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- 02/04/2017
- 888 Words
- 990 Views
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
The Dame - 3. Chapter 3
Seth and Dorothy take a day trip.
Miss James lived in a row house on one of the nicer streets of Georgetown, cobble stoned and narrow. As I handed her into the passenger side of my car, I couldn't help noticing the way her linen Capris fit nicely along her hips or the creamy white skin that showed from beneath her ponytail. A loose fitting jacket gave her the air of someone off to holiday at the shore not to hunt down a scam artist in the midst of his latest scheme. She made it look effortless, all that beauty packaged so nicely.
"Do you live with your parents?" I asked as we left the city. We took Key bridge over the Potomac River and headed north on the Virginia side.
"My parents passed a few years back."
"Sorry to hear that. No other family?"
She hesitate then replied tersely, "My brother."
I wanted to ask more, get to know the real Dorothy James, find out all her secrets. She clearly had them. Did Damian know that Dorothy? My stomach clenched at the thought. Was I being jealous or just protective?
The scenery tended towards rolling fields of green grass surrounded by wooded tracts. It had been a while since I'd left the city and this change soothed some of my nerves. Dorothy managed the map I'd located, navigating us through the suburban terrain.
Eventually we found the address Damian had given his mother and stopped in front of a large Tudor style house sitting on the corner lot of a quiet residential neighborhood. I looked at Dorothy and asked quietly, "What now?"
Her eyes glance over to me without moving her head then returned to looking at the house. "Are you up for a bit of adventure, Mr. Graham?"
Not sure where this was going, I replied, "What'd you have in mind?"
"Park the car."
I'd barely gotten the car pulled over when she bounced out. As I came around, she slipped her arm through mine and steered us up the walk way to the front door. "Just follow me".
She gifted me with that radiantly innocent smile of hers with which I was beginning to think she could get cash out of my Uncle Leo, a notorious skinflint. Between that smile and the warmth of her arm on mine, I'd yet to blink by the time the door opened.
It was answered by a woman I’d guess to be in her early 40's, immaculately dressed for a late lunch or early cocktails. She seemed unsurprised at our arrival on her doorstep. "May I help you?"
Dorothy took the lead, "My husband and I were driving by, saw your lovely home and just had to stop", she gushed.
"It's just so beautiful and exactly the kind of house we're looking for. I was hoping you could tell us about the neighborhood."
Responding with a smile, the woman preened, "Why, thank you. You are so kind. We haven't lived here long but it has been a very quiet neighborhood as you can tell." She gestured outwardly. "Are you two newlyweds?"
I looked at Dorothy just as she tightened her grip on my arm, "Why, yes, we are! Does it show?" She blushed like, well, like a new bride.
This set to mind an image of her lying on a bed, her milky white skin translucent in the low light, wearing only white - lacy white bra stretched across a broad chest which tapered down to a trim waist, white lace panties encasing a firm derriere, white stockings held up with white garters over strong muscular legs. As my brain stuttered from this mental overload, I found Dorothy giving me a sly look as if she knew exactly what I was thinking and didn't mind one bit.
The woman, Jennifer was her name, invited us into her home where we sat together on a pale green couch in a beautifully appointed living room. When she offered us coffee, Dorothy accompanied her to the kitchen. I took the opportunity to nose around. The place spoke of new wealth and a need to show it although there appeared to be no one else in the house. I glimpsed up the stairs to the second floor but couldn’t see much as the flight turned in the opposite direction at the first landing.
Once the ladies returned to the living room, I moved to stand by the window and gazed out over the back yard. The house had a large tract of wooded land behind it which appeared to extend for at least another full lot. On the street side of the woods a small structure stood about the size of a large garage.
I asked Jennifer about it to which she replied, "Oh, that was at one time some sort of carriage house but it was remade into a bungalow. We have a boarder who's a lovely gentleman from the city as well. Someone my husband knows."
Dorothy and I looked at one another and she nodded in affirmation of the unspoken suggestion. I wasn't sure what my face had added to that conversation but I figured we both now knew where we'd find Damian's fingerprints.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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