Author: Thinking Horndog
Title: The Risks of Foreclosure
Part: 1 of 2
Universe: The Risks of Foreclosure
Summary: Roger Smithson offers a financial transaction to help a down on their
luck family -- and ends up buying a lot more than a house!

Keywords: MF D/s oral

The Risks of Foreclosure

Copyright © 2007 The Thinking Horndog

Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyrighted with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. Reproduction for profit is
forbidden.  Any distribution must include this note and the author's email
address. Don’t be caught attempting to make a buck off me!

Warnings and disclaimers:

This is adult entertainment!  Be warned!  If you’re not into graphic
depictions of sex, this is the wrong story for you!  If you’re too young to be
legally reading this, move along!

This is a work of fiction.  It is not intended to reflect any particular
person or persons, and the incidents portrayed exist in their current form
solely in the writer’s imagination.  You get the idea.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 1

	It was a nice enough little house, in a decent if not particularly
prosperous neighborhood; I would probably have little trouble marketing it.
The place still looked fairly well kept up.  There was a Ford F-150 in the
driveway that had that slightly skinned up look that says 'work truck,' rather
than 'toy.'  I sauntered up the walk and rapped on the door.

	The woman who answered looked about forty, brunette, thin, and worn
out.  "Yes?"

	"Ms. Harkness?  My name is Roger Smithson.  I understand that you're
having some financial problems..."

	She held the screen tightly closed.  "You aren't a process server or
anything, are you?"

	"No, Ma'am," I replied solemnly.  "I'm here to help, if I can."

	A hard-muscled individual with a grey beard and shoulder-length lank
grey hair to match made himself visible beside her.  "And how would you do
that?" he enquired.

	"Would you be Mr. Harkness?" I asked.  "Mr. Clement Harkness?"

	"I might be," he replied.  "What do you want with me and my sister?"

	That set me back -- I'd assumed that they were married.  Both names
were on the deed and the mortgage...  "I, uh came by hoping to offer you a way
out of your current difficulties," I stammered.  "Maybe get you back on your
feet.  I specialize in real estate solutions."

	Ms. Harkness eyed her brother.  "That's a new one.  What do you think,
Clem?"

	"As long as he isn't packing paper we might as well talk to him," Clem
opined.  "Let him in, Rachel."  He eyed me as his sister opened the door.
"Just how do you propose to solve our problems?"

	I shrugged.  "It's probably best that I hear more about them before
offering anything specific," I ventured.  "Why don't you tell me what else
there is besides what I know from the legal notices?"

	"There's no work, obviously," Clem said, leading me through the neat
living room and into the kitchen.  "That's why we're where we are..."  We
settled into chairs around the kitchen table and Clem looked up at Rachel.
"Why don't you make coffee?"  He turned to me.  "I'd offer more, but we ain't
got it."

	I nodded.  "I understand."

	Slowly, it all came out.  Rachel and her husband had bought the place
fifteen years ago for ninety thousand -- but they'd divorced.  Clem had bought
half-interest and moved in so Rachel could buy her husband out.  Art --
Rachel's other brother, who'd wandered in about twenty minutes into the
conversation -- had come in a couple of years ago when he'd fallen on hard
times; he had no interest in the house, though, and no say in what happened to
it.  He leaned against the counter and listened while Clem and I hashed things
out.  Rachel was up and down, clearly agitated.

	The math looked like this:  They'd bought the house for ninety
thousand, and mortgages being structured the way they are, they still owed
sixty thousand halfway in -- but the house's fair market value was a hundred
twenty thousand, which is where I would make my money.  I made my first offer:
"I'll take over the mortgage, pay off the penalties and fees, and give you
five thousand to move and set up elsewhere.  That'll help your credit and make
the transition easier."

	Clem shook his head.  "Probably won't cover the truck.  They're gonna
come for it any day."

	I grimaced.  "How much do you owe on it?"

	Clem shrugged.  "A year at three hundred a month?"

	"How far behind are you?"

	"Three months."

	I pounded the calculator -- it would be around $4500, worst case.
"Okay.  Get a payoff.  I'll give you a check for the balance so you can get
out of trouble and you'll own it, free and clear."

	Clem nodded.  "Still got nothin' comin' in."

	"You'll have the five thousand to hold you," I reminded him.

	"Been living off credit cards for three months..."

	A little more digging and scratching and it was clear that between
Rachel and Clem, there was another five thousand out -- and they were maxed
out, with nothing else available.  I sighed.  "Okay, I'll cover that, too."
My sixty thousand dollar profit was down to around forty five -- which still
wasn't chicken feed.  At least the house required little or nothing in the way
of repairs...

	Clem was sold.  "I think we're about there," he allowed.

	"I don't know --I just..." Rachel hadn't said more than a half-dozen
words, but she was seriously agitated -- and she owned half interest.

	"What haven't we addressed?" I asked her.

	"I don't want to move," she said softly.  "This is my place.  I don't
want to go somewhere else..."

	I sighed.  "You're going to lose it," I reminded her.  "Very soon.
You can walk away with your head up and a little money in your pocket, or you
can be totally ruined -- but you can't stay.  I'm sorry, but that's how it
is..."

	"Maybe," she nodded.  "This all sounds wonderful -- except I lose my
house."  She rubbed her face.  "I can't think straight!"

	Clem leaned in.  "She hasn't been eatin'..."

	I was unsurprised to hear this; the more I looked at her, the more she
looked like a Holocaust victim.  Her clothes fit like sacks.  Her legs, where
they extended below her over-the-knee skirt, were bone and gristle and a
little bit of sinewy flesh.  "You all look like you could use a good meal..."
I said as I peeled five one hundred dollar bills from my money clip.
"Somebody should make a run to the grocery store, maybe."

	Clem's eyes lit.  "I'll take Rachel -- we can talk about the deal.
Art, show Mr. Smithson around the house while we're gone."  He hauled Rachel
up out of her chair and I watched them head out the front door and get into
the truck, Clem leading her by a hand around her upper arm.

	They were gone for two hours; in the meantime, Art showed me the
house.  There was, frankly, nothing wrong with it -- and it was exceptionally
neat and clean.  "Rachel's a neat-freak," Art related, "and she ain't got
nothin' to do since they laid her off at the restaurant.  She's one of them
women who needs to stay busy.  Havin' a man and some kids would've been the
best thing, but she couldn't afford to be picky, and she picked wrong."  He
grimaced.  "I don't figure Clem and I have helped any..."

	I nodded noncommittally.  A woman living with her two grown brothers
probably generated some negative gossip -- and you had to wonder how much
truth would be in the conjecture...  Art eyed me and shook his head.  "Nope.
We don't do nothin' like that.  Both of us got lady friends -- or know where
to get it for money.  Sis isn't bothered that way."  He grinned a little
sheepishly.  "It's probably best we talked about it -- Clem would've been
pissed..."  THAT might have ended up painfully for everyone, I figured.

	Rachel and Clem got back and spent some time sticking things in
cupboards and munching on this and that like starving people.  Clem took me
aside and said, "Rachel's gonna be a problem -- this place is all she has."

	I nodded.  "What should I do?"

	"Take her out to dinner and talk to her.  I've done about all I can,
but I can't make things as clear as you can, probably.  She has some wild
ideas...  Best you shoot 'em down somewhere where she can't make too much of a
fool of herself," Clem advised.  "Once you shrink her head back down to size,
she'll settle down."

	"Okay."  I turned to Rachel, who was closing cupboards.  "I understand
that I need to negotiate with you separately.  Would you like to have dinner
somewhere and talk?"

	Rachel flicked a grateful glance at Clem.  "That would be nice," she
said, smiling tentatively.  "Let me change clothes..."  She headed off.

	"Let's go in the living room," Clem suggested.

	I settled on the couch; Clem sat in a recliner but didn't recline, and
Art dropped in an upholstered rocker.  "She's gonna be 'Hell on Wheels' -- you
don't have any idea what she's put herself through to keep this place," Clem
sighed.

	"Am I going to win?"

	"Yeah, but it'll be messy and emotional."

	"Great."  I glanced around.  There was a photo of the three of them on
the end table -- or at least I THOUGHT it was them.  I frowned.  "Is this
Rachel?"

	Clem glanced at the picture.  "Yeah."

	"When was it taken?"  The men hadn't changed much...

	Clem cocked his head thinking.  Art piped up, "A year ago February.
Make it eighteen months."

	The woman in the photo weighed probably sixty pounds more than the one
changing clothes in the other room -- and had curves and a soft-looking
cleavage, nice calves, a sunny smile...  She looked ten years younger.  "Is
Rachel sick?"

	Clem shook his head.  "Nope.  She's pretty much stopped eating to save
money.  Says Art and I have a better chance of gettin' work if we ain't
wasting away..."  He sighed.  "Not that it's helped."

	"So she's starving herself?"

	"The woman has an iron will," Clem sighed, "at least where she herself
is concerned.  It shames me that I haven't found shit to do."

	"What DO you do?" I asked.

	"Carpentry, landscaping.  Art's a plumber's assistant."

	"Can you hang sheetrock?" I asked.

	"Sure.  That's simple shit."

	"What about plaster?  Metal studs?"

	"Yeah."

	I was setting up an office in a building downtown that I'd purchased;
I was going to turn it around, remodeling the storefront into offices, and
work there for a while, then put a realtor and a couple of lawyers in the
place and tenants upstairs in the second and third floor apartments.  I
planned to put a property management company in place and move on in a year or
so.  "I can give you a little work and a place to crash."  I described the
remodel.  "I can give you a decent wage while you redo the place and the
apartments above it.  You guys can use one -- or both -- while the renovation
is going on.  It'll be cheaper than this..."  I waved an arm at the house.
"And I need to be able to show it.  It'll be that much longer you won't have
to live on the five thousand, and if things work out, you'll have a
recommendation.  I might even be able to throw a couple of jobs your way later
-- no promises..."

	Clem settled back in his chair.  "That's a better deal than anything
else I've gotten lately."

	Clem was sold, and I was doing good deeds -- but that left Rachel.
Clem seemed to feel that I could handle her objections, though...

	Rachel surfaced in a loose white blouse, a black, knee-length skirt,
and low heels.  I flicked a glance at the photo; that stuff hadn't been nearly
as loose a year and a half ago.  She smiled tentatively and said, "I'm
ready..." and I stood to escort her out, being as chivalrous as I could manage
-- after all, such things wouldn't hurt our deliberations.  Clem just grinned
from the screen door as I loaded her into my rented BMW.  "Good luck!"  I
didn't know which of us he was wishing well -- and I figured he wouldn't want
to have to be clear about it.

	"Where to?" I asked.

	"I know a place...  Do you like Italian?" she asked.

	"Sure."

	"I worked there for a while, before business slacked off.  Now it's
family only..." she muttered.  "Take a right at the end of the street."

	The whole town was going through a rough stretch -- which was why I
was there.  They would come out the far side -- and I would make a buck or two
in the process.  I'm not rich, or anything -- but I'm comfortable.  I got into
real estate a while back and over time it replaced my day job right handily.
By some measures, I'm in debt to my eyeballs -- but income covers it and
brings me five thousand to live on and another ten to stick in new
investments, so I'm good.  I lived about a hundred miles away, but I wouldn't
miss my apartment -- it's just a place.  Hard work kept me away from women --
except for the occasional financial transaction; I don't look rich and I'm not
handsome and women don't rush to slide between my sheets.  I'm a very logical
person, and I appear to be cold, but I'm not -- I don't smile much, a habit
left over from my time in the Army -- basically, there aren't many attractors.

	Rachel guided us to the restaurant, where she was greeted warmly and I
was treated well as a result; apparently, there had been no ill-will at their
parting company.  Rachel ordered lasagna and I ordered the veal parmigiana and
I got us a bottle of wine.  Conversation was pretty limited until the food was
gone totally; Rachel ate everything in sight, poor thing, from the rolls and
breadsticks they brought initially right through the main course.  At one
point, she burped.  "Excuse me," she mumbled, embarrassed, "I'm probably gonna
get sick from all this.  It's the most I've had to eat in..."  She shrugged.

	I tended to agree.  "You don't look like you need to diet."

	"I don't," she agreed through a mouthful of lasagna.  "Somebody had to
tighten their belt so we could get through this thing..."

	"I'm sorry that it hasn't turned around for you," I muttered.  Dammit,
she was all over my soft spot...  There were other things going on, too.  She
was leaning forward a lot; the plump cleavage from her photo was gone, but
what she had left swung forward to push out the blouse and gave you that shot
at her breastbone and points south that guys are conditioned genetically to
drop their eyeballs into.  The bumps had thimble-sized tips, too; she hadn't
put on a bra.  That said a lot; I would be willing to bet she hadn't gone
without a brassiere in public in a decade.  She was playing one of her few
remaining cards -- which, unfortunately, due to her wasted condition, wasn't
an ace...  I thought about it and decided that I could allow myself to get
caught looking, since it would be deemed complimentary and would make her feel
like she had a weapon -- but I felt bad; in her prime, I'd have had to keep my
eyes off a nice, soft, plump pair of jugs, but what she had left were droopy
wasted remnants...

	I don't consider myself a tit man -- or an ass man, or anything else
specific.  Most women have something that recommends them to the eyeballs --
and those that don't generally still have personality.  I generally work with
the pluses and ignore the minuses as best I can -- it's not like I can be
picky, anyway.  Rachel was a wreck -- but the iron will that allowed her to go
to the wall for her home and family were admirable, and, frankly, I'd had
worse.

	Finally, we settled back over coffee, awaiting the arrival of some
lemon ices.  "Okay, what can I do for you?" I asked her.

	"You can let me keep that house," Rachel said forthrightly.

	"I can do that, but that will just leave you to the bankers and the
collection agencies and the repo men," I told her.  "I'm trying to do you a
favor."

	"That house...  It's a place to Clem and Art, but it's my home!"
Rachel leaned forward earnestly, bringing her popguns to bear.  "I have
roots!"

	I realized that the display wasn't deliberate; she'd forgotten to vamp
me -- or probably felt bad about it.  "You can't pay these people.  You're
starving to death.  You just can't stay there!"

	"But I have to!" she insisted.  "I just can't go somewhere else and
start over!  It's all I have -- all that is familiar to me!"

	"To be fair, you don't own it any more," I said gently.  "In some
ways, it owns you!"

	Rachel looked startled for a moment.  "So, if you sold the house to
someone else, they would own me, too?"

	"Well, no," I replied.  "The object of the exercise is to get you out
from under."

	"Well, wait a minute -- can you sell me with the house?"

	I blinked.  "What?"

	"As a maid or something, maybe..."

	"That would tend to make resale difficult to impossible," I replied.
"I would likely lose money trying.  That house isn't big enough for servants
-- besides, the new owners would probably want to make changes that would
render the place, well, not yours any more."  I eyed her.  "Besides, what can
you do that would make you worth having?"

	"I cook and clean..."

	"Obviously," I agreed.  I would be willing to wager that there wasn't
so much as a dust mite in that house...

	"I can wait tables...  just one would be easy..."

	"No doubt," I agreed, "but that won't earn your keep, never mind
convey ownership of the house -- even in part."

	"Mine isn't the only house you're looking at, is it?" she asked.

	"No."

	"So you'll need someone to clean and pick up at other places."

	"Well, yes.."

	"So you're in town for a while?  Where are you living?  In a hotel?"
she pressed.

	"Yes," I admitted.

	"If you're going to buy the house, wouldn't it save you money to live
in it while it's being shown and sold?"

	She had me there -- hotel rooms cost a thousand a week.  It was a cost
of doing business, but one I could cut...  "I need maid service."

	"You wouldn't."  Her eyes locked on mine.

	"What do you want?" I asked her.

	"I want not to have to move.  Do you HAVE to SELL the house?  Can't
you rent it?  Can't we do some kind of trade?" she asked anxiously.

	"What's in it for me?" I asked her.  "I'll be stuck with your
mortgage.  The place isn't set up for apartments.  If you live there, what
will you do?  Take in boarders?"

	"That's what Clem and Art are," she replied simply.  "Buy my brother
out.  I will work for my part of the place, keeping things clean and ironing
your clothes and cooking your meals -- and doing other houses in the daytime.
You can take a room -- mine or Clem's -- and set up an office in Art's room,
which will be a business expense.  You'll get your money's worth..."  She eyed
me and licked her lips nervously.  "You'll own the house and you'll own...
me..."

	I rocked back in my chair.  "What?"

	"You said it," she pressed.  "The house owns me.  You won't want to
make serious changes, so it will be mostly the same as it is now -- I can live
with that.  I'll do all the stuff I'm doing now there and I'll work on your
other places outside and I'll answer the phones and..."

	"I plan to sell that house!" I erupted.

	"When, though?  Can't you turn a profit on it any time?" she asked.
"Wouldn't paying the mortgage be cheaper than living in hotels?"

	"Maybe," I grunted.  "But if I take over the mortgage, it buys you
out, too -- or the whole thing has to be re-negotiated.  We're trying to save
the three of you from credit woes..."

	"Rent me my space for what I do for you, then," she said desperately.
"When you're done here and the time comes to sell it, maybe I'll feel
differently about it.  I need time..."

	"So, I'm to take you on as an employee and leave you in the house in
return for some kind of personal services contract -- until I sell the
house..." I muttered.

	"Yes."  Rachel nodded.  "I like that.  Personal services."

	"Well, maid work.  Cooking, cleaning, external cleaning at other
sites..." I backpedalled.  Dammit!  How did she figure out that I had a gooey
center?  When did I fuck up?

	"You don't have to set limits..." she said softly.

	"I probably should..."

	"I don't want you to," Rachel replied.

	"Why not?  It's for your protection..." I blurted.

	"I don't want to be protected," she said softly.  "I've been protected
for years.  I want you to feel free to demand... other things...  You'll own
the house and you'll own me..."

	"W--what other things?"  I was totally on the defensive.  My mind was
conjuring up all kinds of wild scenarios.  Surely she didn't mean...

	Her eyes were hypnotic.  "Man things.  The things men demand from
women.  I've been TOO protected -- two brothers in the house...  People think
things.  Men stay away.  I'm thirty four -- and men haven't made demands on me
for a long time..."

	"You're thirty four?" I blurted.  I was in total rabbit mode -- scared
shitless.  I'd been sure she was forty plus -- but the picture had said
different...

	Her expression turned rueful.  "I know, I'm no bargain -- but I'll
gain weight again when I start eating and I'll do whatever it takes to look
good for you -- and in the meantime, you don't HAVE to look..."  She glanced
around and then ducked sideways and disappeared under the table.

	"Y--you don't have to..." I stammered as her hands settled on my
thighs, then went for my belt.

	"Do you have any idea how long it's been?" she husked.  "I WANT to!
Think what you're doing for me!  It's been... years... since a man has even
taken me to dinner!"

	"But it's business!" My belt was open and my zipper was going down.  I
was looking around the restaurant, trying to tell if anyone had noticed...

	"That's right.  You own me.  We have a contract.  Raise up a bit."  I
did it -- my dick and my brain were on different wavelengths, and my dick had
the rest of my body, while my brain apparently only had my mouth.  Rachel
tugged my slacks down to the floor and then worked my briefs over my erection.
Dressing was going to be a bitch...

	"We, uh, don't yet..." I gasped.

	"I'm interviewing," she said softly.  "Oh... my... God..."  Warm
breath washed over my cock.  "It's HUGE!"  Her hands enveloped my shaft,
working it gently.

	"Well," I muttered.  "Not really..."

	"My husband claimed to be bigger than average," Rachel breathed.   "He
didn't have HALF of THIS!"

	"He lied, then," I whispered, "I'm only a little over the average,
maybe."

	"He lied a lot," Rachel said simply.  "Damn him!  I was pretty sure
from videos..."

	"Rachel, really, you don't HAVE to..." I said, my brain still
desperately trying to maintain a 'proper' relationship.  Besides, I'm a
bachelor -- women don't just go reaching in my pants.  I was scared to death!
What kind of trap would the woman spring next?

	"Oh, I have to," Rachel purred breathily.  "If I let this go, I would
never forgive myself!"  Warm, soft lips wrapped themselves around my glans and
I knew I was lost -- at least temporarily.

	"Aaaahhhh!"  'Shit, did I say that?'  I glanced around; yeah, I'd made
a noise...  "This is...  too public!" I gasped.

	"I can't let go now," Rachel moaned.  "Try to enjoy it quietly."  She
started pumping her lips over my shaft from the tip to several inches in.
After a couple of strokes, she choked and let up.

	"Are you okay?" I whispered.

	"Uh huh."  I heard her swallow.  "Just like riding a bicycle -- but
mine didn't have wheels this big...  I'll get used to it."  She dove on me
again and I gripped the table top, fighting to remain collected-looking while
the pleasure rolled over me.

	It was agony, and it was ecstasy.  The waiter came with the lemon ices
and asked, "Where's Rachel?"

	"She, uh, had something she wanted to take care of," I told him,
flicking a glance at where I thought the Ladies' Room was.

	"You look kind of nervous..." he opined.

	"She's a little overwhelming..." I got out.  Rachel had stopped loudly
slurping and was suckling my glans and washing the sensitive underside with
her tongue.

	"She's a wonderful woman," the waiter opined.  "She worked here and I
hated to let her go -- but business wasn't good enough and Mama was worried
that she would steal me from her..."  He shook his head.  "She's had no luck
with men, and living with her brothers...  not a good idea..."  He
straightened up.  "Don't hurt her.  You could do a lot worse!"  He headed off
and I slumped in the booth, gasping.

	Rachel started bobbing again, then backed off to lick.  "I could do
this all night."

	"I think I would have a heart attack!" I gasped, "Besides, your ices
are getting warm."

	"Okay, we need to finish then.  Why don't you drive?"

	"What?" I blinked.

	"Take my head in your hands.  Use me.  Do whatever feels best," she
murmured.

	"Are you nuts?"

	"No.  I like it, actually.  Or I used to."  Her hands snaked up from
below to take my wrists.  "Do it."

	So I did.  Gingerly.  The one-touch driving school.  She followed any
touch willingly, so it didn't take much -- and, of course, there was the
psychological component.  I'd never had that much control over a woman I
hadn't bought and paid for -- even then, I didn't really do anything like
THIS!  Things got incredible quickly; after a rapid series of strokes, I
pushed her back, hissing, "Gonna shoot!"

	"Goody!"  She broke my hold and dove on my cock, sucking and licking,
and I tried not to scream while my cock made like a pumping station on the
Alaska Pipeline.  "Jeezus fucking Christ!" I gasped behind a hastily raised
napkin. I think I must have squirted a dozen times into her mouth before I
started shooting blanks; I'd never EVER had head like that!

	I flopped back, panting, and in a moment, Rachel surfaced.  She was
thoroughly disheveled, but wore a Mona Lisa smile -- and I realized that the
woman had a hammerlock on my emotions.  She licked her lips, looking vastly
satisfied with herself, and lifted her spoon to taste her lemon ice.  "Just
the thing," she muttered.

	I actually blushed.  "You didn't have to swallow..."

	"I wanted to.  It's nutritious," she replied, smiling at my
discomfiture, "but it DOES have an aftertaste..."

	"Your hair is a mess, I'm afraid," I observed.  Her lipstick was
ruined, too.

	"In a minute," she said quietly, patting at her hair.  "I'll make
myself presentable before we leave."  She eyed me.  "See?  You don't REALLY
want limits, do you?"

	We ate our ices -- hurriedly -- and Rachel swayed off to the Ladies'
Room while I got the check.  I remember watching her go and shaking my head --
that swivel really needed more to move than the stick figure she currently
was.  When she came back, I stood to escort her out and she stopped in the
middle of the restaurant.  "Do we have a deal?"

	Bang!  She had me by the short hairs!  I rubbed my face.
"Conditionally, subject to -- jeez, I don't know what, actually, but I'll come
up with something..."

	She smiled and turned away, heading for the door, and I followed,
wondering just how I was going to manage to get out of the fix I was in.

	Once outside, though, she tossed away her tactical advantage, turning
to me and taking my hands and saying, "Thank you!  I know I didn't play fair
and you are probably going nuts trying to figure out how you can get out of
this -- and maybe you will; it wouldn't be the first time I've been taken
advantage of.  But I'm desperate, and desperate people do things they're not
proud of.  I believe that you're a man of your word, so even if I don't get
what I'm hoping for, I know you'll do the best for me that you can."

	I pursed my lips and nodded, looking away, still wondering when I'd
revealed my gooey center.  She let go of one of my hands, but not the other --
or, at least, not until I settled her in her seat.  Once the car was in gear
and we were in traffic, she added, "I'm a woman of MY word -- I want no
limits.  What you may think of as me paying the price won't be -- I look
forward to... being intimate... and I hope you do, too."

	"No limits at all cover a lot of ground," I argued.  "You don't know
what kind of wolf in sheep's clothing I am."

	"I think I'm pretty safe," she retorted, "and if I'm not, well, I'm
catching up.  I could stand a few adventures..."

	"Adventures..." I mused.  "The mind boggles."

	"Whatever you're thinking, remember it.  We'll do it.  Just let me
know what it is -- or surprise me, if that works..."  She put her hand on my
arm.  "I want to do... wild things, for once in my life."

	I couldn't think of anything to say...

	Back at the house, I broke out my laptop and portable printer and
started modifying my boilerplate sales contract.  When Clem asked what
agreement we'd come to, I let Rachel handle it.

	"Roger has agreed to let me stay on here until he sells the house,"
she related.  "To pay the rent, I'll be doing -- well, what I've been doing
for you two, among other things -- for him.  I'll also be cleaning up other
places, too, and doing odd jobs.  Roger is going to move in here to keep his
hotel costs down and I'll be cooking and cleaning and answering the phone and
stuff..."

	Clem pursed his lips.  "Won't that look bad?"

	"Worse than how living with my brothers looks?" Rachel shot back.
"Compared to what people think WE'RE doing, what Roger and I might be doing is
tame!"

	"Well, we know better..." Clem argued.

	I saw a door opening.  "Clem, I agreed to this to please Rachel, not
because I'm looking for anything..."

	"Clem!" Rachel burst out.  "If you screw this up, I'll NEVER forgive
you!  I made the suggestions, and I had a hard enough time selling them!
Roger has been nothing if not decent and considerate!  I'll do anything to
stay in this house!"

	"You don't need to do THAT!" Clem erupted.

	"And Roger has been very clear about the fact that he would consider
it despicable for him to ask me to!" Rachel shot back.  "I'm thirty-four, for
God's sake, Clem!  I've been married!  You REALLY don't have to do the
overprotective brother and virgin sister thing!  Besides, don't you think
you've damaged my personal life enough?  It's been worth it, but it isn't any
more, obviously.  Let's move on -- or at least, the two of you should.  I know
what I'm doing!"  She turned to me.  "I'm sure you will need to see some
papers -- the mortgage, taxes, credit card bills, the truck loan -- right?"

	"Right," I agreed, and she stalked off.

	Clem looked at Art.  "Her dander's up."

	"She's probably right," Art opined.

	"I'm looking at this as a period when she can kind of get used to the
idea of moving," I told them.  "If she seems too comfortable, I may have to
jack up the workload or something, but I figure that sooner or later she'll
decide it isn't worth it."

	"Better make it hard on the front end," Clem advised.  "She's tough."

	"Yeah, I get that," I nodded.