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want to think about.
    To hell with
it, I would focus on the Robertson open house I had scheduled for three
o'clock. Just turn off my fucking mind and go buy some damn balloons. Maybe
the rest would just all go away.
    As I watched
Jenny from the balloon shop fill three fat mylars, my phone rang. I fished the
still-stupid ringtone from my purse and answered it without even looking.
    Shit! It
was Norm.
    "Lauren
I've managed to rework that counter offer we spoke about last night," he
said, sounding all business.
    I
appreciated his tone, but my mind was still on fire.
    "Oh,"
I said, "Really? I mean…that's great, right? Well, I assume that's
great, I haven't heard it yet, but I really appreciate…you know what, I'll shut
up now."
    He paused,
waiting for me to regain my composure.
    Then he said
it, "We're offering full asking price, Lauren."
    I reached
for the counter to steady myself.
    "Are
you there?" he asked.
    Jenny smiled
over at me to signal that she had tied off the last balloon.
    "Um,
yes, I'm here," I managed, "Well that is certainly exciting
news."
    "I
thought you'd like that," he said, "It seemed like a win-win, all
things considered."
    I didn't
even want to think about the "things" he was considering, but the
fact is this would mean an $18,000 commission in my back pocket. Nearly double
my largest to date.
    "Why?"
I started, "I mean, do you mind if I ask how they arrived at that
number?"
    He chuckled,
"Well, let's just say they may have been under the impression that a big
investment banker was considering buying the place for a hunting cabin."
    Jenny took
my credit card and rang me up.
    "Norm,
you know you're legally bound to represent your client's best interests in all
matters pertaining to…"
    "What, you're going to preach ethics now?" he interrupted.
    It was a
good point.
    "No, I
suppose not," I said.
    And with
that he hung up.
    Thanking
Jenny, I gathered my balloons and made for the exit.
    I wasn't
sure of Norm's intentions, but I did know this: I was going to that coffee shop
at precisely 1:30, as ordered. I guess I felt like I had earned a little fun
after landing my record-breaking sale. And for some reason having a terribly
beautiful stranger use me for his personal entertainment seemed like just the
thing.
    I raced over
to the Rasmussen house to do some pre-staging before that afternoon's open
house. Placing three signs, each with a balloon, on nearby cross-streets.
Setting out cookies and punch. Making sure there were plenty of flyers
strategically placed around the property. Running a rag over countertops and
light fixtures. I completed it all in record time.
    Now the only
thing left was to practice.
    I walked
into the master bedroom, removed my panties, and sat on the corner of the bed
facing a large wall mirror. Aiming my knees directly at the mirror, I slowly
parted my legs and watched as my pinkness first came into view, then actually
managed to part itself just enough to show off its glistening inner lips.
    I tried
again, even slower this time, imagining its effect on my daring admirer. Would
he prefer the slow reveal, or the quick, playful glimpse? Should I pretend to
be reading something? Drinking my frothy cappuccino? Or--assuming I was
capable--staring into the depths of those two bottomless green pools where his
eyes belonged?
    I reached
down with a middle finger and lightly stroked the outer lips, watching as moist
droplets came to the surface then slowly descended along the seam of my cunt.
My pink, perfect cunt. Why was I suddenly using that word? Women--particularly professional women--were
supposed to hate that word. But
for some reason "pussy" just didn't seem to fit anymore. Pussies had
hair. Pussies wore panties and didn't take orders from naughty strangers. No,
I was definitely looking at a warm, wet cunt. The same one he'd be looking at
in just…holy shit...fifteen minutes!
    I jumped up,
straightened out my skirt, locked the front door and raced for the car.
    Traffic was
backed up