"Come, baby girl. Now."
I'm numb as I head for the shower. Ordinarily by this time I would have talked to Thomas on the phone, maybe e-mailed him. We'd have talked about all sorts of things, from account transfers to what we're each going to wear to what we should do for lunch, assuming it's an office day for him and not a meeting day.
Office days are the best because we can play. Fridays are cool because they are jean days. We are like little children, counting off on the calendar all week. Other days are nice, too, because I wear my skirts.
I might just be standing on our back balcony, looking out over the stucco wall and he will come along, while I'm smoking and put his hand on my ass. He will feel to see if I have panties on.
If I do that he is liable to tell me to take them off. That's embarrassing if I'm denied permission to go and do it in the bathroom. Nothing like pulling down your underwear outside and handing it to your boss, stucco wall or no.
At one point I thought I would outsmart him by wearing none. As ‘punishment’ he laid his hands on my bare ass and discretely masturbated me, right there on the spot. I had to look straight down to the sidewalk, acting like nothing was happening even while he was making me come.
Time disappears on me as the water sluices down over my terribly overstimulated body. I just want to escape; I don't even want to feel sexy, just calm. The trouble is, it's like Brian is still here, crowding me. His hands are palpable shadows, touching me. I slap them away. I am not very effective. I keep seeing that look. So frigging cute, in an exasperating way.
I've had you and I will again anytime I want.
Well you won't, buster, because you won't be seeing me. At least not alone.
The shadow hands take my breasts from behind … or is he making me touch myself?
"Want to bet?” I hear him whisper.
Brian, stop.
My mantra…
A hand goes to my pussy, his, mine, who gives a fuck?
Speaking of fucking … here goes the soap. Over my clit, down to my slit.
Fuck yourself with it, Caroline, show me what a pathetic slut you really are…
I slide to the floor of the tub … and go at it for real.
The clock shows forty minutes have passed when I finally get out of the shower. My fingers look like prunes.
Monica calls me while I'm driving over to the office, twenty minutes after that. I answer in a panic that catches her off guard.
"What is it? Is there a change?"
"Thomas is fine, I'm just checking to see if you've been to the bank yet."
The bank … yes … I need to go first thing … I'd nearly forgotten…
I'm supposed to transfer the money, so the mortgage can be paid on the office building in Atlanta. “I'm on my way now."
"Caroline, are you okay?"
Of course I'm not fucking okay.
"I'll be fine. It's just … hard."
"I know, the girls in the Atlanta office are pretty shook up, too."
I bristle at being lumped in with the hired help, but, damn it, I am hired help, too. I can't take this out on her.
"What about you? How are you holding up?"
"I'm staying busy. Doing what I can without leaving his room."
I feel a stab of jealousy. I want to be in his room, I want to be the one who's allowed to worry officially.
I could do it better, damn it, I hate to say that. I would wait on him, I would talk to him, I'd talk non-stop, and I would bring him out of it. I could. I fucking could.
"And the girls, how are they coping?"
"Oh, you know those two. They are driving me crazy and each other, but they're strong. I couldn't do it without them."
Great, weigh them down like you did your husband.
"I'll be by after,” I try to make it casual.
"Just don't forget the bank. Oh, and do you think you could call my hairdresser? I have to cancel, obviously. I don't have the number on my cell, Denise should do this, I know, but she's sick today."
"Sure, no problem.” I try not to sound curt or resentful. It's killing me.
Sooner or later, I figure, Monica will find out. Jeezus, I don't want to fuck with Thomas’ life. I feel in the way. I don't fucking like that feeling. I despise it. It's worse than anything I ever felt when I was drinking. It might even be what started me drinking in the first place.
I decide I am not going to the hospital today.
Should I be getting a new sponsor-at least for the interim?
I go to the bank.
After that I'm stuck. How am I going to face the office? Everything there is him. He bought that building, rented out most of it, saved us a little piece, the one two room suite to make his dream come true. He picked out all the furniture, with my help. We decorated it, our newlywed pad we called it. He spoiled me rotten, let me pick out the nicest chair to sit in, the best mahogany desk.
Sometimes he will come up to me when I least expect it and give me a massage while I'm sitting in my leather throne. He will make me tingle all over, only to return afterward to his little office next to mine in our intimate suite, never saying a word as he leaves me peaceful and spent, bare toes luxuriating in the brand new carpeting on which I've been fucked so many times I've lost count.
Other times he will come with very different hands, demanding hands, while I work on the computer, his fingers slipping down inside my blouse and under my bra.
I will not resist. This surrender gives me the biggest thrill, yielding up my body for Thomas’ pleasure, being the perfect instrument, letting him use and enjoy at will.
"Whose breasts?” he will growl in that special tone that makes me swoon as I answer, “Yours, Daddy."
With the hugest smile I lean back giving him free reign to unbutton me.
The armchair in Thomas’ office, the one facing his desk, by contrast is designed to give me a different kind of experience. If he ever calls me in and tells me somberly, lock the door, I know, he is going to call the shots.
The phones are not going to be answered for a while; business will just have to wait.
If I still have panties on by some minor miracle, they must come off.
Gingerly, I set them on the edge of his desk. He might glance at them, pick them up with a pencil for examination, or, most delicious of all, make direct inquiries.
I hear his voice echoing as I drive. I rub my thighs together, insatiable.
"Are they wet, Caroline?"
"They are damp, Sir,” I reply.
"Is that the same as wet?"
"No, Sir.” He won't make eye contact at this early stage, which really turns me on because he'll be making like he's busy with something else, something more important. I get hotter and hotter, the more he puts me in my place, just a girl, who's there for sex, whatever he wants, when he wants it.
"What is your chief responsibility around this office, Caroline?"
"I'm to be wet and ready, to submit at any time, Sir."
He finally looks at me. My knees buckle. We're going to play that game. “And what is our agreement, Caroline, should you fail to meet your responsibility?"
"If I'm a bad girl,” I whisper. “I must be punished."
"Punished how?” prompts the trim-bearded ex military man, one in a million with hands that caress like velvet.
"With a spanking,” I say, the word running through me like electricity. “On my bare ass."
He nods. “Take off your skirt."
I'm not permitted to look down or away. I must face him, unclasp the garment and push it over my hips.
It falls to my feet; I step out, one high heel at a time.
"Turn around for me, Caroline."
I flip my hair and move in a circle, feminine, graceful. I'm always that way with him, because I know that's how he sees me.
"You have a beautiful ass."
"Thank you, Sir."
"After your punishment, I think I might let you kneel down and pleasure my cock. Would you like that?"