Mortimer and Myrtle A Love Story
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Time Is Money free porn video
"We need to talk," Jill whispered as she slid fifty twenty-pound notes, into an envelope, pressed down the seal, and wrote JACK on the front. She laid the package on the breakfast table.
Those words sounded alien in her head. If this were one of those romances she used to read, she would make a delicious supper, with excellent wine, and when Jack achieved the right grade of mellow, she would speak — but she knew the words would come out wrong, she would choke on them and upset Jack, and that wasn’t her plan. The brown envelope trick had to work.
Jill is a successful finance executive. She is also drop-dead gorgeous — a senseless term. The dead are seldom attractive, and those who admire beautiful women rarely expire suddenly.
Having been a brainy, ganging, awkward child, her transformation at puberty to look like film-star dumb blond surprised her. Never interested in what others thought, she wanted to know if they could think. At school, she’d worn her uniform the way girls looked in 1910. Her flat-heeled lace-up shoes were topped with a calf-length skirt and matching three-button jacket. She parted her hair in the middle, straight and trimmed to just below her chin.
At University she continued the pretence of being a plain Jane. In her final year, she met Jack, who saw beneath the disguise. Her beauty attracted the wrong kind of men. That made her guarded and defensive. Jack saw the brains behind the beauty, never complimented her on her looks, but praised her speed of thought and wit. Much later he taught her how to turn the lustful intentions of strangers against them.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Standing at the dining table, she first placed the money beside the knife, and then underneath it, next to where the eggs, bacon, and pancakes would sit in an hour's time. Every weekday Jill left for the office long before Jack had one eye open. Jill indulged Jack’s excuse that all creatives work late and sleep late.
“Yes, love,” she’d say. “That is certainly true of all the creatives I’ve ever married.”
A thousand pounds ought to be enough to make him think all day. Five grand would have made him panic. Jack found money difficult, so left it to Jill. She intended her envelope to be surprising, but not enough to wreck his working day, and with zero chance of Jack understanding her intention.
Jill buried herself in work, not daring to think about what would happen when she got home. She considered taking breaks and practising saying her lines in front of a mirror, but she couldn't imagine how the script would run from there. Her plan was to use the envelope to kickstart the conversation. Money was safe ground to Jill. When she got onto touchy topics, she blushed. She always did. The one time she tried to practice and recorded herself, she coloured up in front of her own webcam; unable to control the blood vessels in her face and neck.
The inevitable flush, when she spoke tonight, would give Jack the right impression. She would stumble over the words, be shy and colour up with embarrassment; alerting Jack to how much this mattered to her.
Why would a sophisticated, successful, super-intelligent woman worry over telling her husband about an envelope full of money on his breakfast table?
If pressed, she would say, 'Because I was raised all wrong. My brains were the only thing my family noticed.’ She was so much smarter than her brothers; they never played with her because her intelligence annoyed them. Even her parents were cautious. They only ever saw her brain. She never learned social graces.
Top of every class in school, she had the pick of her university choices. Armed with her first-class degree and further qualifications, she went to work for a mid-sized company with potential. Her career grew along with the firm.
Jill did her homework, was never caught out in business meetings, always ready for anything. Typical power-hungry macho types never read her right. She dressed conservatively, at least until she took her jacket off. She wore a knee-length tweed suit with black stockings and under that a silk blouse and no bra. To a casual observer, she appeared to be a secretary who had been told to dress for a special meeting.
Last year she’d learned a new trick. A ploy to screw with the men. She arrived early and turned the heating too high. She served coffee, pandering to the stereotypes in so many male executives' minds.
"Shall we start," she said. "I apologise for the warmth of the room today, gentlemen. You may remove your jackets if you need to cool down."
She watched them relax, and then pulled the trick Jack taught her. She slipped off her jacket. The gaze of the pushy, macho lead visitor cycled back to her nipples every other minute. He spent the rest of the meeting imagining her in bed. She had discovered his weakness long before they met. Her team made a killing that day.
Using that super-power stopped her from being embarrassed at work. She ignored the lecherous glances, knowing she could use them whenever the need arose. Sleeping with any of her associates or her opponents held no attraction. Numbers, with pound signs in front of them, were Jill’s interest. Money buys things, but it also buys respect, and in the hard-nosed world that Jill inhabited, that was how you kept score.
Jack was unlike the city types she sparred with every day. His business was advertising. It could be corporate and competitive, but Jack was a freelancer who dreamed up crazy ideas, some of which worked. He delighted in being unconventional and she loved him because he was never like the rest.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Jack enjoyed his extra hour in bed. At first, Jill's powerful work ethic made Jack feel lazy every morning, but he was more effective later in the day. When the muse struck hard, he often worked through the night. The first time, he thought Jill would be annoyed, but she didn't bat an eyelid.
"You do things your way, and I do mine."
A year on, when he had a lean patch, he kept apologising.
"Why are you saying sorry?" she said.
"I'm hopeless. You make more money than me, and I spend too long in bed."
"Never think that, love. The money thing is not your fault. We'll skip the civics lecture, but the simple fact is I'm good with numbers, so I get paid more. Capitalism is like that — nothing to do with you or me. You make a lot with your great ideas, but not every month. I crunch data every day and spot other people's mistakes. That pays more, but it means nothing. You keep me sane, you help me be a person, not a computer. You are the only one I ever met who sees the real me, not the clever me."
Versions of that 'civics lecture' worked for a while, but the pull of the numbers grew. Her company merged and bought their way to more success. She did her magic in the boardroom and her salary increased, along with her stock options. She enjoyed the praise, but it all took time. She came home later and more exhausted, month after month. The business ate into weekends and stole time from holidays. Jack never complained, but Jill knew.
Other directors wilted under the strain, or if they didn't crack, their marriages did. Unlike the tycoons she rubbed shoulders with, who often had trophy wives, she was the only woman, and she had Jack.
She found a counsellor who, for a price, saw her in stolen half hours in her office. Despite some good ideas, the woman's face showed she was overawed by Jill. The power furniture was a distraction. Jill moved to a different office, with a conference room next door. She added armchairs, artwork on the walls, and dried flowers on her desk. The atmosphere improved, but the counsellor remained timid.
She hired a man instead, put pictures of Jack on her desk and a poster of him receiving an award on the wall. The man was dull compared to Jack. He said nothing useful until the end of his second session.
"Time is money," he said as he closed his briefcase and left.
Time is money, she thought. If time is money, can money be time? What if I gave Jack cash to make up for the time I've stolen?
When the thought first entered her head, she almost laughed out loud; but the idea was enticing. How much was her time worth? The firm charged outsiders five thousand per day for her time.
The sum embarrassed her at first, but capitalism requires profit and she’d done the maths. Her time had to be covered. Stand-ins for her were always less experienced, and several people might be needed. Add in the sunk costs, the investment in her training, the costs involved in the history of her gaining the experience the outside company wanted, and the total mounted.
How did that arithmetic apply to hours she should have spent with Jack? An impossible calculation. She had, until now, always done Jack's books. If she hired someone else in the future she could, in theory, free up some time at home — apart from one troublesome fact; they did the work together. Freeing that time would achieve nothing for Jack.
Jack hated accounts. In his mind, they were a chore, so Jill added entertainment to help the process along. Jill insisted she couldn't be a senior accountant and married to a tax defaulter, so she invented a ridiculous game, agreeing to remove one item of clothing each time Jack found some relevant document. She ended up stark naked long before they were done, so she bent the rules, adding another hour of nudity for every item of finance data he retrieved. She spent the next two weekends nude, but the accounts got done.
No professional she could hire would play that game. What about other temptations or rewards could she consider?
She tried to imagine another woman with Jack. Would he be tempted? Would she be upset?
She found it hard to think of Jack in bed with another woman. The thought had a stultifying effect in her mind. It did not excite her or even make her worry. Was there a risk of Jack running away with another woman? She couldn't see it happening — possibly a failure of her imagination, but it said even more about their relationship. Would Jack like another woman in his bed? There was no way to find out in advance.
Did anyone pay for sex substitutes? Stories about wimpy husbands turning a blind eye to their wives misbehaving went round the office. What was the woman's name? Marjory. Marjory something. Rumours circulated about her all the time, but she was still married to the same man. He must be aware. She never made a secret of it. She never denied the stories. She shrugged, laughed, and carried on as if nothing had been said.
Could Jill pay another woman enough to be trusted? Would a penalty clause work in a deal like that?
Jill could hold a train of thought, suspend it if the phone rang or if she was interrupted, and pick up where she'd paused. The idea of money for time kept coming back. How did Jack cost his time? She laughed — he’d bid on a project and when he understood the scope of it, he’d do it for the offer price, or turn it down. His decisions were based on the interest and challenges involved, and nothing to do with time or money.
She settled on a thousand pounds as enough to grab his attention.
Coming home on the day of the envelope, she had to force herself to concentrate on driving. She was nervous — when did she ever have nerves? That was novel, reading her own reaction told her it was a big deal. Fancy that. Her anxiety pushed her to leave work too soon, but she resisted — that wasn't the point.
She had to be late. On any other day, if she wanted to be early, there would be traffic everywhere. Not today. Every light was green, the cars flowed, there were no trucks in sight, the sun shone, and what should have been a forty-minute drive was taking twenty. She pulled into a gas station. She filled her only half-empty tank, called an attendant, played the helpless female, and got him to check the oil and water, and still had time to spare. She persuaded him to do the tyres as well. She gave him a big tip. She still needed to kill ten minutes.
There was a car wash a mile down the road.
She hated car washes. There was something frightening about sitting watching giant brushes pound the windscreen and shake the doors. She forced herself to cope.
Twenty minutes later, she pulled onto the drive at home and sat in the car for a minute, annoyed that she hadn't planned her entrance. She should have thought about that while she was fretting about the time. She needed to think. She headed straight for the shower.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
When Jack found the envelope, it ceased to be a normal day. It had his name on it, written in Jill's cultured hand, so he opened it.
A thousand pounds left on the table. Why? What had he forgotten? Did she say something last night? As he ate his bacon and maple syrup pancakes, he knew if she said something last night, he missed it. His head was full of a new project that arrived in the mail yesterday.
What could a thousand be for? In cash? Was there something being delivered? He checked the doorbell. It was working, but what if he was doing something noisy? He pinned a note next to the bell; 'If no reply, try side door.'
He mowed the lawn, in case this was about a builder fixing the shed roof. Jill said something last week. Builders work to a higher standard if the place looks well kept. Jill habitually hated paying cash to tradespeople — she didn't agree with them trying to dodge the tax. Maybe this was different.
Odd though. It could be something else. If he'd forgotten something vital, he'd better make up for it in other ways. He vacuumed the house, cleaned the kitchen, made the beds, and did all the laundry he could find. That got him to two-thirty with no demand for cash appearing.
What else could he do? Supper; there was time to make something she would recognise as especially for Jill. He settled for her favourite beef chili with a flatbread, followed by Pavlova.
The main course was easy, there was meat in the freezer, they had fresh tomatoes and plenty of beans. Making the meringue took patience and care, but he always enjoyed the process — beating the egg white until it was so stiff he could turn the bowl upside down and it didn't fall out. There was a perverse delight in doing that. The memory of scaring his mother when he first learned the trick made it even more of a treat.
After the meringue went in the oven on low heat, his resolution cracked and he tried to phone Jill. He couldn't get through.
"Is it a dire emergency?"
"A dire emergency?"
"Those were her exact words," the secretary said. "Not to be disturbed unless it is a dire emergency."
Was it? Hell no, he couldn't say it was. He could bluff the poor girl on the line, but she sounded young and that wouldn't be fair. Not knowing why there was an envelope full of a thousand pounds on the dining room table was not a dire emergency.
"Don't worry," he said and hung up.
When to start the bread? That was the tricky question. He had to track her phone; that was supposed to be for dire emergencies too, but that was one of his rules, so breaking it was up to him, wasn't it? He invented the rule because snooping was dishonest. This wasn't snooping, as such, just finding out where she was and how fast she was moving. Getting the timing right for a surprise was a good thing, except it also helped cover up his possible incompetence at knowing what the hell that thousand pounds was about. Too late. The choice was between burning the bread or admitting he'd screwed up. He would own up anyway, but that was best done with excellent bread and chili.
He tracked her phone.
One minute making good time, and then at the gas station forever. Crazy. Five more minutes on the road and then a car wash. A carwash? She hated car washes. Whatever; the carwash was two miles away. He put the bread to bake, laid the table, and checked on the rice.
When Jill stepped through the front door, the aroma of fresh bread and chili stopped her dead. Jack’s cooking, she thought. Why?
She closed the door behind her.
"Hi honey, I'm home. That smells good," she said at the foot of the stairs. Jack came through from the dining room.
"Do I have time for a shower?"
"Five minutes."
Two minutes in the water, two to decide what to wear, and one for an entrance. Jill could not avoid turning every task into numbers. What was right for a tricky conversation? Silk; that purple dress that brought out the colour in her eyes and no underwear. She pulled her hair up, left excessive strands on one side to make it a wanton look, and skipped the make-up and shoes. She paused outside the bedroom and called out.
"Just coming."
Right on cue, Jack appeared at the foot of the stairs. She smiled, and for the first time appreciated that Jack was wearing his chef jacket. Did he have that on when she came in? God, she was so wound up she had no idea. As she descended, he opened the door into the dining room and swept a small tray from behind his back, on which was a single wineglass.
"Your wine ma-am," he said.
"Thank you, kind sir."
She took the glass and sipped a little.
"Oh, Chateau Talbot if I'm not mistaken."
He's pulling out all the stops, she thought. Is this making it easier for me, or more difficult?
Jack took her elbow and led her to her seat.
"I thought about a starter, but you often skip them, so we have two courses and coffee if that's okay?"
Something in his face made her pause; was it doubt, hesitancy? When was he going to mention the money?
When Jill was seated, Jack carried on to the kitchen, returning with the serving dishes on a tray. For the next ten minutes, they talked about the food, eating in silence. Jack cleared the main course and returned with pavlova and ice cream, having changed his chef jacket for a cream blazer and a tie she gave him last birthday.
Jill had eaten three spoons of desert feeling her anxiety rising. If Jack didn't say something soon, she might burst. She risked taking her eyes off the food and glanced at Jack. He hadn't touched his portion, and his gaze never left her. She grinned.
"This is delicious, eat some."
"I will," he said. "I like watching you and I'm glad you like it."
"Looking around, I think you've been busy today. Did you get any proper work done?"
"Not much. Thanks for noticing... Look, I'm sorry, I couldn’t figure out what that envelope was for. Did you tell me?"
"I didn't tell you."
He frowned. "My name was on the front, so I looked inside. I checked the date in case I'd forgotten about my birthday."
Jill laughed for a second, realising that he was joking, but knowing she had to explain.
"Time is money, I'm told, so money must be time. Money for the hours I've been late when I should have been with you. It bothered me." The words tumbled out. "I felt bad, lost. I had to do something."
"A thousand quid?"
"Well, maybe I got that wrong. Should it have been more?"
"I'm not the mathematician around here, but how the hell did you calculate. I mean, what's the benchmark?"
“Good question. It had to be enough to make you think, and enough to stop me from feeling guilty. "
“Guilty?”
“Guilty for all the time I should have been home with you. Money for lost time.”
“And what? I hire an actress to be you?”
"Or a hooker... Is that the right word? Someone who's nice to you for cash, a massage or something. A good one would charge that much."
"How do you know?"
"Research, I did research."
Jack laughed. "I'm guessing, and hoping, that means you looked at websites and such. You didn't get out there and ply the trade did you?"
That got her. She blushed, a full-scale vascular phenomenon, colouring up from the top of her dress to her hairline.
"Keep cool," he said. "Eat the ice cream."
That didn't help. Jack relented and started eating the dessert in front of him.
"I'll make coffee," Jill said and retreated to the kitchen, soaked a cloth in cold water and held it to her face for a minute while the espresso machine gurgled in the background. She returned with two espressos on a tray, less flushed, but still nervous.
Jack stood to take his cup. "Table or armchairs?"
"What's wrong with the sofa?"
"I thought we were about to have a serious discussion. Did I get that wrong? Are you suggesting I should hire a prostitute to keep me happy because you don't have the time?"
"When you put it like that it sounds so cynical and calculated."
"You are the maths genius in this family." For a second, Jack hesitated, saw the doubt in her face, grinned and blew her a kiss.
"It's okay, love, I get the message. You shouldn’t feel bad. I've never felt neglected. I'm curious about one thing, while we're on the maths. How long does this thousand have to last?"
"I hadn't thought about that. It was to get the conversation going. It's to make up for the time I spend at the office when I should be home."
"Why didn't you say?"
"I had to get your attention... and I didn't know where to begin."
"I'll tell you what," he said. "I need to think about it. I don't want to waste our time tonight thinking about other women or piles of twenty-pound notes. You’ve made me feel unique. I bet there's not another man in England who's been given a thousand pounds by his wife to buy extra-marital entertainment. I'll drink to that."
"Nothing else to say?"
"Don't sound disappointed. What you did was brave and brilliant. I imagine you have been thinking about it for a while."
"A couple of months."
"I promise an answer in half that time."
"Can you add one thing to that? Don't talk about it until you've decided. Surprise me."
“Okay. Why?"
"I'll think about it. It'll play on my mind, and I'll think about you, every spare minute. The suspense will be brilliant."
"Deal."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Over the next three weeks, Jill looked for signs. The second week, she observed the house seemed cleaner and tidier, but she knew Jack had been busy with a new contract. Why no mess?
One other thing was noticeable. Jack was more turned on to her since she dropped her envelope. He kissed her every evening as soon as she got home and showered with her, an interesting surprise that was fast becoming a habit.
Perhaps it was because her cash and their discussion had awakened something, or maybe it was because she had spent every spare minute thinking about Jack in a way that she hadn't before. Something good had happened.
On the third Friday, Jill's last appointment had to cancel, so she came home early. She rolled into the garage, left her briefcase in the car and bounced through the connecting door into the kitchen. Once inside, she heard the vacuum cleaner.
In the dining-room door, she saw the back of a woman vacuuming. Okay, so Jack has hired domestic help. That explained the clean and tidy house. The woman was wearing headphones, so was unlikely to hear Jill. Jack using her money to hire a cleaner might suggest a lack of originality, but... the woman was naked.
Jill watched her switch off the machine, wind up and stow the cord and turn to carry the vacuum towards the kitchen.
"Oh," she said. "You must be Jill."
"And you are?"
"Angela. Your husband hired me."
"To vacuum naked?"
"I work for a naked cleaning company."
Jill giggled. "Sorry, I shouldn't laugh. Is that an actual thing?"
"I clean, naked." She picked up her bag from the side table, rummaged, and handed Jill a card — THE NAKED CLEANING COMPANY.
"Anything else?"
"No. Jack tells me what needs doing and I clean."
"Naked... What does Jack do?"
"Works most of the time. He makes coffee for me sometimes."
"And? I mean, does he have to strip?"
"He can if he wants to, but no touching or hanky-panky."
Jill nodded, was lost in thought. "He likes nudity," she said. Almost talking to herself. "Do you think he gets worked up? Seeing you in action, even eyes only?"
"I can't say. My job is to clean, but he could have hired a dressed cleaner. Our firm does that for half the price..."
"So I can draw my own conclusions."
"Mmmm, don't you think."
"I paid for it. Were you aware of that?"
"He told me... Clever you, huh?"
"Why do you say that?"
"Clever both of you, I guess. You gave him a treat, and I bet you notice the difference in him."
Angela paused, Jill said nothing, and her legendary poker face found another use.
"Will it always be you cleaning here?"
"It doesn't have to be me, some folks like variety. Maybe I shouldn't tell you. He said you wanted it to be a surprise."
"He told you that?"
"Does that bother you?"
Jill laughed. "That he told you, no. That I said it, now I'm seeing it for real, I'm not sure."
"Do you trust him?"
"Yes," Jill said. "Yes, I do."
"Then stick with the surprise, it'll be more fun in the long run."
Jill nodded. "What time do you leave?"
Angela glanced at the kitchen clock. "In twenty minutes."
"It was great to meet you. Don't tell him I was here."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Jack promised to make a decision in a month. After meeting Angela, Jill put her own plan into action. At noon on the last Friday of Jack's month, a text told Jill she had a delivery at home. Having Jack work from home had its uses.
"A package came for you," Jack said when he met her at the door. "Was I supposed to open it?"
"No, not yet. A surprise for later."
"Later?"
"Today's the day, isn't it. The month you wanted. When I have your decision then I'll know if the new package was a good idea."
"Supper's ready, so I'll try to explain while we eat, okay?"
Jill waited, trying to look relaxed, but inwardly holding her breath.
Jack served the meal, filled two wine glasses and sat down. "A toast," he said. "To us, long may we be us."
Jill felt her tension begin to unwind. "To us," she said.
"At first," he said. "Your pile of cash freaked me out."
"Sorry."
"Don't be. I soon realised that I don't want a substitute wife. I don't want an affair. I'd end up in bed with someone else, but thinking about you. That wouldn't be fair to anyone."
He looked up to see her reaction and was greeted with a subtle grin.
"After a week of women on my brain, I took the bull by the horns and went to a strip club. Did you know that they are open in the afternoons?"
"No," she said. "I had no idea."
“Fancy going together?”
She looked for the question in his eyes. Was he teasing? The poker face gave nothing away. Two could play that game.
"Why?"
"Because every woman I saw made me think of you."
"That's nice… I think.” There was a flash of Jack’s best smile.
"I ended up with two solutions to the problem,” he said.
"Two?" I only know one of them she thought.
"I hired a naked cleaner, did you know such things existed?"
"Yes, actually. What's the second solution?"
"Art," he said. “I know I have the talent, and I’ve always wanted to paint from life. With your money, I can hire models. What do you think?”
He had talent. Years back she’d modelled for him.
"Brilliant."
“Can I see your surprise now?"
Jill started ripping the parcel open. ”Last Friday I met Angela, your cleaner, and had an idea. I bought a factory time clock. I’ll use it, but so can your women. You can be sure you're not ripped off, and I'll clock in when I get home. That way I can make sure I don't neglect you.”
"You plan to clock in like home is a factory?"
“Yes, a happiness factory. Home with you is my most important place. Clocking in makes sense. It stops my work from stealing our time."
She beamed at him and watched the poker face crack.
"A new toast," she said "Time is money."
"And money can be time," he said.
The glasses clinked, and a month after dropping the envelope, she finally relaxed.
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