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.