Curiously enough, my damn cell phone survived the rough treatment that night. After my cute little exhibitionist and I finished our task and cuddled out of it for a while, Bobby went to the bathroom for a quick shower, and I could look around for the device. At first, I didn’t see it anywhere, but when it started chirping again, I was utterly surprised to find it in the fish tank on the shelf beside the kitchen table. The telephone was obviously waterproof, although I had no idea it was. Anyway, it didn’t stop bubbling in the water until I carefully pulled it out to take the call.

Soon after that, Bobby came out of the bathroom, and I thought there would be more awkwardness and an embarrassing silence between us, but everything turned out to be quite natural. She went into my bedroom to get dressed, letting me watch her through the open door, and when she returned to me in the living room to give me a goodbye kiss, I took the opportunity to make out with her on the sofa for a little bit more. In general, we behaved like old sex pals, and it even occurred to me she had actually made up the entire mafia meeting only to sleep with me.

When the usual assuring each other that we should meet again ended and she left my place, I jumped to the bathroom to wash for two minutes, waited a couple more for Bobby to leave my neighborhood, and then hurried down the stairs. It was close to ten in the evening, and I had to drive through half the city to get to a roadside restaurant on the First Ring Road where Sharon was waiting for me. She was the one who called me while I was playing with Bobby in the kitchen, and it was a strange situation. She insisted that her car had quit on her and I should go to the place to take the camera for my gangsters’ show the next day at noon. I wanted to tell her I already had a camera just to see her reaction, but unfortunately, I couldn’t. I had to drive out at night for almost an hour, meet her, and say nothing about it if I wanted the rest of my money.

Forty-five minutes later, I was nearly there—fortunately, there was no heavy traffic so late at night—and I pulled across the street. I stepped out of the car and just started to wonder what I was actually doing there when a woman came out of the restaurant and headed toward me. It was Sharon. Strangely enough, she was all dressed up as if coming from the Oscars. She wore a one-shoulder, open-leg black dress with lace on the breasts, garnished with black long-sleeved gloves and high heels. I doubted she was wearing any underwear with such a garment, and I even wondered how she survived without being raped in this miserable shithole beyond the end of the decent world.

When she got close enough, she said, “Come on! I got stuck a hundred meters up the road.” Then, she led me deep into the darkness.

We slowly and silently walked along the road. The night was unusually mild, with a gentle breeze from the south and moderate humidity. I couldn’t believe it was the middle of March—the Gulf Stream had really gone crazy in recent years. It was making the lives of meteorologists almost painfully hard.

“What took you so long?” Sharon turned her head toward me at some point. As usual, she was mad at me.

“I was working on a girl when you called me,” I replied, intending to annoy her further. “You dragged me out of her, if you know what I mean. I had to make it up to her afterward with some cuddling.”

She puffed in disgust. She thought I was making things up just to exercise my boorish sense of humor. I looked at her. She walked cautiously along the road, holding up her long dress to avoid stepping on its hem. Her high heels didn’t help the task at all. Despite that, her walk was graceful. Her hips swayed seductively in the darkness, and her breasts bobbed up and down invitingly. A man from the last century’s nineteen-forties would have slapped her ass a couple of times by that moment.

“And you? Where have you been?” I asked her after a while, going on with my teasing.

“What?” She didn’t get my point.

“You must’ve been at a dinner party with the president, wearing a dress like that. An environmental stuff, maybe?”

She glared at me, or at least I thought she glared. I couldn’t see her face very well.

“It’s none of your business!” she hissed.

“Of course, it’s none of my business! I’m just trying to keep up a simple conversation while we’re snail-dragging toward your fucking car!” I snapped.

She stopped sharply and pulled her garment further up to remove her shoes. Even in the darkness, I could see she wore nothing underneath. In the split of her dress, her landing strip stood up for a second against the pale background of her hips. Then she took her shoes in one hand, and we kept walking significantly faster and in total silence.

After a couple of minutes, we got to the car and stopped. It was in the service lane with the engine hood lifted. Sharon opened the passenger’s door to take something out, and even before she did it, I already knew what she was looking for. Actually, I not only suspected what I would see but also anticipated how painfully strange it was going to be.

She then gave it to me. It was an analog camera with a massive zoom lens attached to it—precisely the same thing that Bobby had already given me: same type, same model, same trademark—everything! I took the gadget with a sinking heart. This hideous story was getting ever more absurd, and on top of it, the most critical part of it had yet to happen. I was just afraid to think what other weird shit I would have to deal with in the process.

“It’s not digital,” Sharon tried to inform me briefly.

“I know, I know,” I interrupted her, irritated. “Digital photos are not reliable as evidence in court. Their authenticity can be compromised.”

She didn’t even try to give me a questioning look. She didn’t react at all—probably already used to my “natural” intuition. For my part, I didn’t mention anything about Bobby, even though I desperately wanted to see her face if I did. Still feeling angry, I started to play with the camera and accidentally snapped my client’s beautiful ass while she was rummaging for something else in the glove box. The LED flash almost lit up the entire landscape for a brief moment.

Sharon jumped up, startled, as if a bee had stung her. “Did you just snap a picture?” she asked, agitated.

“No, I only tried the flash,” I lied.

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I’ve seen a camera before!”

To be honest, now that I think about it, I’m not sure I took that picture entirely by accident. At that moment, I was already quite mad at my two clients for making a moron out of me, so maybe it was my little rebellion—to get even with them. I had probably hoped to piss off the one in front of me later when she had her film back and saw her ass among the rest of the frames. I surely compromised my job with it, but I couldn’t care less.

“Would it be okay for you to look at my car?” Sharon asked me after a while when she stepped out of the vehicle with a portable flashlight in her left hand and a solid wrench in the other. Her voice was not harsh anymore. “It must be something trivial; it just went dead.”

I shrugged and put the camera on the car roof. “I’m not a mechanic,” I said, “but I could take a look. I don’t think I’ll need the wrench, though.”

“It’s the only tool I have,” she replied nonchalantly, still holding it out.

I took it, went around the vehicle, and bent under the hood. As I did that, I noticed a small dent on the left side of the front bumper, but it was too insignificant to cause any problems for the engine. Sharon stood behind me the entire time with the flashlight in her hand, shining it in all directions. After a few seconds, I turned around, annoyed, grabbed her hand, and concentrated the beam on one particular spot. Then I bent over again.

The car was a Hondsu Amphibia-370Z, as far as I could gather in the darkness, with a hydrogen engine. In fact, one could do very little to fix such a thing. Almost everything under the hood is compressed and sealed for safety reasons, and if something breaks, they usually replace the entire engine with a new one, then connect the dashboard communication plug to the corresponding port, and that’s all. Electric cars are pretty much the same. The time of mechanic magicians really ended a couple of decades ago.

I looked at the port, and, just as I thought, it turned out to be the problem. The thing was unplugged—I could see this even without the help of light. I was also sure it wasn’t accidental because car factories made locking clips to prevent things like that, and only a human hand could detach the cord.

While still inspecting the engine, I felt a quiet stirring behind my back. Sharon nervously moved the beam over to the communication plug as if giving me hints, which I found very suspicious. She had insisted she knew nothing about engines, and I hadn’t announced what I thought the problem was yet! Along with the hint, my client also rubbed her groins against one of my butt cheeks, “innocently” locking it between her naked thighs. It increased my suspicion even further.

“What is it? What is it?” she asked impatiently.

I slowly turned my head back. “I don’t know. Let me take a look first!”

She stopped talking but kept the trembling beam on the communication plug, her body still too close to mine. I put the wrench aside, reached out to put the plug back in place, and finally stood up.

“Go try the engine now,” I said curtly.

“Sure!”

She handed me the flashlight but did it somehow theatrically and a bit too quick. Then she took a step back, and her long evening dress suddenly rustled and dropped down, leaving her totally naked except for her long-sleeved gloves.

Sharon stared at me without moving. At first, I stared back at her but then looked down to avoid embarrassing her, and I noticed I had stepped on the hem of her dress. It had obviously happened while she was thrusting in me. However, I was sure it wasn’t accidental. She stayed like this for almost half a minute without trying to cover herself. As I secretly enjoyed her perfectly rounded boobs and hips, a creeping suspicion started eating me from the inside because lately, I was getting lucky quite too often—almost every time I bumped into a woman. It was unnatural, and I knew nothing good would come from it.

Eventually, Sharon kneeled down to take her dress, her eyes intensely fixed on mine, but her fingers barely touched it. Instead, her hands swerved and reached out for my zipper, undoing it, after which she gave me a tantalizing blowjob without saying a single word. I was so stunned that I couldn’t do anything to stop her, even if I wanted to. And I didn’t! I just watched her, amazed, because she acted as if it were the most trivial thing in the world.

At some point, something strange happened, though. Right before I finished, she sharply stood up to sniff at my neck, making me wonder what was wrong. Then she grabbed the dress and my hand, dragged me to the car door, threw the garment on the backseat, and lay on it. Still wondering what was going on, I thought she must have smelled Bobby’s perfume on me because I hadn’t had time to shower or change my clothes after we had sex. Nevertheless, Sharon said nothing about it, and we continued what we did. Weirdly enough, she never took her gloves off, which had a very arousing effect on me. On them, I actually finished with a quiet explosion a few minutes later. It was only an hour after I had done just the same thing with Bobby.

Everything that happened next happened almost breathtakingly fast. The environmentalist pushed me outside hastily; she got out, too, holding the dress; she put it on, went around to close the hood, grabbed the camera from the car roof, and thrust it into my hands. Finally, she hopped inside the vehicle and tried the engine. There was no cuddling, kissing, or any other pretense of fondness after the act. There were no kisses whatsoever, even during the act, and nothing of it reminded me of the warm and passionate Bobby’s way earlier that evening.

At first, the engine coughed a couple of times, then made a harsh, weird noise and refused to work. Sharon turned her head and looked at me reproachfully as she stepped out. I shrugged and got inside, still dazed by the speed with which the events were swirling around me. I managed to start the Hondsu on the first try, and we switched places again.

Just a minute later, she was gone. I was all alone in the night, and there was nothing around me to serve as evidence for what had happened except my open zipper and the camera in my hands. The bitch had served me and ditched me in the field with the hastiness of a hooker who did her job professionally and hurried for the next one. I couldn’t even figure out what it was all about, and she didn’t even offer to drop me back at my car!

©2016 S.T. Fargo
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