Chapter One
She didn't notice it at first. The little trunk was hidden behind boxes of old bills and piles of mildewed clothing that looked like they hadn't been disturbed since World War II. Nicole was exhausted-she'd been going through her grandmother's old things all morning, and so far it had been tedious and sad. Did a person's whole life really come down to a few dusty boxes in the attic?
She felt tears well again as she thought of her grandmother, who she would never see again. Nana, as she had called her, had died the month before. She had only been seventy-one, and her daughter, Nicole's mother, had found her accidentally when she dropped by to bring a casserole. Nana had passed away sitting on her sofa, a romance novel still in her hand. She looked entirely peaceful, as if she'd merely fallen asleep. Pop had passed away only the prior year from a massive heart attack at the age of seventy-nine.
"Would you go through her things?" Nicole's mother had begged her. "I just can't face it." The twenty-four-year-old was an obedient girl, even though she was all grown up and lived on her own in an apartment in town.
Nicole agreed to do as her mother had asked, spending the day packing boxes for Goodwill, and boxes to review later with her sisters, full of old photo albums and various memorabilia. Nicole and Nana had been especially close, and Nicole thought she knew everything there was to know about her grandmother.
Nicole might not have noticed the small trunk, more of a strongbox really, but something about it caught her eye. Underneath the dust it was silver. Aluminum, in fact, and sturdily built. And it was locked. Pushing aside the piles of junk, she scooted over to the trunk. She pulled at the little lock but it didn't give.
The ringing phone downstairs drew her away.
"Winston residence," she said, slightly out of breath.
" Elizabeth ." The voice was deep and resonant. Nicole was startled and confused for a moment. Who was calling who was so familiar as to use her grandmother's first name, but not familiar enough to know she had died?
"Excuse me, who's calling?"
"Forgive me, I thought you were Elizabeth . Is she available please?"
"Oh, dear," Nicole's voice wavered, hating to impart the news to someone who obviously didn't know. "Who is this, please?"
The man seemed to hesitate, but, perhaps sensing something amiss, as Nicole's grandmother had lived alone since her husband's death, answered, "This is James Stevenson. An old friend. I'm afraid I've been out of the country for some months. Is she all right?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Stevenson, to be the bearer of bad news, but my grandmother passed away last month. She died peacefully in her sleep." Tears sprang to her eyes, and she tried to keep her voice steady as she spoke to the stranger, who might now be dealing with his own grief.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice suddenly cracking. "Thank you." Nicole heard the click of his receiver and she gently cradled her own. She sat thinking for a while, wondering who the stranger with the deep voice was, who had obviously known Nana well enough to call, and in such a familiar way, and yet hadn't known of her death. James Stevenson. An old friend. The name seemed familiar, and yet Nicole couldn't quite place it.
Perhaps she should call him back; offer him some comfort. She could view his number on the call log of the phone, if she chose to. But no, she decided. She would leave the man to his privacy. Whatever his relationship had been with Nana, it was clear he was shocked and saddened by the news. Leave him time to process his grief.
Nicole's eyes filled with tears for the hundredth time that weekend, as her gaze fell on a photograph of Nana and Pop. It was from early in their marriage, sometime in the '50s. The picture was black and white, but by the shading and light, one could see that Nana, of course then only known as Elizabeth , had fair hair and fair skin. Her eyes were light, probably blue, and she was smiling , the big happy smile of someone young and in love. Her face was turned slightly toward her husband, who stared directly at the camera, his expression self-conscious and stiff as he posed for the lens.
Elizabeth , though, seemed unaware of the camera. Her hair was pulled back in a careless ponytail, tendrils of unruly hair blowing gently against her cheek. Her face looked fresh and open. A Kansas farm girl kind of freshness, with a little sprinkling of freckles across her broad snubbed nose.
Nicole held the little photo; one she'd looked at many times before, and mentally compared herself with the woman she saw there. Nana was younger even than she in that old picture. Where Elizabeth was blonde and freckled, Nicole was darker, with dark brown hair and hazel eyes that changed from green to gray depending on her outfit or her mood. Nicole's was a more delicate face, with high fine cheekbones and eyes almost too large for her face. Her mouth was small, but the lips were generous and even sensual. She had always envied her Nana's open, natural good looks, unaware of her own passion which lurked, waiting, behind those gray-green eyes.
Next to the photo were several lovely seashells, their horny exteriors protecting the delicate, milky pink curves inside. Nicole lifted a nautilus shell, cradling it gently in her hands. It brought back sharp memories of summers spent collecting shells at dawn, while everyone else but she and Nana slept. The world had seemed to belong only to the two of them then. Nicole sighed loudly, wiping a tear from her cheek. Everything about this old house was steeped in memories of Nana and Pop. She needed to get the hell out of there and home to her little cat, George.
Nicole found her mind drifting back to the little strongbox in the attic. She found it had seized her imagination. What was in there that it had to be kept locked? And where was the key? Nicole remembered now that she had seen a ring of keys in the desk when she was going through old papers.
Hurrying over to the desk, she pulled open the drawers, trying to remember where she'd seen those keys.
Ah! There they were, hidden behind a container of pushpins and paper clips. She pulled out the old key ring and examined it. There was a small key on it that could well be a strongbox key.
Hurrying up to the attic, she pushed aside the old clothes and knelt in front of the silver strongbox. Taking the little key, she pressed it into the hole and tried to turn it. Nothing. It wouldn't budge. She saw that it wasn't the right key after all. None of the other keys on the ring were even close.
Sighing, she gave up and went downstairs, closing the blinds and leaving the house with several boxes in tow. The strongbox would have to wait, as George would be hungry.
Monday after work found Nicole back at her grandmother's house. She might not have come back so soon, but that mysterious strongbox had been on her mind. Who knew what was in it? Maybe jewels and gold doubloons! She laughed to herself at the thought. That was just what Nana would have guessed, and she would have actually been crestfallen when it only turned out to be old newspapers and magazines.
Which was probably what was in there-junk. Still, her curiosity was peaked. Whose box was it? Nana's or Pop's? She thought it must be Nana's, as Pop had kept everything of value to him in the shed off the garage. That had been his domain, full of fishing tackle, gardening implements and girlie magazines he thought no one knew he had.
Pop rarely went into the attic. He claimed to be frightened of all the junk and old toys up there. He couldn't stand the clutter, he said, and left it to Lizzie, his pet name for her, to deal with. So it must be Nana's. And yet it was locked, even though Pop never went up there. What was so important that she had to lock it?
Today Nicole was armed with a bolt cutter in the event that a final search did not yield a key. She looked again in all the drawers and especially in the night table on Nana's side of the bed but no luck. Slowly she climbed the attic stairs, trying to think where Nana might have hidden that key.
Suddenly Nicole remembered how when they used to stay with Nana and Pop at their summer beach cottage Nana would remind her, "The key's on the window ledge, dear. Up high. If we're down at the shore when you get here, just let yourself in."
The window ledge. There were two windows in the attic. Nicole went over to one of them and felt along the top of the window. Nothing. She put her fingers along the second ledge and something scuttled away, causing her to jerk her hand away and let out a little involuntary squeal.
Recovering herself, she put her hand again up to the dusty ledge and slowly moved her fingers along it. It was there. A little key, which she took with hands now trembling with excitement. She had found it! Nana would have been proud of her detective work! Quickly she walked over to the strongbox, pausing for a moment, wondering if she had the right now that Nana was dead, to open it. Did Nana's right to privacy disappear when she died?
Nicole wavered for a second, debating if she should ask her mother's opinion. But her curiosity won out. It wasn't like she would do anything to compromise Nana's privacy. Putting any misgivings to rest, she pushed the little key into the lock. It turned smoothly with a satisfying little click, and slowly she opened the lid.
No doubloons. No priceless gold trinkets or ancient documents worth millions. No, just some old notebooks. These were worth locking up? They looked dusty and faded, like they hadn't been written in or looked at for quite a while. They were thin, with pale blue covers, like composition notebooks for a final exam. Old account ledgers? She lifted the top one slowly and opened the first page.
Sitting back, she realized she had stumbled upon someone's diary. Someone's very private diary. Across the inside of the cover was written the word 'FIVE'. There were only five altogether, and she saw that each one had a number inscribed on the inner cover. She looked until she found number 'ONE' and sat back with it. She began to read, recognizing her grandmother's neat flowing hand.
October 11, 1961
Mr. Stevenson said that I should write here. To sort out my thoughts. He told me to get myself a little notebook, and keep it here at work, in the bottom drawer. He said to lock it, and keep the keys somewhere safe. He promised that he'd never ever read it, and I believe him.
I'm not sure where to start. When I asked Mr. Stevenson where he though I should start he said, in that deep voice of his, " Elizabeth . Start at the beginning. And be honest. Explore your feelings and don't censor yourself. No one but you will read your private thoughts."
"Not even you?" I asked him.
"Most especially not me."
I believe him. I think it would go against his grain to lie.
Well, I shall start at the beginning, as Mr. Stevenson instructed.
Mr. James Stevenson is an attorney, and I am his secretary. I can't believe Frank let me go back to work, but since Jeannie is in second grade already, and I'm so bored at home, he said it was all right. Plus, I know the extra money will help with our summer vacations! I've already saved up a lot since I started here in early September.
James Stevenson! The man who had called! Of course, Nicole remembered now. Nana had worked in an attorney's office, and that was his name. She had worked there for many years, and obviously they had remained in touch! Just what was their relationship now? Nicole was confused, and not a little intrigued.
The detective in her began to piece some of the puzzle together. She thought back to when her own mother, Jeannie, would have been in second grade. Calculating in her head, she said aloud, "1961. Let's see," she said, squinting up at the ceiling, "1961, so Nana must have been twenty-nine."
Why in the world would her boss instruct her to keep a diary? Well, the evidence was before her, and so Nicole read on.
Mr. Stevenson is a very exacting man, and he insists on perfection. He reminds me time and again that an attorney can't afford to make mistakes, and therefore neither can his secretary. The first time he whacked my hand with the ruler, I have to admit I was surprised, but I'm coming to see that it is indeed effective. My typing has improved markedly.
What the hell was this? Nicole looked at it again to make sure she hadn't misread. Whacking her hand with a ruler? This was no ordinary office situation, even if it was way back in 1961!
Nicole shifted. She was uncomfortable sitting there on the dusty floor of the attic. Scooping up the pile of notebooks she went downstairs. She made herself a cup of tea, putting off the moment when she returned to the bizarre diaries.
For the first time, her comfortable, confident knowledge of who and what her grandmother had been, was being shaken. She considered for a moment tossing all the diaries and forgetting she had ever seen them. But even as she thought this, she dismissed it. There was no way she was going to throw these out. As upsetting as it might be, she was going to read these things from beginning to end. She had to know.
Sitting down at Nana's old Formica table, Nicole sipped her cinnamon tea and lifted number 'ONE' again. Now she read steadily, her eyes wide, her mouth falling open.
Let's see. I'm not sure what to say. Mr. Stevenson says I should just write whatever comes to my mind. He says I should express myself here, so that I don't get any ideas about sharing this with someone else. That someone being Frank, I'm sure. Obviously, Frank wouldn't understand! I don't exactly understand myself, but Mr. Stevenson says I will, if I give it a little time.
Oh, he's calling me. I have to go take dictation! I hope he likes the coffee better today!
October 13, 1961
I can't believe he used the ruler on my bottom yesterday! Especially just for a silly thing like a run in my stocking. I'm sure his stupid client didn't see it, either. I can't even believe I'm sitting here writing this, but Mr. Stevenson has given me an extra long lunch hour, and he told me to use it wisely. I know he wants me to write. Probably afraid I'll tell Frank he smacked my butt with a ruler!
How did all this happen? When did my boss become this bizarre disciplinarian? Let's see, it's been six weeks now since I've been here. At first, Mr. Stevenson was just your normal everyday old boss. Well, maybe not 'everyday' as he's always been a stickler for perfection, right from the beginning.
Distinguished looking, very much the proper attorney. He's thirty-four, I know because I saw his birth date on some of his certification records. He's married and has two sons. His last secretary was named Millicent Willis, and she quit this past year when she married, and so he needed someone new.
Thinking back, the interview was rather unusual, but I guess I was so eager for the job that I brushed it aside. I remember now how he went on and on about how exacting he was, and how he'd grown used to Miss Willis' 120 word-per-minute (I don't believe that, I do 105 and I'm very fast) dictation, and her ability to proof a legal document and catch every single teeny tiny error. He said if he hired me, I'd be on probation for at least six weeks, and that I'd be punished for any infraction.
Yes! He actually said punished, and when I raised my eyebrows and said, "Excuse me?" he kind of backtracked, explaining that he only meant he was very exacting, and wouldn't tolerate incompetence. In short, I'd either be up to standards, or out the door.
But I'm coming to realize you can't be up to Mr. Stevenson's standards. They're impossible. I'd really like to meet this Miss Willis. She must be a saint here on this earth, with her perfect skills and perfect everything else. Makes me want to slap her!
What is it about Mr. Stevenson, anyway, that makes me want to please him so? Partly it's that voice. Sonorous. That's the word that comes to mind. It's pleasing, but more than that, it's commanding. One wants to immediately obey whatever he asks. One wants, almost desperately, to please.
His voice haunts me; I dream of it. But the things he expects? These bizarre little punishments! Why do I tolerate the smack of his ruler and his relentless critiquing of my apparently numerous failings?
What in God's name is wrong with me?
October 17, 1961
Yesterday I told Mr. Stevenson I quit. He said he wouldn't accept the resignation. I said, "Why ever not? I obviously don't measure up to Miss Magnificent Willis"
"Come into my office, Elizabeth ," he said, not even looking back to see if I followed. Well, I did follow, waiting to see what he had to say. Frank has already come to rely on my paycheck, and I dreaded telling him I'd quit, but enough is enough.
What precipitated my decision? Well, yesterday morning Mr. Stevenson told me two very important clients were coming in and he wanted to make sure we made an excellent impression, as they could throw a lot more business our way. He actually asked me to bend over so he could inspect the back of my stockings. Given that run last week, he explained, as if it were perfectly natural for a boss to inspect his secretary's legs!
That's part of it; the way he is so confident and sure when he is 'disciplining' me. The way he acts as if this were the most natural thing in the world between a man and his secretary. I find myself blushing and stammering, desperate to please him, chagrined, humiliated even, when I have failed yet again to do so.
I find myself saying, "I'm sorry, sir, it won't happen again." And while it's happening, it doesn't occur to me that this is very odd behavior on both our parts! I haven't worked in an office before, it's true, but I'm certain most attorneys don't keep a ruler at the ready to smack their errant secretaries with! And probably most women would have been out the door after the first rap to their knuckles!
Yet here I sit, writing in this thing because he told me to and instead of protesting, I try harder and harder to please Mr. Stevenson. I don't know why exactly. There's something about him. I haven't conveyed it at all here. I haven't really conveyed much of anything yet, I guess, except that I must be stone cold crazy. Suffice it to say, there's something about Mr. Stevenson. You just want to please him. And it's so hard! So when you do, you feel so good and proud.
So that morning, for some absurd reason, I actually bent over the back of my chair so he could see my calves, which were all that showed, of course. Well, he actually lifted the skirt, right up the garters! Can you imagine! And ran his hands slowly up and down my thighs. Like I was some kind of hussy!
"Mr. Stevenson!" I yelled, standing up at once as I pushed his hands away.
I know, I know. Before that I had let the man swat my hand and my leg and even my bottom with his stupid ruler, and here I was complaining because he touched under my skirt. Why didn't I quit before? I can't say exactly. But yesterday was the last straw.
So I thought.
I fumed over it all through my lunch hour, which I took at my desk because it was raining and I didn't want to sit in the park like I usually do.
He left, as usual, promptly at 1:00 and returned on the dot of 2:00.
God, listen to me, writing to myself and lying! I'm lying to my very own self. What is wrong with me? It wasn't that I was so upset by his feeling my thigh.
It was that I was so aroused by it!
There! I've said it. Frank would never touch me like that; not in a million years. Frank is, well, Frank. Boring Frank. Make love to your wife once a week on Fridays, and keep your eyes closed, no doubt thinking about your next fishing trip, and moving just enough to finish before Jack Parr.
God. I can't believe I wrote that. I love Frank! I do. But sex. It's so boring. I've read that it can be wonderful , that it can send tingles through you! Yes, that's exactly it! Mr. Stevenson's hand sent tingles through me! I wanted him to keep touching me, to move higher! It was me I was mad at, not him.
Because I'm married, for better or for worse! And Mr. Stevenson made me think, just for a second, mind you, of someone else. In our eleven years of marriage I've never so much as looked at another man, and now my boss, of all people, is becoming the center of my fantasies!
Well, I had just finished typing my resignation, feeling very proper and formal. And very nervous. I pulled it out of my typewriter and handed it to him as he passed, saying, "I'm sorry, Mr. Stevenson, but you really give me no choice."
That's when he told me to go into his office. "Sit down, please, Elizabeth ." He looked me up and down in that slow deliberate way he has, like some kind of headmaster at some old-fashioned boarding school in England. I almost expected him to sigh and say that now he would have no choice but to call my parents! But in fact he said, "I think your decision is hasty. Let's discuss it."
Well. I sat and I crossed my legs and folded my arms in a way that was meant to convey that I meant business. There was no way he was going to change my mind. So I thought. Then he totally shocked me.
He said, " Elizabeth , it's been over six weeks now, and I want you to know you are no longer on probation. The overall quality of your work is excellent, but that isn't why I want to keep you on. There's something else. I think you know what I'm talking about."
"No, sir, I don't," I snapped. I know I was being snooty, and it felt good, because after today I wasn't going to have to come in here anymore and be treated like some kind of wayward child. At the same time, I found myself thrilling to his rare words of praise. Excellent work quality! But that "something else". I pretended to him, and for a split second, to myself, that I had no earthly idea what he meant.
But I was lying.
I can admit it here, because nobody but me will ever see this. This is my secret.
I did know what he meant. I don't mean I could articulate it. I'm still not sure I can, but there's something. God, it's embarrassing even to write it here, where no one can see it, but I did know what he meant.
When Mr. Stevenson checks my work my heart starts pounding and I wait to see what he'll do. Always that ruler, tap, tap, tapping against his thigh while he reads, carefully, looking (hoping?) for an error, a mistake, something out of place, something missing, so he can say, his voice serious, "Elizabeth, you've made an error. Come here, and I'll show you. Oh, and Elizabeth , hold out your hand."
Thwack! Oh, it smarts when he hits my hand. I've tried it different ways, palm up, palm down. I think palm up is easier to take, but he must know this too, because he'll hit me harder when I offer my palm.
OK, I'm getting to it. I'm just going to write this and maybe it will help me understand. Mr. Stevenson says sometimes you know a thing, even when you don't know you know it. What he meant, and what I understood but couldn't express, was that I liked what he did to me.
There, I wrote it here, and now I'm blushing, even though I'm sitting here all alone. It isn't even just his hand on my thigh. It's everything. The ruler, the stern looks, the exacting requirements that always keep me on the edge. Edge of what? Definitely on edge.
Mr. Stevenson went to lunch, on the stroke of 1:00, just like always. He goes home to lunch with Mrs. Stevenson, I suppose. I've never asked. I would never ask about his personal life and he never asks about mine.
And I'm still here.
He made me admit it out loud. That I didn't really want to quit, and that I needed what he offered. "You need discipline, Elizabeth ," he said, smiling a little. "I sensed that in you the moment we met. You've never been disciplined because you're smart and you're used to getting over because of that. But I can see through it. I know who you are; I know what you are. And I'm going to teach you to understand. Little by little, but trust me, you will learn. I've been very careful with you up until now, testing the waters, you might say.
"But, Elizabeth , you've forced my hand with this absurd resignation letter." As he spoke he tore it up! He actually tore it up! "I won't let you go. I'll only tell you this once, because you don't need to hear it but this once, but not only do you need me-I need you as well. We both need what I offer you, and you might as well accept it.
"You, Elizabeth, are going to become my submissive. You will belong to me so completely you will never again even contemplate the thought of leaving me. Ever. Do you understand?"
He actually said that. All of it. I remember what people say. Mr. Stevenson says it's a useful quality, as I can recall exact words that were spoken when he has me sit in on some of his meetings, even without consulting my notes.
Submissive.
I looked it up later. It isn't even a noun, but he uses it as if it were. To submit: "To yield oneself to the authority or will of another. To surrender. To permit oneself to be subjected to something."
"I have come to value you," he went on, and then he offered to give me a 20% raise, right there on the spot, effective immediately. He said he wasn't trying to buy me off, but that he wanted to demonstrate in some tangible way how much he valued me.
Well, I pretended that that was what swayed me, and I don't mind saying that Frank will be pretty happy about it! But in truth it wasn't the money. It was the way he said he valued me. The sincerity in his voice and how handsome he looked as he said it. And the way he tore up the letter, like some movie with Gregory Peck. (He even looks a little like Gregory Peck!) It was very dramatic.
OK, OK, I'm not being totally honest. As usual. It's also the ruler. I like the ruler. It makes me aroused. And the way he talked about me belonging to him. I'm not even sure what all he meant, but I got a deep little thrill, right down to my toes, when he said it.
God, I can't believe I'm writing this. I must be crazy.
Nicole's tea was cold. She set down the diary for a moment and gazed absently at the little sampler Nana had cross-stitched that had hung over the sink for as long as Nicole could remember-"Blessed Are Those Who Clean Up." Now that was the Nana Nicole knew. Funny, homey, down-to-earth. Not a sexual bone in her body. Who the hell was this other woman, this secretary who had a boss with a ruler? A handsome Gregory Peck boss with very "exacting" standards. It was like the setup for some cheap S&M novel!
And that was 1961, for God's sake! People didn't do stuff like that back then, did they? No online pervert chat rooms, no postings on personal sites- Stern boss seeks submissive secretary. Must take dictation and spankings.
And yet. And yet, if Nicole were honest with herself, as honest as her grandmother was being with herself in her diary, were the feelings expressed there really so foreign? For Nicole, like her grandmother, had as yet unexplored submissive feelings of her own. Her secret fantasies of being held down and "taken" by her lover had remained just that-secret. But they were there.
The idea of working for some guy who was into 'control'-while Nicole rejected the idea on the surface, her body was responding otherwise. As bizarre as it was, she was turned on by what she was reading, even if it was her old Nana!
Again she marveled, shaking her head. Her grandmother having submissive thoughts and feelings, all those years ago! It didn't seem possible. Yet here were these journals, written in Nana's neat, precise, first grade teacher's hand, the blue ink faded on paper yellowed with time.
This Mr. Stevenson. Nicole had half a mind to call him back, and demand an explanation. And yet she was the one reading someone else's most secret thoughts and dreams. This wasn't any of Nicole's business. She thought of herself as free and liberated, sexually and otherwise. Why should she expect a different set of behaviors for her grandmother, just because she was older and of another generation?
Don't judge her , Nicole warned herself. That was something Nana had often said. "Don't judge someone just because they don't think exactly like you do. Until you've walked in their shoes, you just have no idea." Well, she was obviously speaking from experience, wasn't she?
Tea forgotten, Nicole picked up the journal and continued to read.
October 19, 1961
Frank was delighted about the raise. He's never admitted it, but he didn't think I had what it takes to be a secretary. He seemed to think that the secretary school I attended after high school was just a front while I went after my "MRS" degree. He doesn't think I'm cut out for much more than changing diapers and making cookies. But money talks, as Frank always says, and money is telling him now I'm worth something!
Though whether it's my willingness to put up with Mr. Stevenson's ruler or my excellent dictation skills, well, I'm not so sure.
Since we had that 'little talk' and Mr. Stevenson admitted straight out he's going to 'train' me to behave in a way proper to my station (He actually said that! The man is something out of a Dickens' novel), things have been moving pretty fast. A little too fast for me.
Wednesday when I brought in his coffee I spilled a little when I set it down. The saucer kind of slipped, and the coffee just sort of slopped over the edge and a little got on his precious walnut desktop. I had to go back to the little kitchenette to get a rag and when I returned he was standing behind his chair, holding that ruler.
I got a twinge in my belly. I felt like I was in first grade, for God's sake, and in the principal's office!
" Elizabeth ," he intoned. "Have you any idea what this desk is worth? It's been in my family for generations. It's a rare antique that has been preserved through careful attention. I can't have it being ruined by some careless secretary, now can I?"
"No, sir," I whispered, feeling my breath catch in my throat. He looked so handsome, so stern standing there, tapping the ruler against the top of his chair.
"You've been here long enough," he went on, "to know the rules. But perhaps they need to be spelled out more clearly for you, since you continue to behave in a careless manner."
It was just a drop of coffee! I actually blurted that out to him and his whole countenance darkened.
"First rule, Elizabeth , is that you don't offer your opinions, unless I ask for them. I am the boss here. You are not. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir," I said, looking down. This was crazy! I knew it, and yet it wasn't crazy either. Something about it felt so right; so exciting! Again the tap, tap, tap of that ruler.
"Second rule. From now on, first infraction is ten strokes with the ruler. Either on your knuckles or on your bottom. I should warn you that I won't be using it so lightly anymore. Now that you're in formal training, punishments will be real. Repeated infractions will receive escalated punishments. Do I make myself clear?"
"Um," I hesitated.
"Speak plainly, Elizabeth . Do not say, 'um.' You are not a schoolgirl. Do I make myself clear?"
I swallowed. "Well, Mr. Stevenson, not entirely. I mean, my bottom? Is that over the skirt? Is this legal? And my knuckles? Wouldn't that mark me? Frank might wonder." I couldn't believe I said all that, and damn it, I blushed, but still, I had to speak up!
"Your husband is not my concern, Elizabeth . How you handle yourself at home is entirely your affair. But here, you belong to me. If you are concerned that some possible bruising or mark might be questioned, I would suggest you avail yourself of the second method, that is, your bottom. And yes, first infraction, over the skirt. After that, we shall see.
"As to legalities, you and I have not entered into any sort of legal contract. I consider what happens here between us to be on both a professional and personal level. That is, I expect you to behave professionally at all times, but our arrangement, by its nature, is personal. Legality doesn't enter into it."
He stood there for a moment, waiting. Maybe he was waiting for me to tell him to go to hell. To run out of there screaming. I didn't do either one. I just stood there staring at him like a tongue-tied idiot. Inside I was almost sick with the adrenaline rush I was feeling. Like I was on a roller-coaster. I suppose he took my silence for acquiescence, and I guess it was. He went on, with a slight nod of his head, as if I had spoken, as if I had given him permission.
"Now, you have spilled coffee on my desk. That is infraction number one. Then you protested and argued that it was 'just a drop coffee,' which clearly indicates to me that you don't value my property in a way that befits your station. That is infraction number two. I shall teach you the value of my things.
"Each day we shall tally your infractions, and I will decide upon a punishment at the end of that day. You will accept the punishment with grace. Failure to behave with grace and immediate compliance will incur another infraction. Am I clear, Elizabeth ?"
My mouth felt dry. Part of me was furious with this arrogant man for treating me like some dopey kid! But most of me was thunderstruck. Yes, that's the word. It's like he was speaking some secret language to me. Some language I didn't know I understood. Something that bypassed my brain and went right to my nerve endings!
And I responded in that secret language, I guess. Some kind of weird sense of peace seemed to fall over me as I bowed my head and answered, "Yes, sir. You are clear, sir. I apologize about the coffee. I'll be more careful."
"Good," he nodded, looking pleased. "Now get your pad and take a letter. Punishment will be at 4:00. Sharp."
A secret language. Nicole sat still, staring at the neat writing, the ink pale and fine as insect legs on the page. She found that her mouth was dry, and she swallowed and licked her lips. She had started reading these journals with a sort of superior skepticism. Her sweet innocent Nana, young Lizzie from another era, subjected to the strange perversion of an overstepping boss.
Yet Nicole found herself getting caught up in the drama of what she was reading. This talk of secret languages and "punishments". Nicole squirmed in her chair, pressing her legs together. She felt a sweet heat emanating from her pussy at the feelings that were being stirred by the words on the page. She read on.
October 23, 1961
I've been tempted to take this journal home. Sometimes I write entries in my head, while I'm washing up or doing laundry or whatever. Frank and I will be lying in bed, the kids finally asleep. We will be reading our books as usual and I'll get this ridiculous urge to confide in him. To tell him about the crazy things that are happening at work, and get his opinion!
Can you imagine! Frank would probably divorce me on the spot, or have me locked in the loony bin. Then he'd go threaten Mr. Stevenson with his stupid shotgun. I bet Mr. Stevenson never shot a deer.
I bite my tongue though. I don't say a word, of course! Nothing about my jumble of confused feelings. But Mr. Stevenson's right. It would be stupid to leave this lying around at home! Beyond stupid. Dangerous. I almost feel like Mr. Stevenson knows what I'm writing in here. That he knows I think he looks like Gregory Peck and that I get all excited and squirmy when he smacks my bottom!
But he doesn't read it. At least he hasn't yet. Maybe I really do have the only key to my desk drawers. I know he didn't read it, because I've been doing like they do in those detective novels. I put a strand of my hair very carefully across the cover of the journal. You couldn't really see it unless you were looking for it. And it hasn't been moved. That makes me feel safer, I suppose. These words are just for me.
Well, Friday afternoon was amazing. I didn't incur any additional "infractions" that day, except one. Which actually I think Mr. Stevenson manufactured in order to increase my punishment. It was during dictation and I swear he said "confidant" but he said no, it was supposed to be "confidence". After lecturing me about being precise in legal documents, he said, "Infraction number three."
It was very hard to concentrate for the rest of the afternoon. I didn't do much of anything at all from 3:30 to 4:00, except check my face in my compact, reapply my lipstick and powder, adjust my stockings, go to the bathroom, fluff my hair. It was like I was going on a date!
When 4:00 arrived I wasn't sure if I was just supposed to go in there and bend over, or if he was going to come get me. I sat there for about a minute when I heard him say, " Elizabeth ." That's it. Just, Elizabeth . The door was ajar so I walked in, feeling like I was going for an audition at summer stock or worse, a visit to the principal's office..
He was sitting at his desk, his pen poised over some document, acting busy. The bastard kept looking at his papers, like they were too important to stop reading, even though he was the one who had called me in.
I told myself he was just doing that to make me feel more ill at ease; more nervous. More compliant. Well, it worked! I stood there, forcing myself stand still so I wouldn't shift and shuffle like a little kid.
Finally he looked up, as if only then aware I had entered the room. He looked me slowly up and down. I blushed, I know I did, because I could feel the heat in my face and neck. I tried to stand still-to act calm and collected, like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday . And Mr. Stevenson was every bit as handsome as Gregory Peck in that movie. So dashing! I imagined just rushing over and kissing him, right on the mouth. But of course I didn't! He'd probably have fired me on the spot. I do not believe my crush on Mr. Stevenson is returned. No, not in that way, at any rate.
Mr. Stevenson is into control.
He stood up and walked over to the leather couch on the far wall from his desk. He sat down and took his ruler, that ever present ruler, from the arm of the couch where he'd obviously placed it before, in anticipation of my "punishment".
"Come here, Elizabeth . How many infractions today?" Like he didn't know.
"Three, sir," I answered, knowing he would count the confidence/confidant dispute.
"That's correct. First infraction, ten strikes, over the skirt or on the knuckles. Second infraction, it becomes twenty. Third infraction, you get to choose. Thirty strokes of the ruler over your skirt. Or you can choose to only get ten. But because of the reduced number, those ten will be under the skirt. Over the panties, but under the skirt."
Well! I pressed my lips together, pretending to weigh my options, but I'd already decided. If we were going to play this game, then let's do it right! I'll admit it here. I wanted to feel his hand on my bottom. Not my bare bottom! I'd die of shame if he saw my big old butt! Though Frank likes it.
Anyway, I said, trying to sound calm, "Ten, under the skirt."
He actually raised his eyebrows slightly, as if he were surprised by my choice. "Very well. Take off the skirt. It's too narrow to hike up."
And I did it! Mrs. Old Married Woman unzipped her skirt and laid it carefully over a chair. I stood there in my girdle and underpants, feeling very self-conscious indeed! He just looked at me for a minute, and then he said, "I don't like girdles. Why do slender women like you wear girdles?"
Well, I liked that he called me slender! But he obviously didn't know much about women's undergarments. "To hold up my stockings, of course," I said, and then bit my lip, worried I had sounded "impertinent".
"There are much nicer ways to do that, Elizabeth ," he retorted. "Next Monday, on your lunch hour you will go to Slone's Dress Shop in the village and you will pick up a package that I will have them prepare for you. It will be in my name at the counter. You will not wear a girdle again in my presence, once you have the garters. Understood?"
The man was buying me underwear! Instead of slapping him in the face and quitting again, I nodded. I was going to dress like a common whore for this man who was my boss. I knew I was going to do it, and I'll admit here, the notion excited me! I would wear these sexy harlot garter belts at work!
He drew me back to the matter at hand. "Come here and bend over my lap." I did, feeling awkward and sort of ridiculous, a grown woman balancing over a man's knee in her girdle and stockings! But I did it.
Thwack! He smacked me really hard. Much harder than the little taps I'd been getting up till then. "Ouch!" I yelled, involuntarily.
"Come now. This is nothing. Take it like a submissive, Elizabeth. Silently." Again he smacked me and I didn't yelp out loud but I did kind of grunt. I mean, it stung, even through the rubbery fabric of the girdle and my panties. Imagine it on bare skin! Eight more times, covering my entire bottom. It stung, though not unbearably. But here's the really weird thing.
The secret thing.
Afterward, my panties were soaked!
I mean, I was so aroused by that paddling that I couldn't wait to get home to Frank! Lucky for me it was Friday, so I was pretty much assured of some sex.
When Frank made love to me, after I finally got all the kids off to bed, I think I actually had an orgasm! I'm not exactly sure, but I think I did. Anyway, it felt really good and when he pressed my still slightly sore bottom against the sheets, it just made me so hot! I don't think Frank knew what got into me. He isn't crazy about a woman showing too much emotion during sex. Isn't seemly, he'd say if pressed. Not that he'd talk about it, but after eleven years, I know that's what he thinks.
I wonder what it's like for Mr. Stevenson and his wife. Does she get punished too? Or would she divorce him if he tried this stuff with her? And where is this going with Mr. Stevenson? Are we having an affair?
What am I doing????
October 25, 1961
I went to that dress shop. The garters are beautiful. Elegant satin, one in cream, one in black and one in pearl gray. They're so pretty. They must have cost a fortune. The hoity-toity saleslady just looked down her nose at me, but she had the package waiting, all wrapped with pretty ribbon in a lovely box.
I wonder what she thought! Probably figured the little secretary was just picking up a package for the boss. A gift for his wife, perhaps. Well, just imagine if she knew! Anyway, when I got them back to the office, Mr. Stevenson told me to open the package and select a belt. He said I was to leave them at the office each evening, and put one on each morning when I arrived. He said I could wash them out here when necessary.
I wonder if he's done this before. I wonder if Miss Willis was also his "submissive". Maybe someday I'll ask him. Maybe.
I'm wearing the garters now. The pearl gray. It really does feel better than a girdle, though it doesn't "control" my figure as well! I feel almost naked under there. I've been wearing a girdle for so long. I mean, everyone does! But maybe this is the way of the future. Anyway, it feels really sexy. Right now, as I'm writing, I'm fingering one of the satin ties that attaches to the top of my stocking. It looks really pretty against my bare leg.
I wonder if Mr. Stevenson will ask to see them? Secret-I hope so!
Later-It's 4:15, and I have to leave in fifteen minutes if I'm to make the bus home in time to cook dinner for Frank and the kids. But I have to write in here for a minute, because I am so annoyed! And confused!
This whole day went by without a hitch. That is, no infractions. We were just like two regular people working in an office. "Good morning, Elizabeth." "Good morning, Mr. Stevenson." I was very careful, typed everything perfectly, took excellent dictation, set the coffee down with precision and care, and was a model employee.
I kept half-expecting him to call me in and ask to see the garters. I mean, he paid for them! He called me in late in the morning to dictate a few letters. I was sure this was it, and he would ask me to lift my skirt, and show him the garters, just to prove I'd followed his instructions. No, not a word. Just a few letters, and a, "Thank you, Elizabeth, that will be all." I even stood there for a few seconds, waiting for him to look up again and start to speak.
Well, he did look up, but all he said was, "Is there something else, Elizabeth?"
When 4:00 came, I thought, well, this is it! Now he'll call me in to show him. I should have realized it'd be now, "punishment time". Of course, that makes sense, since earlier in the day might be too distracting for both of us, and we do have a law office to run! Well, 4:00 came and went, and nothing happened. Just now Mr. Stevenson came out of his office, barely stopping, and said, "Good night, Elizabeth." That's it! Just good night! He took his overcoat, and his hat, and, after reminding me to lock up, left!
Now I'm sitting here, just fuming! How insane is that? I was waiting for the game, and he didn't play! Maybe it isn't a game at all for Mr. Stevenson. Maybe he really just wants me to behave "properly" and when I do, that's the end of it. He didn't even check to see if I was wearing my garters.
Here I am, all furious, because my boss didn't smack me with a ruler. Because I was waiting around all day like an idiot for him to call me in and demand to see the garters he paid for. There is definitely something wrong with me. I wonder if I should see a doctor. I better get home.
October 26, 1961
Wednesday morning I got here early, before Mr. Stevenson, so I could put on my garters. I wore the black ones, with the pair of sheer black stockings I usually only wear when Frank and I go out somewhere fancy. Whether or not he was going to look at them, I'd decided I was going to wear them! And today, by golly, he was going to look at them!
When Mr. Stevenson came in, he said, "Elizabeth, I need the Masterson file right away. And a cup of coffee, if you please." Now, normally, I would have jumped up and gotten that file and brought it to him right away. Then off to the kitchenette to pour him a cup and make it just the way he likes it, one sugar and plenty of cream. But not too much, or the coffee won't be hot enough.
Well, I didn't do either thing! I pretended to make a phone call, actually calling First Fidelity for that recording of time and temperature. Then I buffed a nail and reapplied my lipstick. Then, and only then, I got the file he wanted, but oops, it was the Masters file, instead of the Masterson!
I chickened out when it actually came to spilling coffee on purpose, but there was probably too much cream in it. I left it on his desk and he didn't look up or act as if he knew I existed. I went back to my desk.
After a while Mr. Stevenson came out and got the proper file himself, dumping the wrong one in front of me. But still he hadn't said a word.
The morning went on as any other and at lunchtime I half expected him to say something, but still not a word. I was too nervous to eat my lunch! Here I'd gone and messed things up on purpose, just to see what he would do, and he didn't do a thing! The afternoon took about fifteen hours to go by, but at 4:00, on the nose, I heard, "Elizabeth."
I got up and went in, having already adjusted my stockings and checked my makeup. I was going to get my little spanking now! But Mr. Stevenson isn't so easy to manipulate! That's what I found out today.
I'm not even exactly sure what happened, but I figure if I write it down here, it will help me sort it out. When I entered the office Mr. Stevenson said, "Close the door." He's never said that before, since we are the only two in the office, but I obeyed, wondering what was going to be different, not daring to ask.
He just stood there behind his chair for a while, looking me up and down. "The mouse," he finally said, smiling slightly, "is toying with the cat. The mouse," he went on, "likes to play, and sees this all as a little game. The mouse," now he stared at me until I blushed and looked down, "will have to learn this is no game."
Well, I was squirming like a kid again and wishing I could start the day over. What had I been thinking! Sophisticated Mr. Stevenson wasn't going to fall for my obvious little ploys! Now he said, "Elizabeth, you do need to be punished. That much is clear. Not because you brought me the wrong file, but because you did it on purpose. Not because my coffee tasted too bland, but because you did that on purpose as well.
"You, Elizabeth, are toying with me. Some clarifications apparently need to be made. You will need to be taught that it is I, not you, who instigates punishments, who decides what is and what is not an infraction, and who decides how you will behave when you are here.
"Go to the corner," he said.
"What?"
"Go to the corner, and put your nose against the wall. Women who act like naughty little girls will be treated as such. You willfully tried to manipulate me into using a ruler on you, like a kid trying to trick her daddy into buying her candy. So, go on, little girl. Nose against the wall. Hands behind your back. Grab each elbow with the opposite hand and stand perfectly still. Go on. Do it, or get out."
Well, I wasn't going to. You can bet I wasn't going to! But something in his tone compelled me to obey! My legs felt like rubber, but somehow I got myself over to the corner and I actually did as he had ordered. Leaning over, I touched my nose to the wall. He made me stand out further from the wall, so that I had to stick out my rear to keep my nose in place. I felt mortified! That's the best word for it. Mortified and humiliated.
And on fire.
I felt so ridiculous there, with my nose pressed against the wall, holding my hands behind my back. But that tingle was there too! I realized I was waiting for him to come up behind me. To lean slowly over me and maybe let my bun down or something. I don't know.
Yes I do. I fantasized right there on the spot that he would lean over me and kiss my neck, and maybe whisper something sexy about me belonging to him. My ears were pricked, waiting to hear him approach. I was so excited, even though I felt so silly with my face in the corner. But something was going to happen! He could say what he liked about manipulation, but here I was, waiting for the exciting thing to happen!
Well, it didn't. Nothing. Zippo. Just me standing there, my nose against the wall, feeling more and more ridiculous. I got a crick in my neck and my legs were tired, still in my pumps. My arms were killing me, as I tried to balance with my nose while holding my elbows behind me! He just stood there, or whatever he was doing. For all I knew, he had left!
I stayed in the corner for three hours. No, it couldn't have been, but it felt like it! At 4:28 he said, "Good night, Elizabeth. I'll see you in the morning. Try a stunt like that again and see where it takes you."
And the bastard walked out of his office and left for the night! I had to scramble and I barely made the bus, running and shouting for it to wait. If thoughts could kill, the man would not have made it home in his fancy Lincoln. He would have died of "natural causes" before his wife could serve him his meatloaf!
Nicole found herself grinning, even through her shock. Now, that sounded like the Nana she knew. But the rest of it? It was a lot to take in. Her grandmother had been living a secret life, a life none of them knew about, for who knew how long?
Nicole knew she was going to read all of Nana's secret writings. And then what was she going to do? Tell her mom or her sisters? No. Never. Nana and Nicole shared many secrets, most of them just little things, but all of them dear to Nicole's heart.
Would she betray Nana now? Nana had never told anyone about the time Nicole had shoplifted in fourth grade and gotten caught. The man at the store had taken pity on little Nicole, who stood sobbing, clutching the book of paper dolls she had stared at for twenty minutes before suddenly swiping and trying to secure beneath her windbreaker. Terror at what she had done drove her from the store at a run. She couldn't have been more obvious if she'd screamed aloud as she ran, "I stole this! I stole this!"
The shopkeeper had run out after her, calling, "Little girl! Little girl!" And, mortified, she had stopped, clutching the book under her jacket, tears already streaming down her face. He had taken pity on her, only making her hand it back and promise not to do that again. It couldn't have been a stronger lesson, and Nicole had been cured on the spot of shoplifting.
But in her child's mind, a sense of guilt overwhelmed her, as well as a need to confess to someone. Her mother? Even at that young age, Nicole sensed that her mother would not have been as forgiving as the man in the store had been. Nicole envisioned a spanking, at the very least, and quite possibly, a huge story blown up all out of proportion by the time her father came home, late as usual and smelling of whiskey.
Then off would come his belt and little Nicole would pay a heavy price for her bad deed. So she had stayed silent, huddled in her bed in the room she shared with her sister, Stacy. She had confided in no one for three days.
But when Saturday finally came and she went to spend the morning with Nana, helping her in her garden and baking cookies, the words had come tumbling out at last, like a wound that had needed lancing to heal.
Nicole knew instinctively that Nana wouldn't betray her and tell her parents. No, Nana had scooped her up in her arms and let her cry out her shame, and then asked her, "And will you do such a silly thing again, Nicky sweetheart?"
And as Nicole shook her head fervently, Nana kissed her round wet little cheek and said, "No, I know you won't, and no harm was done, so let's put it behind us, dear. Now, would you like some of these delicious cookies? I think they're just about done!"
Nicole sat now smiling, remembering the person in her life who had been most loving and most understanding. How could she reconcile that woman with the sexy secretary in the journal, who seemed to be describing the beginnings of a very bizarre love affair?
And Mr. Stevenson. James Stevenson, who was still alive, and had maintained contact with Nana; with "Elizabeth". Nicole toyed again with the idea of calling him. But what would she say? "I found those diaries, and know all about your kinky affair with my grandmother? Explain yourself." What right had she to demand any explanations? Nana had been an adult, making her own decisions before Nicole was even a glimmer in her own mother's eye. It was so much to take in.
Maybe Brad would have some insight.
Should she even tell Brad?
Nicole smiled dreamily, her mind drifting to her new boyfriend. Could she call him that? They'd only been dating a few weeks now, since the week after Nana had passed away in fact. But she felt closer to him than to any man she'd been with before, even her last serious lover, Jordan. That had lasted two years, and for a while she had been convinced he was 'the one.' That is, until she found him in bed with Janet Parker, his upstairs neighbor.
Brad Hunter, age twenty-eight, was an attorney just like Nicole. They were both known as "go-getters"' in the law firm of Reilly & Clark, though Brad was further along in his career. Nicole had only been with the firm for a year, recruited straight out of law school.
It was only these past few months that she and Brad had started getting to know one another. Long days and nights thrown together when they were both given the Joseph Tool Company lawsuit to prepare, had given them time, professionally and otherwise, to check each other out.
When the case was over, Nicole found she had more than just friendly feelings toward Brad. He was good looking and hard-working, a promising combination in her book. From what she could gather from their occasional "personal" conversation between legal briefs and research, he wasn't married and didn't have a steady girlfriend. She had wanted to get to know him better, but he tended to be so focused at work that they hadn't really had much time for small talk.
She had invited him out for dinner one Friday, making it seem as if it was a last-minute idea of hers, though she'd been mulling the idea over in her mind for a few days. If nothing else, she wanted to distract herself from her sad thoughts of her grandmother, whose sweet smile she would never see again.
That Friday morning, just in case, she had worn beautiful new underwear and matching bra, not that she expected him to see it, but just in case. And just in case, she made sure the apartment was clean and neat, with fresh sheets on the bed. Not that she expected him to come back to her place, much less get into her bed, but just in case.
When 6:00 rolled around Brad was still bent over his desk, his sleeves rolled up midway against the sexy muscles of his forearms. His dark brown hair, longer than the current style, flopped over his forehead, and he had a pen dangling from his mouth. His desk was covered in papers.
Unlike Nicole, who worked meticulously and neatly on one thing at a time, Brad was known for spreading out over every available surface, balancing twenty things in his head at a time and somehow pulling it all together. She didn't understand his work habits, but she had to admit he produced the goods! With any luck he would probably be a partner by next year.
Peeking around his door, trying to sound casual and trying to tell herself it was cool whichever way it went, Nicole said, "Hey, Brad. It's Friday. I was thinking of popping over to that new Indian place to check it out. Any chance you'd like to join me?"
She'd said it! They weren't working together any longer, so this wasn't just a quick bite between assignments. She was asking him out. Now the ball was in his court. Either he'd look up and say, sure, why not, or he'd sigh and say, gee, I'd love to, but I'm swamped here. Maybe in a year or two.
"Sure, that's a great idea. I've been staring at the same legal opinion for the past twenty minutes! My brain is totally fried. I could definitely go for some Saag Paneer and Rogan Josh about now!"
So they'd gone for Indian, and lots of red wine, and when the meal was over, Brad had turned to Nicole and said, "I'd invite you over, but my roommate's girlfriend seems to have kind of moved in lately and I've no idea what we might stumble in on!"
This left Nicole the obvious opening, "Well, we could go to my place. No roommates. Just George."
"George?"
"My cat." Somehow this was funny; maybe it was all that wine, and they laughed until the tears rolled. Then Nicole paid the bill, insisting, as she had been the one to extend the invitation. Brad grinned, ducking his head gracefully and said the next one was on him. He followed her in his car to her neighborhood, which was only a few miles from the restaurant.
Sitting back on her overstuffed couch, Nicole was stunned to discover it was 1:00 in the morning. They'd talked for hours, sharing stories about their work, their childhoods, their families, their lives, and Nicole felt as if they'd been friends forever.
When talk had turned to Nana, and her death only the week before, Brad had held Nicole in his arms, smoothing away her tears and kissing her lightly on her forehead. She had half expected him to make a move at that point, using the tenderness of the moment to move down to her lips; to move from the chaste brotherly kiss to a lover's kiss.
When he didn't she was at once relieved and annoyed. She liked that he was a gentleman and hadn't taken advantage, but found that a part of her had been poised and ready for that kiss, even behind tears that were real.
But instead he'd patted her and held her some more. The conversation slowly eased into lighter things and they gossiped for a few minutes about the people they worked with. The talk ebbed into an easy silence.
Finally Brad said, "Nicole. You know, this has been the most fun I've had in years. I can't believe we didn't connect before this. I get so bogged down in my work, so obsessed about making partner, that I forget what's really important. Thanks for taking the first step and asking me out. I hope it's the first step of many between us."
He stood, stretching, and then leaned down, taking her easily into his arms. He kissed her, his lips sweet and warm against hers, but only for a moment or two. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into her, pressing her tongue against his lips so that they parted. Again, she had expected him to seize the moment and accept her unspoken invitation to stay.
But again, it was he who pulled away. Instead of asking where the bedroom was, he said, "Can I call you tomorrow? I was going to go in, but I think I'd much rather spend the day with you, unless of course you have plans." He smiled at her, a wide smile that revealed a dimple in his left cheek. She couldn't help but grin back, even though part of her felt deflated by his obvious ending of the evening.
"Sure. I was going to go over to my grandmother's this weekend and start to clean it out; my mom asked me if I would. But it can wait another week; I don't really have the heart for it, to tell you the truth."
They spent a wonderful day, starting with pancakes and sausage at the waffle house, moving on to stroll in the botanical gardens, and then on to lunch and a matinee movie. Nicole felt like they'd been together forever, and yet they'd barely even kissed. In the movie, he'd put his arm loosely around her shoulders, and Nicole had leaned into him, loving the smell of him, the scent of his cologne and his own essence.
That afternoon he'd left her frustrated again, apologizing that he had promised his mom he'd take her to dinner that night, as his dad was out of town on business. Again, he'd asked if he could call and this time the kiss was long and lingering, leaving her literally weak in the knees.
That night alone in bed she touched herself, imagining those were Brad's fingers caressing her sex, touching her breasts. It was lonely business, but it did the job, at least enough for her to fall asleep.
The next week during work they barely saw one another, each one piled high with caseloads and paperwork. But they spoke each night on the telephone and had made a date for that Saturday night. Brad was going to take her out this time, to his favorite Japanese place. Nicole, never having tried sushi, was a little leery, but willing.
They sat together on the same side of a low black lacquer table, sitting directly on the tatami mat in their stocking feet. They were in a private little room with rice paper windows and a sliding rice paper door. A little brightly colored paper lantern hung from the ceiling, throwing off a muted, romantic light.
A lithe young Japanese woman, dressed in traditional kimono garb and padded little socks with a split between the big and second toe, glided into the room, bringing a pot of hot green tea and a bottle of hot sake. Nicole let Brad do the ordering and after the waitress had poured the drinks they were left alone in the little room.
Nicole picked up the little ceramic cup and sipped. "It's good!" she exclaimed. "I never thought I'd like hot wine, but then I never thought I'd eat raw fish either."
Brad laughed, and told her sushi and sashimi were his favorite foods, even better than Indian. He was delighted when the pretty plate of artfully prepared food was brought in and he smiled at the young woman, saying something in Japanese.
Nicole was impressed as the Japanese woman blushed and bowed, responding in kind. Brad laughed it off and said, "Oh, I just said 'thank you.' That and 'good morning' are about all I know." Taking up a pair of chopsticks with practiced ease, Brad said, "Now, here's how you eat it. You take a little of this, this is pickled ginger, and a little of this green stuff. It's called wasabi. It's a kind of horseradish, and you have to be careful not to use too much or you'll get what I call a wasabi rush. Let's try some tuna first. That's my favorite."
Brad loaded a little bit of red raw tuna and rice with the condiments and handed it to Nicole, who took it with some trepidation. Smiling bravely, she took a bite. She chewed a moment and pronounced, "This is delicious!"
Brad grinned, and together they ate platefuls of fish and drank several small bottles of sake. "Whew!" Nicole said, leaning heavily against him. "That stuff is strong! I don't even know if I can stand up!"
Somehow they managed to make their way to the car and Brad drove Nicole to her place. "Aren't you coming in?" she asked, her voice almost a whine.
"Oh Nicole, I'm sorry. I think I got you drunk! I forgot how sake goes to some people's heads. I'm a little tipsy myself, to tell you the truth. I'm afraid if I come in, I don't know where we might end up!"
"Brad," maybe the alcohol had loosened her tongue, but Nicole spoke just exactly what was on her mind, "I get the distinct feeling you are avoiding having sex with me. If that's the case, just come out and say it! I'm a big girl; I can take it. But all this coy shit is driving me up the wall! Are we dating or not? What is it; are you gay? Oh God, don't tell me you're gay!"
Brad stared at her and then burst out laughing. She laughed too, though she wasn't sure what they were laughing at. If only the wine hadn't muddled her head so! "No, I'm not gay, you little idiot! I can't believe you'd even ask me that. I am taking my time with you! Because I care about you, Nicole. Because I have a history of jumping into bed with girls, thinking I'm head over heels, and in a couple of weeks I have no idea what the hell I'm doing with them, and they usually feel the same way.
"We've got something, you and me. I don't know what it is yet, but it's definitely something, and I don't want to ruin it by fucking you first, and getting to know you later."
Nicole stared at him a moment, his face silhouetted against the streetlights. She stared at his strong hands, the fingers gripped still on the steering wheel. He was looking at her, his expression obscured in the shadows.
"Fuck that," she said, laughing. "I want you now! I don't want to wait anymore. In fact, I can't wait another second! We know each other. I'm begging you, baby. Fuck me! Take me upstairs and fuck my brains out. If you don't, I'm going to have to rape you right here!"
Brad stared at Nicole a moment, and she knew, even through the fog of rice wine, that she'd probably gone too far. Slowly a smile curved its way over his face and he lunged toward her, kissing her passionately until she literally lost her breath. Jumping from the car, he raced around to her side and almost pulled her from the seat.
Nicole didn't remember how they got into the apartment, or how they got to the bed. She did remember his consideration, when he asked her if she had protection and she told him she was on the pill. And most especially she remembered Brad, naked and beautiful, rearing up in front of her like some satyr, broad and strong, before he plunged into her, ravaging her, taking her, claiming her.
He made love to her like someone desperate for the life's blood that their sex seemed to offer a dying man. He pumped into her, holding her wrists high above her head. She was completely captive beneath him, at the mercy of his rock hard cock thrusting and slamming into her.
He came, screaming her name, his body so hot on top of hers she thought he might combust. Then slowly, once his pounding heart had returned closer to normal, he slid down off of her, letting her wrists go, kissing her breasts, tonguing the nipples, circling them in teasing swirls, and edging down her belly, to her sex.
She lay still, plundered and open to him. Gently he tasted her, the taste of the two of them, and moved up to her little clit, erect and eager for his kiss. He pressed her thighs further apart with his strong hands and when she instinctively tried to close them, he wouldn't let her. He was much stronger than she and besides she didn't really want to close her legs, as his tongue was like warm silky perfection against her heated needy body.
He teased her mercilessly, always holding her legs wide, sometimes licking and suckling, sometimes gently biting, sometimes just blowing his sweet breath against her. He seemed to know just how far to take her so that she teetered over a sharp, sensual edge, before he would pull her back, denying her the release she felt she desperately needed.
For Nicole, she had to admit, the turn on was as much what he withheld as what he gave. Brad played her like an instrument, knowing just when to drum her gently, just when to strum and play her until she was burning with passion, her entire being focused entirely on Brad, and what he was doing to her.
Finally, he took pity on the panting, moaning girl, now begging in a litany of lust for him to make her come. Arching up, Nicole pulled his head against her, gripping handfuls of his hair, crying and laughing at the same time, tears spilling down her cheeks, her heart splitting open with something that felt very much like love.
