Tortoise and Hare Redux

Finally, the house next door sold. It had been on the market and empty for well over a year, and the Templetons, Arlo and Victoria, had worried about what might become of it. Continuing to sit empty, it must certainly be affecting property values in their up-scale neighbourhood. What if it were purchased on spec, by some off-shore corporation or investor, with no intension of occupying it? But, no. The house had apparently been bought by a young fellow who intended to live there. So, Ari and Tory were quite looking forward to actually meeting their new neighbour.

The new owner was Jock Ferguson, a twenty-six-year-old fireman who had received an inheritance. He was the only grandchild of his recently deceased grandmother, and the sole recipient of her almost three-million-dollar estate. He had used it to buy, outright, a really nice house in an upscale neighbourhood that he couldn't ever have otherwise afforded.

Jock was a transplant from back east. Named Jacques for his French heritage, he objected to being called Jack, with a short-A; but, as English speakers generally had difficulty with the initial 'zh' sound of Jacques, he generally just went with Jock.

He spent all his spare time over the first several months of home-ownership puttering on various projects, fixing up the house. As a fireman, he worked shift work, so, he was often home during the day. With all his comings and goings, it was, of course, inevitable, that he got to know his neighbours, at least those on the one side—the Templetons. They often chatted in the side-by-side driveways and over the fence. Arlo and Tory were a fairly wealthy and successful couple, heading into—or, as they would say, "...on the verge of early retirement." In any case, they seemed like nice people. Jock learned that Arlo was fifty-one, and had been—still was, part time—a fashion industry consultant. "In fact, I still run a consulting office, for limited clientele."

His wife, Victoria—Tory for short—was forty-nine. And while she had come from a wealthy family, she had, nonetheless, made it on her own, as a designer, and had recently sold her very successful business. "She's still quite the fashionista," Arlo bragged, then added with a chuckle, "I suppose I'm something of a fashionista, too."

It wasn't too long before his sprucing-up renovations came together and Jock deemed the house 'fixed-up satisfactorily.' Then, almost immediately, Jock introduced the Templetons, his neighbours, to his fiancé, Ariel. Arlo laughed. "Let me guess: Ari for short." He pronounced it Ă-ree, with a short A. "Am I right?" Ariel nodded demurely. "That'll get confusing! I'm Ari for short, as well, though I pronounce it ARE-ee."

"Oh, just ignore him," Tory suggested, nodding at her still chuckling husband. "I'm Tory," she smiled, shaking Ariel's hand warmly. "Welcome to the neighbourhood." As they chatted, it came out that Ariel had met Jock after an evacuation for a small fire in the building in which she worked. She had grown up in a smallish city up north, and moved to the big city a year earlier to pursue her long-dreamt-of career as a fashion designer.

"Isn't that a hoot?" Tory laughed. "That's the business both Ari and I were—still are, I suppose—in." Ariel was flabbergasted—flabbergasted, but absolutely thrilled. Tory who, in fact, just loved coincidences like that, went on as if such synchronicity was an everyday occurrence. "What are you into right now?"

Ariel's shoulders slumped a little. "Well, I'm still sketching designs at home, in what spare time I have—what with the wedding and all." She paused, heaving a deep breath. "...clothing of all kinds. But I'm currently working as a seamstress, for Deanna Marcos, an up-scale, exclusive dressmaker, downtown. D'you know her?"

"Deanna? Oh yes," Tory replied, with an indecipherable look.

"It's a job, anyway," Ariel sighed.

"No. A job is a greeter at Wal-Mart, or a server at MacDonald's. What you've got is a foot in the door—an entry into the industry."

Over the next while, the Templetons seemed to take a genuine interest in their young neighbours, and it became apparent that they thought of the soon-to-be newlyweds sort of like younger siblings. In fact, fertilized by Victoria's encouragement and nourished by their common interest, the two women quickly developed a real kinship.

The wedding of Jock and Ari was held in their back yard, as was the reception, so, of course, they invited the Templetons. They had also considered inviting Neil and Caroline, their neighbours on the other side, but there was something odd about that couple. At first it just seemed that he, Neil, was always working, then his wife seemed to come and go, wraith-like, and dressed increasingly—what?—rather too tartish for someone her age. Most recently he was around a little more but she hadn't made an appearance in ages. Ari wondered, for a moment, what their story was. Nonetheless, she decided that they just didn't know the couple well enough, and put them out of her mind. [See Anticipation and Satisfaction for the whole story.]

A little bit larger than life, Arlo and Tory fit into the party extremely well. Even so. Ariel felt, at times, somewhat embarrassed by her extroverted neighbours, who were, to say the least, rather over the top lewd and crude. Still, they were very convivial and jocular, and warm, so, the newlyweds, and their guests, all innocently enjoy the company of their new friends.

In the weeks that followed, the two couples visited a lot, sharing meals and barbeques, and evening drinkies. While the topics varied, they very often discussed either fashion or real estate. Notwithstanding, those conversations were often peppered, even filled, with inuendo, suggestiveness, and off-colour jokes, which the youngsters always found unexpectedly titillating. Occasionally Tory got Ariel to show her some of her sketches, which were, as she told her hubby later on, "...more than a little impressive!"

It turned out that Ariel and Arlo sometimes took the same train into the city, though they hadn't, initially, realize it. For some reason, when Arlo first spotted her boarding at the station, he stayed out of sight, and decided to watch her secretly for the time being. So, one day, unbeknownst to her, Arlo witnessed Ariel meet an old boyfriend and have coffee at a sidewalk cafe near the downtown station. His interest piqued, Arlo continued his clandestine surveillance, and noticed the meetings took place fairly often. He observed that Ari and her mystery man seemed to have very serious discussions. Curious, he stayed out of sight, and—Why? He wasn't sure—took surreptitious photos. Then, after some time of shadowing, Arlo took the opportunity, when it finally presented itself, to 'meet' her, and sit with her on the train.

In conversation, Ariel found Arlo intriguing, even attractive, but felt there was something a bit dangerous about him, too. He was a bit too sincere, his smile a bit too wide, and she felt that she had to be ever so slightly on alert around him. Then, one day, after riding together two or three times, Arlo asked, with a feigned casualness, "Who was that I saw you having coffee with the other day?"

"What?" Ariel seemed surprised. Maybe, even, caught out. "Where?"

"Timmy Ho's—down by Downtown station." Arlo was watching her closely.

"Oh. That was just Samuel," she replied, her shoulders visibly relaxing. "He's a fellow student—a former fellow student from college. He landed a real plum job—right out of school! We were just discussing establishing a network in industry." Dropping her voice conspiratorially she added, "Truth is, I was looking for some help from him—maybe putting me in touch with someone."

"And...?"

"He wasn't much help. Actually, none at all." She shrugged her shoulders. "Too wrapped up in himself, and his own success." Ari then paused, and, looking somewhat cowed, asked, sotto voce, "I'd appreciate it if you did not share that information with Jock—just yet."

Arlo felt a mixture relief and disappointment in finding out that the apparent 'trysts' he'd witnessed were completely innocent. Still, "A wee bit early in your marriage for those kinds of secrets," he thought; nevertheless, he smiled as he nodded. "Not to worry, my dear. Your secret's safe with me." He, then, filed Ari's 'secret' away, for possible future exploitation.

Over the next little while, during their subsequent conversations on the train, Arlo quietly suggested that perhaps he could help Ari establish contacts, if she wanted. He made off-handed comments, like, "I was talking to Jules—y know, Jules at Manda's— and she said..." or "As a matter of fact, I had a chance to mention your name when I was talking to Peter at Alenzia, the other day...," generally including a bit of name-dropping—sort of dangling tidbits of hope for Ariel. In that way, he gradually got to admitting, "You know, networking contacts in the fashion industry is pretty well exactly my expertise." He loved the way her eyes went wide at that revelation. Then they were at the station, and parted ways.

The next time they rode in together, Arlo picked up where he's left off. "As you know, I refer to myself as a fashion industry consultant, but I haven't mentioned, yet, that, as a consultant, I often act as an agent—for select designers."

Arlo detected a glitter in Ari's eyes. Her mouth opened but no words came out, before he went on. "Although miles below the likes of Alfred Sung or Versace," he gave a self-deprecating chuckle, "I've worked tirelessly behind the scenes, connecting many designers with local haute couture manufacturers."

"Whoa." Ariel was genuinely impressed. She whispered tentatively, "D'you think you could...?"

"I think I—we, Tory and I—could represent you—take you on as a client, if you'd like." He gave her an almost paternal smile. Ariel, thrilled at the prospect, nodded, excitedly. "I've said it before, probably more than once, but," Arlo declared, placing a hand on her thigh as emphasis, "The fashion industry is really more a culture than a career—let alone simply a job. And I think you're ready!"

Meanwhile, Tory had begun to chat up Jock, over the fence, whenever she got the chance, especially while their spouses were away. To begin with, she asked for help with a few little things around the yard and the house. Then she invited him to linger a while, ostensibly for coffee. Jock found her viscerally attractive, but a little scary—exciting, somehow.

During one of their conversations, Tory asked how things were going. Jock replied, half in jest, "I think I'll be needing a second job, just to pay the taxes. At least until Ari gets her business built up."

"Well, from what I understand, Ari seems to be making real inroads into the fashion industry—the fashionista culture." Jock nodded as Tory paused to sip her coffee, before continuing, "For that's what it is, you know—a culture." She looked appraisingly at Jock, then added, "Just as firefighting is more a calling than just a job, eh?"

Jock nodded in agreement, while ruefully muttering, "Though she's sure not bringing in the big bucks yet."

For a long moment, Jock could feel Tory's continued, intense stare and was relieved when she finally spoke again. "You know, you could try modelling—in your spare time—as a stop-gap second income. Until Ariel hits pay-dirt."

"Modelling? Nah. You're joking," Jock mutters, although he could see in her face that she was not.

"Sure. It'd get you involved in your wife's field as well." Tory smiled to herself, at the flabbergasted look on Jock's face. "Besides, underwear models can bring in good coin."

"Underwear?"

"Why not?" Troy breezed.

"Geez, I've never even thought of that—ever."

Tory threw him a cheeky grin over her shoulder as she moved on, "Well, think about it now." And so, the seed was planted.

Next time they spoke, Jock picked up the earlier conversation straight away. "Do you think I could?"

"Absolutely! If I'm not mistaken, you've certainly got the body for it. Here," she gestured coaxingly, "lift your shirt, and show me what you've got." Almost shyly, Jock raised his tee to display a well-defined chest and six-pack abs. "Mmmmm. Yum."

The Templetons often found themselves discussing their young neighbours, while sitting around at home nursing a pre-dinner drink. They were rather pleased with themselves, and the career help they were providing. Both agreed that, while Ari was definitely a budding talent and was well worth representing and promoting, Jock had much more potential than he himself was even slightly aware of.

Their conversations, even when on a serious vein, were peppered with frequent innuendo and bawdy humour. While not having a full-blown 'open' relationship, the randy couple, Arlo and Tory, tolerated the occasional infidelity, looking at extra-marital sex more like a dietary supplement, than a transgression. Still, they danced on tiptoes around the subject of possibly sharing and trading partners when visiting with the Fergusons.

"They're such a cute couple," Tory observed. "Either one looks good enough to eat."

"You're telling me!" Arlo agreed heartily, giving his wife a laden wink, then suggesting, "Maybe, we really should work on that."

Tory didn't say that she already fully expected that, before too long, her husband would try something with their cute, naïve neighbour. Instead, she issued a peremptory challenge. "I'll bet you I can fuck Jock before you get into Ariel."

"Oh ho," Arlo guffawed. "You really think so, do you?"

"I'm confident."

"You're on, my dear," he purred, reaching across to shake his wife's hand. "And what, pray tell, does the winner win."

"Come on...? I should think the win itself would be prize enough?"

"I s'pose you're right in that. Shall we let the game begin?"

"No time like the present," Tory allowed, finishing her drink and retiring back into the kitchen.

And, just like that, the challenge got underway. And, as much as it began subtly, almost inconspicuously, Tory and Arlo commenced their deliberate, low-key, but relentless, parallel seductions. Arlo figured Tory had the much easier task, indeed Tory did, too. Generally speaking, girls had a lot more moral baggage to get around, still, determined to enjoy the game, regardless of the outcome, each expertly played their respective target like sport fishermen.

Now, frequently sitting together on their commute, Arlo and Ariel seriously discussed fashion and the fashion industry. Ari began to shyly share some of her designs with Arlo, whom she had started to think of as a mentor. In the afternoons, they would often meet, initially in coffee shops, then in lounges, to continue their discussions—their topics encompassing all aspects of the culture—the lifestyle, as it were.

"Fashion is all compromise," Arlo declared, "and it vacillates, depending on circumstances, between prudish and tarty; conservative and liberal; classic and chic; staid and trendy." Ari looked at him with raised eyebrows, prompting him to elucidate. "Think about it," he went on, just catching himself as he realized he was about to start pontificating. He took a breath and deliberately turned the intensity down a notch. "You've got unlimited choices restrained by arbitrary fashion edicts: pants vs skirts; jackets vs sweaters; sleeves vs bare arms; necklines—buttoned-up vs plunging vee." He paused, taking a moment to enjoy his young acolyte's rapt attention. "And what of skirts and dresses? Halters, strapless; blousy-loose vs slinky tight; micro-minis vs floor length gowns; peasant dresses vs A-line office-wear?"

In an effort to demonstrate her understanding of his point, Ariel suggested other examples of fashion's on-going dichotomy. "How about leotard-tights vs garter secured stockings; warm-up leggings or ankle socks?" Over the next few sessions they enjoyed a fullness of philosophical ponderings.

At one point, Arlo talked about the place and use of bras: elastic support, tubes vs braless. And, to emphasize his point, he casually—while saying, "For some women, of course, the support of a good bra is absolutely essential,"—reached over and undid the top two buttons of Ari's blouse.

Ariel was flabbergasted—and paralyzed with shock. Without missing a beat, Arlo continued his discourse, staring intently into his companion's eyes and giving an acknowledging nod to the front-clasp of her bra, unclipped it. "But you, for example, don't need this at all." The truth of that remark became immediately apparent when he effortlessly and expertly removed Ari's bra from beneath her blouse with a practiced sleight-of-hand. Ari was speechless at his audacity!

A 32B, Ariel was small but perky as hell. Hefting them casually from outside her blouse, Arlo coolly observed, in a quick aside, "Your breasts, by the way, are delightfully perfect." Giving a pleasurable sigh he added, "Nothing better—in shape or feel—than obviously natural tits, like yours."

"Th-th-thanks," Ari sputtered, even more surprised—if that was possible—that he left his one hand resting familiarly on the heaving slope of her chest, while he carried on discussing exposed chests, décolletage, and cleavage.

"Even visible areolas and barely covered nipples have their place." He punctuated his remarks by openly pinching and twisting Ariel's nipples through the thin material of her blouse. "It is, in fact, my strong opinion that 'high-beams' very often—nay, usually—enhance a look, and are a seriously underrated fashion feature."

It took all of Ari's concentration to not react—neither to his amazing audacity and tremendous nerve, nor to the zing of arousal that his presumptuous treatment elicited. Craftily and repeatedly Arlo drew Ari's focus back to the topic, obliging her to participate in the dialogue, until it became unclear in Ari's mind about whether or not his repeated touching—the tactile aspect of the conversation—was actually inappropriate or not.

Despairing at the everyday examples of fashion faux pas, Arlo ranted, "And on the subject of panties, so many people don't realize that some styles call for—nay, absolutely demand either thongs or going commando. I mean, how many times have you seen the perfect ass, in a tight skirt or stretchy pants, marred by panty-lines?" Here, he casually ran his hand over and around Ari's butt-cheek, and finding it seamless, concluded, "I mean... Geez!"

Another time, while talking about size and fit, Arlo made a rather surprising assertion. "You know, contrary to popular sentiment, I believe camel-toes—perhaps, more often than not—have a special place in a well put-together outfit. I mean, a modest—if I can use that word in this context—crotch crease, somewhere between the Barbie-doll smoothness of high-waisted big-whities, and the skanky canyon of a chubby girl in too-tight yoga pants. You get the picture?" They were sitting, nursing drinks, in a dark corner of a quiet liquor-lounge. "Here," he directed, "stand up for a sec."

Abruptly reaching up under the hem of her top, Arlo gave Ari's waistband a solid yank. "Oooch!" Ariel gasped, furtively glancing about for witnesses. "What are you..."

Dropping his hand down, between her legs, Arlo ran his fingertip up the resulting crevasse of her wedgie. Letting her top fall down again, partially shielding her pubis, Arlo gave a satisfied smile as he reclined back a bit to appreciate the view. "You see, that's subtle in its attraction—but attractive, nonetheless." Leaning forward once again, he momentarily laid his index finger into the crease of her pudendum, letting his hand gently caress her fabric covered, trimmed bush. "The suggestion of a split vulva highlights the smoothness of one's pubic mound, whether it's bare or upholstered, like yours."

Shocked once more, Ari nodded, puzzled. For some reason the discomfort of the gaunch-pull had morphed into a persistent tingling of her pussy-lips. She could feel her camel-toe begin to gape and leak. Embarrassment be damned; blindingly confused did not begin to describe how she felt.