The prompt was: A handsome European classical musician cornering a girl who works in his agent’s office.
The prompt was: A handsome European classical musician cornering a girl who works in his agent’s office.
The prompt was: A handsome European classical musician cornering a girl who works in his agent’s office.
And now for something completely different. I wrote bits of this a while ago, but it’s been floating around in my head lately so I put the finishing touches on it. This weekend I will have ample writing time, but no internet connect save my iPhone. Hopefully I can get some serious smut down.
Mister McIntyre’s Secret
I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know what I was wearing. I remember a flash of small white polka dots on a sea of black. Some little pill box hat. My face got flushed if I thought about Miss Peterson pulling up the stockings that clipped to the garters under the dress. Every thought in my head made me blush. Every memory of the past few hours and every expectation about what was to come in the future.
We were walking down the street and she hailed a taxi. It was something I was never able to do. People always seemed to walk in front of me and take mine. We were going to the train station. I sat, still wet under my dress and frilly underwear. I wanted to stop being wet desperately, but thoughts were attacking me like Miss Peterson’s fingers and having almost the same effect.
I followed behind Miss Peterson, the world a blur of men in suits and pretty women. She bought tickets, she bought magazines and cigarettes. I shook my head to coffee after she asked me the third time. She had a smile as she looked at my hazy confusion, like she’d just won a bet.
On the train she sat in front of me, legs crossed and reading the French Vogue. She smoked, she radiated sexiness and power. I wanted to radiate that. Apparently all I radiated was a signal that I was obedient.
As I watched the city fade into trees and water I realized I still didn’t know where we were going. Some of the landscape seemed familiar, but I was not very well travelled. As the stops shifted from odd Indian names to things that ended in Hampton I started to realized exactly how fancy the place I was going was. Then it was more people, more following Miss Peterson into crowds. Busy train station, a shiny black car waiting for us. Tinted windows and a quiet ride.
We arrived at the most unlikely of places; a stable. I followed Miss Peterson into the place, trying to walk on heels I was already clumsy in the hay and grass. Miss Peterson met a young woman who was my age with very large pouting lips and curly copper hair pulled back in a ponytail. The two exchanged a few words and the girl’s eyes narrowed on me.
She walked over to me and looked me up and down. She had pinkish white skin that was covered in freckles. She seemed to be constantly pouting and frowning and bratty. She said nothing, but started walking giving me a nod that said to follow her. We walked through this strange world of horses, which I’d never really been up close to but seem almost alarmingly large and powerful. I almost couldn’t look at the rippling muscles of the animals because they seemed so nakedly masculine.
We came to a huge wall that looked like an outdoor theater, but as we entered I realized it was some kind of track. I wondered if it was a horse race, but it seemed the wrong size. We walked past men in white suits and women in elaborate dresses with huge hats. These people were rich and probably famous. I hadn’t read enough of the gossip column to really know who was who. We walked and walked and then there he was sitting in a booth wearing a suit I had never seen and sunglasses of all things.
Mister McInytre in a blue stripped seersucker suit. He looked like a movie star. To his right was a younger man in a white suit who was very thin and had sharp almost feminine features. His blond hair was combed back dramatically and he wore a bright periwinkle ascot. The girl led me to there booth and the two men stood up to greet me, which made my face flush. Looking up at Mister McIntyre, who towered over me I had to squint in the sunlight.
“Abigail. I’m glad you made it.” he took my hand and held my arm out so he could look at my dress.
I squirmed as he looked me up and down. He was touching me. He was looking at me. He was showing me off. I looked down. I wanted to crawl out of the spotlight. Then as sudden as I thought that the vision of Marcy on top of me popped into my head for some reason and my knees almost buckled.
“Marcy did a lovely job.” he said looking at the man next to him who gave a begrudging shrug of approval.
“Abigail, this is Chase Daniels.” he fair bow smiled noncommittally and then took a pair of opera glasses from his pocket and looked at the field.
“And of course you’ve met Gertrude.” mister McIntyre said, and as he moved towards her the pout melted a bit and her eyes got larger.
“Say hello to Abigail, Trudy.”
Her snotty facade gone, the girls green eyes sparkled above her high freckled cheeks. “Hello, Abigail.”
I smiled. I tried to smile politely, but it may have came out as a little too happy at her change in attitude. I realized that Mister McIntyre had the same sway over her. It was strange to think of that. I watched their body language, how she teetered next to him, wanting to be at his side, but knowing her place at the moment.
“I… I’m going to get a pop. Would you care for one, Abigail?” she offered, her cheeks reddening at the forced kindness. Mister McIntyre smiled and put his hand on her shoulder. This caused her body to tense.
“Oh, yes. Thank you. A coke, please.” I said, politely.
She walked off, her eyes on mine communicating something, maybe ownership?
“Have a seat Abigail.” Mister McIntyre motioned to a chair beside him.
I sat down, I remembered Alice in Wonderland suddenly because that’s what I felt like. Looking out at the field I realized it wasn’t a race but some sort of jumping and riding competition.
“Dressage.” said Chase, pronouncing the word with a certain French flair.
“Pardon?” I said, wondering if he was telling me something or asking me something.
“Dressage; horse ballet. It’s expensive to learn, insufferably boring to watch and taxing on the animals. We all love it.” his dry sarcasm hanging in the air coldly.
“Marcy’s been doing it since she was a girl.” said Gertrude, suddenly startling me. She handed me a coke and her eyes were somewhat less aggressive. She looked at the seats and I realized I’d taken hers. She shrugged and sat down next to me.
Just then out on the field I saw her. Marcy Peterson in gray riding pants and a crisp white shirt with a vest. Her little hat and her tall black boot and her little whip. There was something about it that was so formal, so neat and tidy, so imposing. I wanted to see it up close, examine all the details of it. I wondered what it felt like to wear those tall heavy boots and to straddle a horse like that. Looking to my left I saw similar questions in Gertrude’s eyes.
“Have you ever done it?” I asked her.
Gertrude smiled. “Nope. But I tried the outfit on. The boots are a pain, but you feel wonderfully… constricted.” she give me a look then that made me bite my lip.
And so we all watched. Ladies sitting up tall rode their horses around, making them bow and dance and do all sorts of poses both graceful and unnatural. The first few minutes were interesting as Gertrude explained the scoring to me. Then we got to see Marcy go. She got a nine, which from what I was told means “very good”. After that things got a bit boring. I turned to see Gertrude nodding off. Chase took out a little book and was silently reading. Only Mister McIntyre watched from under his dark sunglasses. I was sort of glad I couldn’t see his steely blue eyes because I wouldn’t be able to relax at all if I could.
Then it was over. Polite clapping, someone won something. I’d stop being able to follow it as my eyes got heavy in the sunlight and boredom. Then we were up with the milling crowd, making our way out. At some point Mister McIntyre left our group and I was ushered by Chase and Gertrude to the car I’d been driven in. Then we were off.
Another long drive. Chase was deep in a book, I think I saw Oscar Wilde on the cover. Gertrude was pouting and watching me like a cat watches a canary.
“So you’re Jacob’s secretary.” she said flatly.
“Y… yes. I’ve been working for Mister McIntyre for a while now.” as I said his name the two of them looked at each other and smirked.
We arrived at a huge house and I followed the two through a huge wrought iron gate up a cobblestone path to the front door where a butler met us. If I was Alice in Wonderland before now I was little orphan Annie wide eyed at the lavish place.
We came to a large drawing room, complete with fainting couches and a fireplace. Books lined the walls and there was large globe in one corner. McMcIntyre was there, standing next to Marcy. It felt so strange to see the two of them. I can’t remember ever seeing them together before, but there they were. He towered over her as they spoke, just out of ear shot.
My hands felt cold, I wondered what they were talking about. Marcy’s strong eyes and confident sarcastic grin were gone. She looked down when he spoke to her, just like I did.
Mister McIntyre didn’t look pleased, he was asking her a series of questions and she was answering with meek yeses and noes. She looked so much younger like this, with her riding unifom and her hair pulled back. She fidgeted under his gaze and fingered her riding crop.
As I watched I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Chase, smiling at me.
“Jacob told me that you were here to record the proceedings of our little meeting. I know you are used to a typewritter, but I couldn’t carry one all the way out here so just use this.” he handed me a five by seven black moleskin notebook and a heavy expensive looking silver pen.
“What am I supposed to write?”
Chase moved in and whispered conspirotorally. “Well, ‘Mistre McIntyre’ is going to…” he searched for the words “fuck Marcy and probably Gertrude” he smiled “and possibly me.”
My eyes grew wide. I stopped breathing. Was be kidding? I was young and inexperienced and innocent, he was probably playing a joke on me. A sharp crack brough my attention back to Mister McIntyre. He’d taken Marcy’s riding crop and was flexing of in his large hands. Her eyes were saucers as he gave the thing a practise smack against his hand.
Chase continued. “You should start now. I think Mister McIntyre is about to do something interesting with Marcy’s riding crop. Just write everything down as you see it, as if you were recalling a dream in your diary.”
I blushed as I opened the book. He knew, this stranger knew. All of them knew my every secret. As I looked up I saw Mister McIntyre move in on Marcy. She backed up against the wall and he was on her. I gasped and covered my mouth. I knew I should be quiet. They didn’t notice me. He was pressed against her and she squirmed. My legs closed tightly. I felt the weight of Chase sitting next to me on the couch. I saw Gertrude sitting on a chair watching Marcy and Mister McIntyre the same was I was.
My hands shook as I opened the notebook. I put the pen to the paper as I watch and wrote down every dirty detail.
Well, I’ve been working on this new project for a few days now. It seems like there are so many NYC sex bloggers and in looking around for them I realized there is no real list of them, so I am making one. Thus nycsexblogs.com was born.
I’m pretty excited about the whole thing, if for no other reason than I think I made it look pretty. Plus I get to make lists, which is always a nice thing. Also it will help in people meeting people and all of us NY people getting even cozier.
Speaking of which, I think I am going to In the Flesh @ Happy Endings tomorrow. Having just listened to Rachel Kramer Bussel‘s interview on Bedroom Radio and having just finished three stories in RKB’s anthology Tasting Her: Oral Sex Stories, I am very curious to hear what will be read. Plus I’m sure there will be all sorts of interesting people in the audience.
As for stories on this webpage, Mister McIntyre Eight is almost done. I had to figure out where to go from the last part, I wanted to introduce a few new people as we take Abigail deeper into her merciless boss’s life. Plus I want to get the first scene with both Mister M and Marcy just right. Should be up soon. Plus some more stories on the way, ones that are actually being edited! (I know you will miss my charming spelling and grammar errors.)
And with that, back to work. No more link dropping for this morning.
I was talking with a friend the other day about secrets and how I tend to be obsessed with them. I like to know secrets, I like to be told secrets and I like to find out secrets, for better or worse. Most of my life has seen the better, though certainly the worse arrived a while back and curiosity killed the cat. Still, knowing is always better than not knowing because let’s face it even when you don’t have proof you always know.
Still secrets are always floating around in my head and they are always tickling my fascination. Looking over the things I’ve written, stories and fragments and smut and so on, I see that the common thread is people finding out things about other people. People eavesdropping or finding diaries, people following people, people spying on people, the skeletons in the closets being revealed. It is a climactic moment and it makes for a good story, I think.
The conclusion of the conversation was that the desire to learn other people’s secrets is the desire to find evidence that the things I think and the things I do are not deviant or unique. To find evidence that perversions, both sexual and emotional are not isolated. More so the feeling that my thoughts and emotions are somehow “not right” is because of my upbringing where people didn’t talk about their emotions ever, so I never got any validation that the things I felt were “normal.”
I also realize that when I am in a relationship I long for my partner to find out things about me. I have this need for my partner to dig and to investigate because if they don’t then they don’t want it enough. Love and passion should always have at least a touch of obsession.
The thought of a partner writing something or creating something and not wanting to read it seems foreign to me. Does that make sense?
I think my goal should be to write stories like secrets so that when someone reads them they are filled with the excitement of finding something out.
Anyhow, tell me some secrets. Comment anonymously. Tell me something.
Sometimes a chaste kiss is all you need.
At the movie your arm brushes against hers. In the dark her lingering perfume is a constant reminder of her proximity. You think about how your body is positioned and how hers is, what it all means. Is she moving closer? Are her legs positioned away? She she trying to give you a sign?
After the movie you make small talk. Funny movie! Serious movie. Scary, sweet, political. I remember this movie once… That happened to my cousin.
A bite to eat? Sure. Eyes become bolder over a table. No dark I hide behind. You can make look right into her eyes while you talk and when she looks back and your gazes linger your heart starts to pound. You can make jokes that are a little more pointed. You can flirt.
You loiter at your table after the check has came and went and the waitress is getting annoyed. Out in the street walking down a quite block, you pause. She looks at you, then down, plays with her hair. You move in and she meets you. A kiss. Center kiss, upper lip, bottom lip. Bolder, you move in. She smells like fruity body spray. She sighs onto you as she pulls away.
“We should go, it’s getting late.” one of you say.
You get to the train. She moves in now before you can. She is pulling away will half her body and pulling you in with the other half. The kiss is hungrier, sucking each lip. Open mouths for a second but then she is away.
“I should go.”
“We don’t have to. We could get a drink.” but it is half hearted. You don’t have the strength or really even the desire.
She is blushing she looks up through her bangs. She doesn’t trust herself. She had rules she can’t afford to break. You like making girls not trust themselves.
“You kiss really well.” she mumbles, again her hand in her hair, twisting and playing.
You move in but she moves back.
“I got to go, thanks. I had fun.” and then she is gone.
You smile because it is nice to just have that, just a chaste kiss in the middle of the sidewalk. You don’t want any more and you probably couldn’t handle anymore. She is just a good girl and it is lovely to make a good girl blush. She knows you’re not going to be her boyfriend. She knows what one more kiss could do.
She is a lovely flower but you have roses on my mind. Oh the roses you have in mind.
I have a lot to say, but I’m going to keep things inside for a while. I’m greedy and I want the memories all to myself.
I will say, cherries are sweet and they make kisses so much better. Frozen grapes stir up all kinds of things. The world is a delicious place.
Kissing is amazing. Laughing is the best. Three writers in a bed is almost overwhelming. Actually it is overwhelming. Sometimes you can strap yourself in and be overwhelmed. Ride the waves of over-stimulation and come out on the other side panting and changed.
It is an interesting thing to be so smitten with two women at once. One for all the ways we are the same and one for all the ways we are different. Pale skin and darker skin. Youth and experience. One desire is lean, hungry, patient. It makes my eyes narrow and my smile a little sinister. I want to be rough with her, play out things, a wrestling match of wits and sex. The other has no room to wait, it is just want and it is want now. I want to show her things and teach her tricks and just fuck her until she can’t take it any more. I want that so bad it makes me a little nervous.
Ellie and I have been chatting a lot lately. We have been talking about chemistry and the way some people evoke certain dynamics from the start. Some people you meet and you might want to date or be friends with, you can see where it goes. Other times the chemistry takes over and you need to top them hard or be topped by them or take care of them.
My emotions are certainly cyclical. For a while now I have been somewhat luke warm over people. It’s interesting to be so passionately intrigued all of the sudden.
And now back to work. Jack needs to stop thinking about… well just stop thinking.
It was a Wednesday when I finished my assignment. I put my diary on Mister McIntyre’s desk with all my dirty secrets open for him. My teenage fumblings and my embarrassing attempts at dating. All of my dirty dreams and forbidden fantasies. All the times I had to go into the bathroom and rub myself while covering my mouth because Mister McIntyre had leaned over me while I typed a letter or chided me for taking too long at lunch. Continue reading
Gentle readers, I am going to tell you a true story now. The story of when I had my first sex blogger date. In wonderful sex blog fashion, said date included three people.
Janie Blooms of The Late Bloomer Finally Blooms, who by the way is in full bloom and lovely in her geek chic glasses and buxom brashness. Then there was the ever so charming Mariella from In Media Res… who is exquisite. A coquettish little lolita.
We met at a bar, the three of us, after a little mix up. There were perfunctory conversations. We laughed at the awkwardness of it, even though that awkwardness didn’t seem to exist. We were quite comfortable in fact.
I didn’t know what to make of it all before I got there. Going in I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’d spoken to each of them separately online. I loved both of their blogs. I already had crushes on both of them to tell the truth. I thought I would meet them, I would see what happened.
The thing is when you read about someone in the fashion you get to know very specific things about them. When you meet them in person all the little holes in the story get filled up very quickly. So to speak. I was expecting sexy people I was expecting flirting maybe. I wasn’t expecting two completely brilliant extremely interesting women.
I wasn’t expecting the chemistry.
In the dark bar we found a quiet corner. I wonder what wandering eyes did see, though. The three of us instantly slipped into private jokes and inside information. We were following each other’s lead, though somehow I ended up the ring leader.
Mariella is a very particular kind of girl. That clumsy giggly kind of girl who’s just figuring out that she is sexy. She’s walking around with a body like a loaded gun. She is falling out of her dress. She can’t stop fidgeting. She twirls her hair and bites her lips. She bends over you, not realizing or at least pretending not to realize that her breasts are in your face. She twists and turns and squirms, almost in your lap.
When you kiss her she gives it her all. She’s overtaken by it and she has to pull herself away from it when it’s over, though she sits there with her eyes closed trying to recover.
Her body is hot to the touch, her dress is tight. A hand on her side and she melts into your grip, pressing and wanting more. When your hand finds her naked leg she is biting her lip and she doesn’t know what to do with all the want. Every bit of her is trying to pull your hand up her thigh. Every sweet breath and kiss and flirting look is making you inch closer to slipping your finger into the spot you know is wet and hungy and burning hot.
Janie is a whole different animal. Janie is more like me.
She looks at you fearlessly through her glasses. Measuring and evaluating. Daring you to move in. Giving you signals, but still making sure you have the balls to move in.
The challenge in her eyes set me off a little. We were locking glases over beer, over Mariella who was at first sitting in the middle and then by the end of the night sandwiched between us.
The flirting was ridiculous. It wasn’t flirting as most people know it. We are, all three of us, obviously advanced. The entendre was four or five layers thick. Our eyes were locking and dodging and hungry and saying a million different things. Well, really only one thing. “I want to fuck”
There was literary conversation and anecdotes, stories about relationships and sex, but all of the pretty words only made us realize that we probably could have skipped it all and went to bed right then and there. But it was too late. It was a Tuesday. Maybe it was too amazing to move on. The flirting and the kissing and eventually the touching was a whole new kind of sex. My knee is still shaking 24 hours later.
It started when Mariella went to the lady’s room. I moved in and sat next to Janie. She has a cocky sort of grin. So I kissed her. Just a little kiss. Testing the waters. She didn’t budge much, but she kissed me back. We smiled. I think I passed the first test.
A bit later Janie went to the bathroom and I whispered in Mariella’s ear that we had kissed. She said we had some catching up to do.
Mariella’s kiss wasn’t a test. A kiss and she liquified. She turned into molten lava. Tongues and hands and I started getting dizzy.
We told Janie when she got back like two kids who spilled something on the sofa. She smiled wickedly and told us we should kiss again, this time in front of her. So we did. The next time I kissed Janie she let go a little, opening her mouth falling into the kiss.
I can only imagine what the waitress saw. Two bespectacled geeky people staring into each others eyes from both sides of a squirming sex pot. All I know is she came over and offered us a free round.
It continued like this. Climbing like a thermometer in July. Kissing one of them, then the other. Kissing leading to touching. Then the shock of naked air as we pulled ourselves apart. My hand on Mariella’s leg, his side, scratching her back, while Janie did the same from the other side. The best moment was fingers meeting someone else’s fingers under her skirt. Our eyes meeting as we explored the achingly smooth skin of the younger girl between us. Oh the plans our eyes communicated.
And so I am now the king of the East Village. Stalling before getting on the train we took turns kissing, sometimes looking into the eyes of one while kissing the other right in front of the subway entrance. I was embarrassed, but Janie told me how rock star I was.
And now? Every day will be torture until we pick up where we left off.
Delicious excruciating candy coated fucking torture.
Mister McIntyre’s Secret
April 19th, 1964
There is a large lavish hotel room. Rich crimson and gold wallpaper, a huge bed, gilded chairs and lavish mirrors. Mister McIntyre is standing in front of the largest mirror straightening his tie. He is in his black suit, the one he wears to big meetings. His shirt is harsh white and he is wearing his cornflower blue tie. He is freshly shaven, his hair is parted neatly and slick. You can count the comb lines.
Marcy Peterson, his mistress, is walking out of the washroom. A slinky low cut black dress. Her black hair long and silk soft falling over her shoulders. Her lips are dark red and glimmering.
He towers over her. He stands almost six foot five and she, like me, is just over five feet tall. He leans in and they kiss, at first tenderly and then his hand is in her hair, pulling her back so he can kiss her neck hungrily. Her eyes are glazed with pleasure.
He picks her up and carries her to the bed. Standing over her he takes off his jacket and folds it neatly on the night stand. He then methodically rolls up his sleeves exposing his muscular hairy arms. He loosens and removes his tie, she sits up on the bed eagerly wanting more of his lips but he pushes her down.
Picking up the phone he presses one button and I answer.
“Abigail I’m going to need some rope.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
There I was at the door, dressed in my mousy brown skirt and my beige top with my hair in a ponytail and my glasses falling off my nose. Two thick coils of rope in my hands.
I looked down at Miss Peterson. She’s a wicked girl and a wanton slut. I know why Mister McIntyre wants me to tie her down. I can only imagine she will squirm away when his hands are too rough. I pet her hands dip down and play with her sex when she wants more, knowing that Mister McIntyre is only giving her as much pleasure as she is supposed to get.
I glared down at her, but she is lost in his eyes. I pull her so that she is sitting up and I unzip her dress. The fabric is soft and expensive. The smell of her hair and her perfume is delicate, but heady. As I pull the dress off it exposes every inch of her. Her black underthings, her dark stockings and pretty garter belt. I unsnap the belts and put them aside. I gingerly pull her underwear down, her hand going to my shoulder for support as I pull them off. Then I pull the pillows from under the covers and put her head on them.
I tied her, I tied her tight for him. She’d better not get loose. I tied both of her wrists behind her back. Then tie a knot around her knee and slid the rope under the bed and tie the other end to her other knee, keeping her down and keeping her legs apart. The last knot made her wince and she shot a look at me. I smiled sweetly.
“Sorry Miss Peterson.”
The near hypnotic way she looked at Mister McIntyre melted away for a moment as she glowered at me, but then his smack across her face brought her back. It was light, but still her cheek grew read for a sting of Mister McIntyre’s hand.
Mister MacIntyre stood over the bed watching the tied up woman in the bed, her bottom in the air and her sex exposed so completely. He was clenching his fists and his jaw. He was planning what to do first, how to take her apart.
I was on my knees after the girl was tied. I opened the buckle of his belt and carefully stood up while I pulled it off of him. It slipped around him loop by loop until it hung in my hand, heavy black leather. I held it out to Mister McIntyre and his eyes never even settling on me he took it, folding it in half and snapping it once.
“I’ll let you know if I need anything else Abigail.”
And dutifully as always I went back to my desk, hoping Mister McIntyre knew I would do anything for him.
I placed her diary on Mister McIntyre’s desk next to his newspapers.
When I sat at down at my desk I sat up straight. My heart wasn’t racing, though it was pounding hard in my chest. I felt alive and ready to see what was next. I’d gotten a glimpse into Mister McIntyre’s life and it was freighting and sexual and everything that my dreams seemed to hint at.
I was ready for my next assignment.
She didn’t say anything when she walked in. She just brushed me aside and sauntered in with that strut she had. She looked around as she pulled each finger of her glove and then took them off and slipped them into her purse.
“You don’t look sick.” she said looking me up and down as I closed and locked the door.
“I mean, you’re pale and your hair is dull and lifeless, but I’m guessing you always look like that.”
Why was she in my apartment? Obviously Mister McIntyre sent her. Why her?
“As I can tell from your silly little scrunched up face and crossed eyes you are obviously trying to fathom why I’m here.”
Her gloves were finally off. She was walking around my living room, a look of amusement on her face. Continue reading
Mister McIntyre’s Secret
There was a line and it had been crossed.
I wasn’t stupid. I knew how I looked, how I acted. I was his puppy dog, his whipping post, his girl Friday. I swooned around him, I knew I did that. For all my dedication and obedience I got a pat on the head, not even on the butt. I was sexless on his eyes, but at the same time he took advantage of my attraction to him. I was alright with that. In fact it made me work harder. I wasn’t doing it to win his heart or get a kiss. I served Mister McIntyre because I wanted to and it made me happy and he deserved it.
This was something else though, something new and of scared me more than all the secrets, all the waiting and all the frustration. My heart had given up racing. There was a new fear and it was slow and methodical.
He didn’t call me into his offce for the rest of the day. He came back from lunch and as he opened his door I could see the little bit of pink on his desk.
He went to a meeting and had a drink with a client. When he came back he didn’t even look at be as he walked inside. His face was as irreadable as ever. I was sitting like a death row inmate. The calm of inevadable doom had come over me.
At five he came out I the office holding his jacket, his briefcase and my diary. He placed the book on my desk and looked down at me.
“Interesting. I wonder what Jung would say.” his eyes were on me and I was frozen.
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I tired again and it was only a croak.
“I don’t rem-”
“Make it up, then. Just finish it.”
He put his hat on and slipped his arm into his jacket.
“You’re a pretty girl, Abigail. It’s too bad you don’t have much luck with love.” his smile was small, but enough to hurt.
“But you certainly do have a healthy imagination.”
I didn’t cry on the train. I opened the book and looked through the pages wondering what he’d read, wondering what he skipped. I wondered how much of me he knew. Fingering my silly words, my Catholic school script. His shadow now loomed over my first date and my first kiss. The awkward shyness that kept me home on Friday nights and the dirty thoughts that made my hands creep under my sheets at night or up my skirt…
A flash of dark ink caught my attention. It was on the next to last page I wrote in.
There I was in Mister McIntyre’s office, my skirt pulled up and my hand pressed tightly in-between my pantyhose and body. Soaking wet from his eyes on me, rubbing myself fast, hoping not to get caught, maybe hoping to get caught. When it came it was so hard I nearly fell down.
And then in his dark bold print, the kind he uses to add an addendum to a contract, he wrote:
Interesting. I’ll have to try and hurry back from lunch from now on.
He knew. I wasn’t his mousy little secretary anymore. Well, I was but I was something else too. A dirty little pervert. I wanted to cry, I wanted to quit, I wanted to crawl into a hole and never leave.
In my stomach this poison shame was bubbling up, but the whole time it was mixed with something else. All the time I was clenching my fists and barely aware of the ache. Arousal and shame so tied together I didn’t know where one started and the other began. So bad in so many ways.
What would come that morning? Would he laugh at me or punish me or scratch some fraction of the itch that was always there when he was around? What would I see when I looked up at those piercing eyes?
At home I forgot to eat dinner. I threw myself on the bed and look out my pen and opened my diary, which suddenly felt new and electric and frightening. I put my pen down on the page where I’d left off. I waited, I tried to remember. I couldn’t really write what happened in my dream, could I? Now that I knew he would read it. Now that I knew every dark fantasy would be exposed to him.
I had to try. I closed my eyes and pictured the hotel room. Marcy with her bratty little grin. Mister MacIntyre walking towards me, taking the rope. He was going to wipe that smile off her face. I’d watch and help. I’d be good and do what he told me to do, to the letter. Marcy wouldn’t. That’s why he was tying her down.
My hands were on my body as I remembered. The weight of the day had made me weak, but hungry. My breasts were sore under my bra, I got out of bed and pulled off my shirt and skirt and underthings. Naked, I laid back down, I went back to the diary where I hadn’t added anything to the dream but a blue dot where my pen rested. I laid back down and rubbed the soreness from my neck, smoothed the little lines my brassiere left under my breasts.
My nipples were so sensitive I almost couldn’t touch them. So much arousal and fear all day. My body was so primed, pulled so tight the lightest touch was almost painful. I imagined being on Mister McIntyre’s big chair, naked. When my fingers trailed down to the soft hairs between my legs I was scared to touch. It was like a cold drink after a day in the desert.
Then the warm wet welcome, the familiarity of my body as well as the shame. It wouldn’t take long. I was already climbing. I could finish the story when I was done, free of the burden of all this desire.
The sun hurt my eyes. My cheek stung. I awoke to find the edge of my diary resting on my face, the hard cardboard digging into my skin.
Morning? I looked at the clock and it read 8:20am. I rubbed my eyes knowing it was lying. 7:20am. I went to the livingroom, naked, and saw the same on the clock on the wall.
Panic. I didn’t finish it. I was late for work. I would be even later if I try and write something. I would try and write something on the train, but what if I couldn’t? I’d never been late in my entire life. How did this happen?
I picked up the phone on the wall in the kitchen. Some part of my brain had taken over. Damage control. I called the head of the secretarial pool.
“Hi Margie… It’s Abigail. I’m not feeling well, I’m sorry for the late notice but I can’t come in today.”
Margie was nice as always. She laughed because it was the first time I’d ever called in sick. She said she was glad I was human like every one else.
The idea of a whole day alone in the apartment was horrifying. My roommate Eloise was a dental assistant and she would be out all day. Even more terrifying was the image of Mister McIntyre coming in to see some temp from the steno pool at my desk. Someone who wouldn’t know how to take care of him the way I do. Plus he would know I failed. I really failed him for the first time.
With that I tumbled back into bed and cried.
The doorbell rang a little after eleven. When I sat up I knew it was him. I knew it without a doubt. I’d failed him, I’d called in sick when I wasn’t, I was a dirty girl who fingered herself in his office. I wasn’t even pretty enough to be his slut. I was just a mess. A servant who had outlived her usefulness and become pathetic.
I was still naked. I found a nightgown and slipped it on. I ran to the door and stood in front of it. The bell rang again and again.
My hand on the knob, turning, slowly, this was it. He would be in my apartment. He would fire me or fuck me or slap me. I don’t know which I was more afraid of.
And then the strangest thing happened. I opened the door and saw a black dressed, black gloved, perfectly manicured Marcy Elizabeth Spencer-Peterson.
It was one of those hot sticky days, full of barbecues and running around town, and followed by one of those long summer nights where no one wants to go home and everyone just drink and drinks.
Jack brought Molly back to his apartment. It was a little after two in the morning and the both of them were exhausted. He watched her peel off her t-shirt and drop it on the floor, then unsnap her bra which had left delicious little red marks around her back and under her arms. For some reason Jack liked the marks. He liked to touch them and even run his tongue over them. Molly would have none of that in the heat though. She was sweaty and smelled like smoke and dirt and beer. She pulled off her shorts and underwear and slunk off to the bathroom.