by Jamie Knight
‘Oh, what if he’s religious?’ I thought, wrinkling my nose. ‘Then I could end up really offending him. I don’t want to lose my job. Wait. Did I see any religious stuff in the house? No. Religious guys always have that kind of Jesus stuff hanging up, right? He’s probably just normal. Or gay. Wait, is he gay? Is that why he throws all the swanky parties? Or am I over-thinking this?’
“Knock-knock.”
“Come in.”
When he opened the door, I could smell something delicious. Someone was cooking in the house. Did he have a private chef that he didn’t introduce me to? No, that would be silly, to make someone work when he had sent everyone at his business home.
“Dinner will be ready in about five minutes, okay?”
“Great. I’ll be right out,” I said.
He smiled and backed out of the room. My mind was racing. What was his angle? Who was Julius Lamb? If he was gay, I would probably know, right? Surely, he would’ve had a boyfriend by now; a successful guy like this is a catch.
Let’s assume he’s not gay. Then, why is he alone? Bad divorce? Emotional issues? My mind was all scatterbrained, probably because I was hoping he’d slip off my sun dress and ravage me on the floor of his kitchen.
“Oh, God,” I said aloud, stopping myself from leaving the bedroom. “I think I need a cold shower. Let’s wind this back.”
‘Okay,’ I think. ‘He sees me crying. It’s an emergency, so he offers me a place to stay. As far as I know, up to this point, he’s just being a good guy. He’s my boss, and he doesn’t want to see one of his employees on the street.
Crap, he might see me as his daughter! Ugh! That’s not what I want! Maybe I should sex it up a bit. Put on more eyeliner.’
I went into the bedroom’s private bathroom to doll myself up, but stopped myself. What was I doing? I couldn’t go down there looking like I’m ready for a night out in Manhattan. What kind of message would that send?
Obviously, if he intended to have his way with me, he was already attracted. He was just waiting for the right moment.
Walking into the hall, I started to head for the kitchen, but slowly. Normally, I’m not a snoopy person, but I needed to know more. I crept around the house, looking around. He had shown me most of it, but perhaps I could learn more.
Creeping into his bedroom, I could see he had a king-size bed. That didn’t mean anything; if I were rich, I’d want a big bed too. And it’s not like he does the laundry; he probably has a maid service. Surely the bathroom would have answers.
Making sure he wasn’t walking around looking for me, I slipped into his bathroom to look around. Standard stuff: razor, shaving cream, aftershave, toothbrush — all high end, of course.
He had a big closet full of clothes, but it wasn’t like he was a clothes hog. I mean, he was rich. If you have the room, why wouldn’t you have a big closet full of nice things?
There were no pictures of ex-wives, ex-girlfriends, or kids anywhere. There was a picture of an older couple, probably his parents. Jeez, this was actually kind of boring. Was Julius just a normal guy with money? I thought rich guys had to be eccentric.
There was one odd thing. There was some kind of leather harness under his bed. I assumed it was for a pet or something. Maybe he had a pet and lost it. That would be so sad! Maybe that’s why he invited me over and has been feeling lonely.
“Yes,” I said. “This made perfect sense. Now I feel bad for snooping around the man’s house.”
I rushed back to my bedroom. The smells coming from the kitchen were really good.
Whoever was cooking — Julius, most likely — was putting together quite a feast. Rushing into the bathroom, I touched up my makeup. I did a tiny bit of eyeliner and touched up my lips. Not too much, but not too little.
Then, the negative thoughts went into overdrive. What if he was some kind of weirdo? Rich guys had some pretty odd habits. What if I saw something private and he got paranoid about it? He could end up throwing me right out of his house.
What if he was a veteran? Maybe he’s suffering from PTSD and would scream through the night. That would explain the big, empty house and the isolation from his neighbors. Maybe he had some disfiguring scars under all those expensive clothes! That would be uncomfortable — or was I being superficial? I wiped off the lip gloss, bringing it down to a more casual level, and tried to imagine a conversation at dinner.
“So, what do you do?” I said to the mirror.
I frowned. No, that’s not going to be good. I guess talking about work is the next best thing; it’s something we both have in common. Then, at some point, I could somehow signal to him that I’d like to be more than just co-workers, maybe in a way that could be interpreted two different ways. If he accepted, we would end up having sex, and if he got offended, I could just pretend I didn’t mean it that way.
With one final check of the mirror, I headed out of the bedroom and downstairs. Hopefully, I wouldn’t make a fool of myself at dinner.
Chapter Seven - Dixie
In the kitchen, Julius was chopping up scallions for garnish on the ossobuco he had just prepared.
“Wow, you’re quite the cook!” I said, genuinely impressed. “Is there enough for two?”
“Usually, I make dinners for a couple of nights and just reheat it,” he said. “But since you’re here, it’s only the best.”
“The best, huh? I like the sound of that,” I said.
I sat down and we started eating.
“Seriously,” I said. “This is amazing. You could cook in a restaurant.”
“Nah, I just follow instructions. Anyone can do it, really.”
“I tried to make beef Wellington for Shawn once,” I said. “It was burnt on the outside and raw in the middle. What a mess!”
“I am curious to get your thoughts on something,” he said. “We had this training seminar coming up, and I’m wondering if we should get everyone together on Zoom or just let each person figure it out?”
“Oh, well, uh,” I said, blushing. “Thanks for asking.”
“Well, you know the office pretty well, I think. You got a good work ethic, and you’re smart — I value your opinion.”
“Thanks, Julius… I almost called you Mr. Lamb. I think I should call you Mr. Lamb when we’re talking about work,” I said.
“As you wish,” he said.
“Mr. Lamb, I think the Zoom meetings would be best,” I said. “That way, people can ask questions.”
“Good call.”
“And I’ll use my laptop in another part of the house when we do it,” I said. “That way, no one will know I was here.”
“Well, I don’t want people to think you’re my secret shame or something, but I guess that would be prudent,” he said, laughing.
“Oh, secret shame,” I said. “I’m so forbidden.”
I’m wasn’t sure, but I thought he almost blushed at that moment. Hmm. He’s thinking about it, isn’t he? There’s no way he’s gay.
“I’ll tell you a little secret,” he said. “The other partners and I have you on the fast track for a raise and a promotion come the fall. Things now might get delayed, but you have been doing very well in the office.”
“Thanks so much!” I said, beaming. “You know, when things started to go bad with Shawn, I threw myself into my work. I guess it was a way for me to forget he was such a train wreck of a man.”
“People who drink too much usually are,” he said. “A man that can’t control his vices is hardly a man.”
I nodded. It was such a strong motto. So manly! Like something a gunfighter would say!
“When we were building the company, when I was younger, I knew there would be sacrifices. It was hard work, long hours, but, in the end, it pays off. People have forgotten that. They’re very undisciplined,” he said.
“That’s important to you,” I said.
“I think it’s important to everyone, really. Imagine all these undisciplined people running around, doing things,” he said. “Your boyfriend, for o
ne. What kind of man acts that way if he has his life together?”
“I see what you’re saying.”
“You have a good work ethic. You show up on time, you work hard, you listen. It’s important in a business,” he said. “You and I have a contract. It’s a work contract. Your labor for my money. Were your parents strict?”
“What?” I asked, taken aback by the sudden question.
“Your parents. Did you have a strict upbringing?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s kind of a sore subject.”
“I didn’t mean to pry. But my point was, you were raised right,” he said.
“What were you like, growing up?” I asked.
“I was a curious kid,” he said. “I liked to find out how things work. Wasn’t great at putting them back together when I took them apart, though. One time, I took apart my dad’s phone and then couldn’t get it back together. He was not happy.”
“You took apart his cellphone?!” I gasped.
“Landline. They were still a thing in the 90s,” he said. He looked at me, frowning. I guess, at that moment, he suddenly remembered the age gap. But then again, age is just a number, right?
“I was innovative. I used to buy candy in bulk and sell it at school,” he said. “The school had banned candy from the vending machines.”
“They used to sell candy in them? In school?” I asked, shocked.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Anything you want. But, you know, kids have so little self-control. They’d burn through the candy pretty quick. Now, it’s all healthy options.”
“But that’s a good thing,” I pointed out. “Kids should eat healthy.”
“True.”
My phone buzzed. It was Shawn. He had been texting me a stream of messages, demanding to know where I was. I kept listening to Julius, but I became distracted by my phone. I discreetly tried to text back, “I broke up with you, you drunk!”
“What are you doing?” he asked, a little sternly.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a text I should—”
“It’s a little rude to be texting at dinner, isn’t it?” he said, rather sternly.
“I guess.”
“You guess, or you know?”
“I know. It is rude. My apologies. If I could just finish the—”
“Why don’t you just put it down until later, hm?” he suggested sternly.
I don’t know what it was about Julius’ order, but it turned me on. Maybe it was because Shawn had been drunk and kind of mealy-mouthed when it came to arguments. Mr. Lamb’s sudden and abrupt tone was like the principal in my sex fantasy. I put the phone away.
“Sorry about that.”
“I don’t think that’s good enough,” he said, staring back at me. “You know, at the office, we have a policy of no phones during meetings. This is a meeting of sorts, so I think that qualifies. If it happens again, I might have to punish you.”
I laughed, assuming he was joking, but I also got a rush. His intense stare and tone of voice told me that “punishment” might not be such a bad thing. It was like, the more he confined me in the conversation and with my behavior, the more I liked the idea of him bossing me around. I always liked it when guys took control of me during sex. It was hot, bestial, and, in its own way, allowed me to lose control.
There was an awkward silence, just the sound of utensils touching plate and teeth. He kept staring and eating, and I did the same. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I was mesmerized. Julius was something very different indeed. Not just a cut above the rest, but a unique cut of a man.
I trusted him instantly. I could sense that he meant me no harm and that his directions were for my safety. Was I wrong to be so submissive? I felt warm in safe in that moment, warmer and safer than I had been the entire time with Shawn, or even my parents. Yes, he was ordering me, but I didn’t have to listen. I wanted to listen. It pleased me to obey.
With my underwear getting soaking wet, I looked up from my plate and finally responded, “Yes, Boss.”
Chapter Eight - Julius
Well, this was annoying. Here we were, locked down in my house during a worldwide pandemic and she’s on her phone. Who was she talking to? Probably that idiot boyfriend of hers. Couldn’t let her go back to that loser. No way. I wouldn’t let that happen.
“So, Dixie, where did you grow up? The South, I’m guessing.”
“No, around here,” she said. “My parents are from Alabama, near Montgomery. I grew up in Lakeview. It’s near Harding.”
“Okay, sure,” I said, vaguely knowing the area. “Nice swimming in Lakeview.”
“Yeah. They have that cedar water that’s kind of brown and brackish, but it’s pleasant in the summer,” she said. “My family would go canoeing and camping, do some hiking, stuff in the woods.”
“Gosh, I haven’t been camping since… I can’t remember when. Probably when I was in Boy Scouts.”
“You were in Boy Scout?”
“Yeah. I was pretty good with knots. It’s handy if you want to tie something up.”
“Or someone,” she said. “Sorry, that was weird. I’m a little nervous.”
“Why? Is it about the text?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood and get info at the same time.
“I know that it’s rude. I shouldn’t have done that. My parents raised me better.”
“Traditional Southern folks, huh?”
“Oh, yeah!” She laughed. “Very conservative, both politically and socially. I grew up in a pretty religious household. To them, I’m a bit of a wild child for moving out of the house on my own. Shawn was my ‘bad boy’ phase. They have no idea I was even living with Shawn. God, I would never hear the end of it if they found out.”
“I was an Army brat. My dad was pretty strict, being in the military. Can’t say there was a downside; he gave my life order and structure. Young men need that,” I said.
“Yeah, everyone does.”
“You like structure and order?”
“I like when it exists, yes. I mean, it’s comforting. You don’t have to think. You just have to follow, which is good if you trust the person giving the orders.”
“You trust me?”
She smiled. “Sure.”
“I made a pie for dessert. It’s still in the oven. Why don’t you get it for us?”
Dixie smiled and started walking towards the kitchen. She had a great body. Everything about her looked alive and vibrant. I could feel myself getting hard under the table just from watching her. She dragged out her approach to the oven and then bent over to open the door, giving me a good view.
“Careful, it’s hot,” I said.
She looked back and smiled, then stood up. She was looking for a pair of potholders to pick up the pie.
“Second drawer from the end,” I said. “The potholders are in there.”
Dixie moved over to the drawer, found the potholders, and slipped them on. She was taking her time and being careful, but also giving me a good look at her body from all angles. She was smiling, trying to contain herself, clearly enjoying our little game. Then, she purposely left the drawer open.
“Dixie,” I said.
She stopped in her tracks.
“Please, shut the drawer.”
“Yes, sir.”
She took two steps back, reached over, and closed the drawer. Going back to the oven, she bent down again, the glow of the oven illuminating her through her thin, flowing dress. I could see the outlines of her legs.
Retrieving the pie, she placed it on a ceramic potholder I had placed on the counter earlier. She closed the oven, then turned to me.
“Mr. Lamb,” she said respectfully. “Where are your utensils and plates so that I might serve you?”
“Plates are above the microwave. Please, use the reddish-brown dessert ones. Utensils are in the drawer to the right of the dishwasher. I prefer a spoon.”
Under my watchful eye, she opened the cabinets to get the plates. She stretched up to reach them, lifting one s
hapely leg to do so. She cut us each a slice of pie with deliberate strokes.
“Mr. Lamb, I’ve cut the pie. Would you be needing anything else with it? Whipped cream? Ice cream, perhaps?”
I put my hand on my chin, thinking about it for a moment. The whipped cream would melt too fast on the hot pie... The anticipation seemed to excite Dixie. She looked as if she were trying to contain herself. “Vanilla ice cream would be great on the side,” I finally said. “Ice cream’s in the freezer. Scoop is in the drawer next to the fridge.”
“Very good, sir,” she said.
She went to the freezer, got the ice cream, then got the scoop. She dug out two perfectly round scoops and placed them next to each slice of pie on their respective plates. Each dessert looked uniform, precisely the same. I liked her attention to that uniformity.
Returning from the kitchen with both plates, she served me first, then retreated to the other end of the table with her own plate. I waited for her to sit down. She looked back at me and waited for me to pick up a spoon. When I did, she picked up hers, and we both enjoyed the warmth and coolness of the pie and ice cream.
“Mm,” I said with the spoon in my mouth. “The ice cream was an excellent call.”
“I’m glad you like it,” she said. “Your pie is delicious. You’re such a good cook.”
“Thanks. There wasn’t much to do on the Army base when I was a kid.” I shrugged. “When I was home with my mother, I’d watch her cook. Sometimes I’d help out. You know, be a good son.”
“This flaky crust,” she said, picking up a piece. “My pies always come out soggy. Guess I didn’t cook them long enough.”
“Perhaps your oven wasn’t hot enough,” I said. “Sometimes, if you have an old oven, they don’t quite hit the temperature they’re supposed to hit.”
“Yeah, that was probably it,” she said. “The house we were in was built in late 60s. I think it had the original oven.”
“Well, this house was built—”
Her phone started buzzing again. She scrambled in a panic to reach it and turn it off.
“Oh, no! I’m sorry, Mr. Lamb,” she said, mildly worried.