-the-board with her husband or boyfriend and another man. She was wearing mauve, denim short-shorts, a cut-off red T-shirt, and wildly coloured, platform sandals with what looked like six-inch heels. She had a glass of wine in one hand. She was laughing and flirting and throwing wildly. Sometimes she missed the board completely. She took a sip of wine before each throw.
Roger decided to experiment. “You’ve had enough water,” he said to Sarah. “Try my beer. I’ve barely touched it.” He shoved the pint glass across the table.
“All right!” Sarah said good-naturedly. She took a healthy drink. “Say, that’s not bad,” she opined. “It has a bit of tang. Much better than most local brews.”
“Finish it for me,” Roger said. Sarah did so, and rather quickly. When she was done he signaled Megan to bring her another. It disappeared too, though more slowly. When she started on her third, she drank too fast and spilled some down her chin.
“Oopsie!” she cried, wiping her mouth with one hand. “Look at what I’ve done. A waste of good beer!” She laughed easily. “Oh man, listen to me, I’m a total giggle-head.” To prove her point she collapsed in a helpless fit of giggles that was only ended, finally, by drinking more beer.
Roger was staring. She’s getting drunk, he marvelled. She’s had two glasses of beer and she’s already halfway to happyland. He watched her tits bounce beneath her tight-fitting top. There was a lot to like about this new version of Sarah. Still, he decided on a more prudent course.
“Well, I think I’ve had enough,” he said, rising. He picked up the annotated map. “We should go over the figures before we file our report. There’s a table in my room.”
“No way!” Sarah announced, raising her glass. “I am never never never going to spend my last night in this wacky town doing calc—calcul—calcultations!” She nodded toward the growing crowd around the dartboard. “They look like they’re having fun. Time to meet the locals!”
She got to her feet, helped herself to a deep draft of beer, and wandered off to join the merriment. She had to walk carefully in her funky heels. Her low-riding, gold leggings outlined the shape of her ass and telegraphed the new sway of her hips.
Roger watched her go. I didn’t even know they made shoes like that, he told himself. He picked up the map and retreated to his room.
Much later, he heard the sound of Sarah’s footsteps in the outside corridor. He was sitting at the small table in his room, entering data for their report on his tablet. Roger wasn’t really authorized to file inspection reports. He figured he could get Sarah to review and sign it in the morning. Anyway, he wanted to be sure that certain observations were made circumspectly, for now at least.
Sarah’s footsteps sounded unsteady. He heard a giggle, then the sound of her fussing with the room key. Her door opened, then closed. The buzz of her new vibrator began less than a minute later.
It had been a long day. Roger yawned and set aside his tablet. He needed one more piece of information before he could finish the report. That would come tomorrow.
He decided to forgo the inn’s pleasures for once and get a good night’s sleep. He locked the door before climbing into bed. He forgot that Gina had a key.