Sintown Chronicles II: Through Bedroom Windows

by David O. Dyer, Sr.

  Murmurs rose from the crowd.

  “It is true that you will not be forced to tap onto these services, but it is also true that if you don't tap on, you will be assessed an availability fee of sixteen dollars a month. Your property value will increase, but that's all you will get for your money. Since the fee is not a tax, you can't even take it as a deduction on your income tax returns."

  “Why haven't we been told this before?” someone shouted.

  “I'm telling you now. A vote for incorporation is not a vote for water and sewer. You will vote on that later. There is a better way to do it. I spent most of the day Friday in county offices in Charlotte. I discovered that Dollar Enterprises has quietly bought all the property on both sides of Old Charlotte Road from the fire station all the way to the Charlotte City limits. The lines will be laid along this highway all the way to the church, and Dollar Enterprises will be assessed the major cost. We can then take the line down Highway 13 to the Schoolhouse Road and up as far as Dottie Frank's property. We can add lines later when we are better able to afford it."

  “How much will this cost us?” someone shouted.

  “The proposed charter allows us to assess ourselves a tax rate of up to twenty cents on the hundred. We have been talking about a rate of nine cents. If we increase that to fourteen cents, we can pay for the lines with assessments and tax dollars. There will be no availability fees, but, of course, property values will not increase until your property is served."

  “Ma'am."

  Deborah searched for the one who spoke. Jonathan Sprinkle was standing, his hands tightly clinched at his sides.

  “Yes, Mr. Sprinkle?"

  “You know I am one of the people you said was having a hard time making ends meet. I'm not ashamed to admit it. How do you think I can pay these taxes?"

  Deborah smiled warmly. “A benefit of water and sewer that I have not mentioned is the possibility of bringing new industry to Dot. When I become mayor, I promise to dedicate my time to doing just that, and I have already begun working on it. Mr. Sprinkle, are you familiar with the greenhouse project of Penny Taylor and Tim Dollar?"

  “I can't afford the franchise fee."

  “You can now, and so can anyone in Dot who is interested. My personal financial situation is a private matter, but the fact is, my late husband left me well off. I will loan you, and anyone else interested, the necessary funds for a greenhouse franchise. It isn't charity, Mr. Sprinkle. It's a business investment and I will charge interest."

  Deborah did not see Buzz slip out of his chair and was surprised when he placed a can of Pepsi-Cola on the podium. She sipped the beverage and smiled. “Thanks Buzz,” she said. “I needed that. See folks, I told you he's a nice guy."

  The crowd chuckled warmly.

  “Most of you know Jake and Jo Everhart,” she continued as she nodded to her left. “I met them while I was going door to door. They have a rapidly growing mail-order business. They plan to build a warehouse and will need to employ as many as fifty people."

  For the first time during the town meeting, the audience applauded.

  “This is just the beginning,” she said. “I will continue to work for you—for us—to bring more jobs to Dot."

  She turned and smiled at Tim and Sandra. “The Dollars know that they will benefit greatly from incorporation. Because they are modest, they haven't yet announced it, but Dollar Enterprises will donate a million dollars towards the construction of a town hall and another million to the town treasury to get us off on a sound fiscal basis.” She led the audience in applause.

  Tim and Sandy forced smiles to their lips and nodded.

  Through clinched teeth Tim said, “I'm going to get that bitch."

  Deborah held up her hand for silence after again sipping the Pepsi. “You may not think much of me personally, but I am the best damn school principal in the entire state. I've devoted my life to education. My record speaks for itself. If you vote for incorporation, I will see to it that Dollar Enterprises does not control the town council. I won't let them. I'll always tell you the truth. I'll always represent the best interests of the people of Dot. If you give me the chance, I'll be the best damn mayor any town ever elected."

  Somewhere outside the pavilion someone said, “Deb-bie, Deb-bie, Deb-bie.” Others joined in and soon the entire audience was standing and clapping their hands in time with the chant. Strong arms pulled her from the platform and embraced her. Hands patted her back as other hands found and shook hers.

  Buzz stood aside and beamed as the Dollars made a hasty exit.

  * * * *

  Buzz parked the Mercedes in his driveway and set the parking brake.

  “You haven't said a word all the way home,” Deborah said sadly. “You're pissed because I didn't spread my legs while sitting on the platform. Buzz, I'm sorry. I just couldn't do it."

  “Get out of the damn car,” he ordered.

  She obeyed and stood, trembling, beside the passenger door as he approached. He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. “I have never been so proud in all my life,” he said. “Are you really going to marry me?"

  She nodded against his shoulder as tears cascaded down her cheeks.

  “Will I be Mr. Andrews or will you be Mrs. Adams?"

  “I'll be Teach and you'll be Master,” she replied.

  He covered her left breast with his hand and kissed her passionately. “I like Debbie and Buzz better,” he said.

  He took her hand and, as they walked to the front door, he said, “I have just one question."

  She looked up at him.

  “What the hell is an epiphany?"

  Chapter Twenty-five

  June stood behind the school building, sipping a large cup of iced tea, holding a second cup in her left hand, and watching Frank run his tractor with reel-mower attachment over the schoolyard.

  I know he saw me, she counseled herself. Just be cool. Curiosity will get the best of him.

  She was right. He drove the tractor across the grass and shut off the motor directly in front of her.

  “You want something?” he asked while remaining in the sweat drenched seat.

  “I thought you might like some iced tea,” she said as she approached.

  “I don't need any favors from you,” he replied gruffly.

  “Suit yourself,” she said. She placed the extra cup on the ground.

  “Things have changed, Frank. We need to talk."

  “Get on with it,” he said. “I'm busy."

  She nodded. “Me too. I am going to start my bookkeeping service earlier than originally planned. I rented an office from Creasy Green. Jay is going to get things started while I continue to learn."

  He hopped off the tractor, picked up the cup and pulled off the plastic top. “Jay—he's your professor?"

  She nodded. “I need to know if you still want me to handle your books?"

  “If your price is fair."

  “I'll charge you the same as everyone else."

  “I heard Sandra Dollar say they are going to throw their business your way."

  She nodded again and forced a laugh. “It's been a hectic day,” she said. “I've been out of town and got home about one. I went by Creasy Green's office and then to the diner to have lunch and get you some tea. Tim was in the diner and we talked about it."

  “How many times a week do you have to sleep with him for his business?"

  “Once a day and twice on Sundays. Is that about your schedule with Sandy?"

  “Is he a good bed athlete, June?"

  “I was kidding, Frank. You know I've never had sex with Tim."

  “I was talking about Jay."

  “Jay is my teacher and friend. That's all."

  “Bullshit. At the last minute, I decided to go to Myrtle Beach Friday morning for Maggie's wedding. I stayed at the Holiday Inn South. I was in the lobby when you checked in."

  “I went to the beach with Jay to attend the convention of the North Carolina Society of Accountan
ts. It was wonderful. I learned so much, and it was the first time I'd seen the ocean, but it won't be the last. I loved it."

  “Is he good, June? Is he as good as I am?"

  “Frank!"

  He crumpled the cup and threw it to the ground. “I followed you to your room. You both went in the same door. Admit it. The woman who pretended to love me made out with her professor all weekend. Did he give you good grades, June?"

  “It's none of your business, Frank Skinner,” she said, fighting back the tears. “For your information, we had adjoining rooms. I meant to fuck his damned brains out to get even with you. We rolled around naked on his bed for hours Friday night. I stayed dry as sandpaper and he was as limp as an overcooked noodle."

  She lost the battle with her tears.

  “Jay said he couldn't get it up because he knew how much I love you and I didn't get aroused for the same damn reason, but I'll get over you. Every time I think of your head between that bitch's legs I grow to hate you a little more."

  “June, I..."

  “Shut up, Frank. One day Jay and I will get it on. He's a wonderful man. He's tired of teaching and has resigned. He is going into business with me. I offered to let him move in with me, but he won't do it because of you. When I was in Creasy Green's office today, he told me the barber and his wife moved into their new home on Lumbermill Road over the weekend. I rented their apartment for Jay. He'll move in later this week."

  “I find it hard to believe the guy saw you naked and couldn't screw you."

  “I don't care what you think, Frank Skinner.” She whirled around and started for the parking lot.

  “June."

  She stopped. “What?"

  “Come here."

  She looked at him. He was pointing at the ground in front of him. “What now?” she asked as she retraced her steps.

  He folded her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers.

  She fought him for two seconds, then sagged against him. He was fumbling with her jeans. She didn't care. His hand was inside her panties. She wanted the hand lower. His middle finger parted her labia. She moaned.

  He broke the kiss. “You're soppy wet."

  She pushed her pubic bone against him. “You're hard as a rock."

  She slid her hands over his chest, stroked his hips and headed for his thighs. Her left hand paused over the right pocket of his jeans as he fondled her breasts.

  “Is ... is that what I think it is?” she asked, pressing her hand against his pocket.

  He reached into the pocket and produced the ring. He held it for her as she slipped her finger into it.

  “Don't ever take it off again,” he instructed.

  “Don't ever slip it to Sandy Dollar again—or anyone else for that matter."

  “Deal."

  Finis

  BOOK 6

  Delilah Delight

  By

  David O. Dyer, Sr.

  Chapter One

  It was one o'clock in the morning. The last performance was in progress—the performance she hated most. As she pranced around the stage, the heat from the brilliant klieg lights along with her strenuous gyrations pumped perspiration from every pore of her body. For reasons she would never understand, the drooling men in the audience liked looking at her glistening skin.

  The lights blinded her. She was thankful she could not see the faces of the audience, but she could hear them—smell them.

  “Take it off, Delilah. Take it all off,” someone shouted.

  It's almost time, she thought as she turned her backside to the audience and seductively ran the middle finger of her right hand down the indentation between her buttocks. Delilah Delight—what a hell of a stage name, and yet, it has the erotic sound these jerks want.

  The thick smoke lying heavily in the air was suffocating and the stench of alcohol brought her to the verge of regurgitation, as it always did, and still she smiled seductively, pranced and shook her body ridiculously. Why do I do this night after night?” she asked herself for perhaps the thousandth time. Because I make more in one night as a stripper than I could make in a month as a secretary, she reminded herself as she again faced the audience with feet wide apart.

  She ground her hips against an imaginary lover and the audience hooted their approval. “Let's see some tit,” someone demanded over the din of loud drumming music and general lewd comments.

  There's not much more to see, you dumb ass, she thought, clasping her hands behind her back and leaning over towards the gawking men. She wiggled her shoulders frantically, causing her large breasts to almost, but not quite, bounce out of the tiny red brassier she wore.

  “Take off the bra!” someone demanded.

  “Play with them thangs,” another customer demanded.

  She again assumed a wide stance, bumping and grinding her hips, and squeezing her breasts while tilting her head upwards, as if in sexual ecstasy. Slowly—tantalizingly slowly—she moved her fingers to the clasp between her breasts. She teased the audience by slightly separating the cups and closing them again.

  When the roar from the appreciative voyeurs reached a fever pitch, she tossed the garment over her shoulders and wiggled it down her shapely arms. She pranced around the small stage, shaking her breasts and giving every customer a good view.

  It's time, damn it. Come on, Shelly. You've done it every night except Mondays for the past year. You can do it once more. She pranced her way to the left rear of the horseshoe shaped little stage, squatted with knees wide apart and sidestepped to her left, stroking her aching thighs and red g-string covered crotch.

  When she reached the right rear of the elevated platform, she moved to center stage and slowly duck-walked to the front, sensuously pushing the fabric between her labia with the middle finger of her right hand and fondling her breasts with the long, graceful fingers of her left hand. Only those with stage-side tables could hear her imitation moans of pleasure, but the well-rehearsed expression on her face conveyed the false message all the way to the tables in the back of the room.

  She stopped when she reached the front edge of the stage, lay on her back, lifted her legs into the air and slipped her hand under the crotch of her g-string. She moved the back of her hand against the fabric, making the salivating men think she was furiously masturbating. I wonder how many of you idiots are jerking off right now?

  “Okay, guys,” a male voice boomed from the speaker system, “the time has come. Number one two one three, come on down!"

  She strained to get a peek at tonight's tormentor as two bouncers placed portable steps on one side of the stage. For a change, she thought, he's decent looking—tall, thin and a mop of black hair.

  She rolled over and balanced on her hands and knees. She wagged her dangling breasts while crawling towards the top of the stairs as the bouncers briefed tonight's lucky customer on what he could and could not do. One false move, Hayseed, and my guys will beat the shit out of you. It's happened before and will happen again if you get out of line.

  She watched the serious-faced man climb the steps and kissed his shoes when he stood before her. She felt his hands on her arms and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Following the script, she locked her arms around his neck and lifted her head for the expected kiss.

  He placed his hands lightly on her back, bypassed her lips and pressed his cheek against hers. “Fake it,” he said into her ear.

  What the hell do you think I've been doing all night?

  He offered her his open lips, but when she pressed hers against him, she did not feel his tongue probing her mouth. What the fuck...?

  He again nuzzled his cheek next to hers as she ground her pubic mound against him. He has an erection and a damn big dick. What's wrong with this guy? “Fondle my ass, Dummy,” she demanded.

  “No."

  “Bastard! You'll get me fired."

  She knew he moved his hands to the desired spot, but she could not feel his touch. “Fake it,” he repeated.

  “Shit. Cornball, can y
ou dance?” she improvised.

  He nodded against her cheek, placed his right hand on the small of her back and offered her his left.

  “You dance good, Asshole, but this is supposed to be a sex show. Play with my damn ass."

  Reluctantly he slipped his right hand to her hip.

  “Smile, damn it,” she demanded through her own rehearsed upturned lips. “You're supposed to be enjoying my body."

  They danced around the stage while the customers hooted. “Strip the bitch,” someone demanded.

  When they returned to the front of the tiny stage, she pleaded with him. “You've got to do it. Take off my g-string."

  “No."

  Again improvising, she grabbed his crotch. The crowd roared their approval. “Follow the damn script,” she begged.

  “Only if you'll go out with me after the show."

  “I'm not a whore."

  “I would have no interest in you if I thought you were."

  “I don't date customers."

  “Then I won't pull down your g-string and kiss your snatch."

  “I have a two year old kid."

  “Boy or girl?"

  “Girl."

  “I like kids."

  “You're not my type."

  “Breakfast at the Pancake Barn right after the show."

  “I have to get home. The babysitter will be frantic."

  “Then breakfast at your place."

  “I'm not going to fuck you."

  “I never have sex on a first date."

  “Shit,” she said in surrender.

  He knelt at her feet and slowly pulled down the damp shred of crimson cloth. He placed his closed lips against her shaved labia and held the position as she exaggeratedly ground her hips against his face, her hands pulling at his thick hair.

  He bent his face lower and kissed her naked feet and painted toenails.