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Of course, he could refuse to sign, but then if he wanted to get his rocks off that evening, he would have to rely on the dumpy dowager Henrietta.And so I drove home with a signed listing agreement and the key to the property in my purse. I hummed as I drove, entertaining myself with the thought that I would not only be paying off on a deal but that also I would be getting laid by a rich gentleman, a guy whose only apparent fault was that he cheated on his wife. Not my problem! Quite the contrary, my good fortune.The schedule called for an early dinner and then a long, hot soak in the bathtub. Surrounded by scented candles and my trusty twelve inch boyfriend, I got myself off twice. Why, you ask? Because there's no guarantee that these guys have anything on their minds except a quick cum. If they're not going to take care of me, I guess I have to do it myself. Frank seemed like a nice guy, but I had no idea if he still had the stamina, or the interest, to give me an orgasm.I hung up. I was getting knocked around quite a bit and had lost where the stairs were when suddenly there was a ding of an elevator followed by... "HEY YOU GUYS! COME AND GET ME, YOU PICKLE HEADED SHIT FOR BRAINS!"I almost got run over by the crowd of pickles running to silence the non-pickled voice, and I was so stunned by this it took me a good ten seconds to realize they had totally forgotten about me."RUN FOR THE STAIRS, IDIOT!" the muffled amplified voice said over the roar of "Pickle! Pickle!" just as I had turned to do so.When I got to the stairs, I found not only the bottom clear of pickles, but the landings above also void of pickles despite knowing there had to be pickles up there somewhere. I climbed to the first landing as quickly as I could, then paused a moment to get my breath back while straining my telepathic senses for my fellow pickle refugees.A distant repetitive clanging drew my attention just as it stopped, and I held my breath listening anxiously, sensing it was a signal.
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