I fully expected that when I got on the scale in the morning that I would see at least a two-pound loss, and was delighted when it was three. Must’ve been all the shivering.
Chapter Seven
Connections The next morning I was awakened by a phone call at six AM. When I picked it up and answered it, no one was there. I said, “Hello? Hello?” several times, then hung up. The caller ID screen said the call had been blocked. I don’t often get wrong numbers, or at least not since Joey O’s Pizzeria’s number and my number were only one digit off from each other, but it happened occasionally. I went back to sleep. My near death episode had zapped me but good, I was still a bit groggy.
At eight thirty the phone rang again. I rolled over and picked it up, the screen said that the number was blocked.
“Hello?”
“Hi, sorry to bother you so early but I was worried. I needed to hear your voice. I was told you had a bit of trouble on the beach yesterday.” The soft, sexy voice I was coming to know as Philip’s greeted me.
“Did you call a while ago?”
“No, not since the other night. Why?”
“Must’ve been a wrong number, I got a call earlier this morning. How do you know about what happened on the beach?”
“Let’s just say I have my sources. I’m interested in you, so I want to find out all I can about you.”
“You’re having me investigated?” I was aghast.
“No, that’s already been done, my matchmaker insisted on it. Says her reputation is at stake. In fact, her contract states she has the right to make sure whomever I date is the real deal, the publicity from a scam or fraud case could wipe her out. I have to agree, she and I both have a lot to lose in either event. But we got your report a few days ago, so no, you’re not being investigated, not anymore—at least not that I’m aware of.”
I spluttered, started to speak, thought better of it, counted to ten and then regrouped. “You’re having me watched then? That’s even worse!”
“No, I’m not having you watched. If you must know, it turns out we have a friend in common. And I would prefer that next time you’re in your underwear that you be with me.”
“You know Roman?”
“No, I know Matt. We just had a conference call. He’s buying one of my companies.”
“It’s an amazingly small world down here in North Carolina,” I muttered. But his explanation made sense; Matt bought companies all the time. Especially the manufacturing type—he retooled them, modernized them and often made them better suited to the community.
“So, are you okay?”
“Other than being embarrassed over the underwear issue, yeah. So what was on the report?”
“That you have wonderful curves.”
“I mean the report from the investigator.”
“That you have wonderful curves.”
“Seriously.”
“Okay, okay. You own your home with no mortgage; your husband Dale died almost five years ago; he was an electrical engineer who worked for Westinghouse; you worked for the government and have a pension with benefits; you owe $1,300 on four charge cards; you drive your husband’s old pick-up truck, which is also paid for; you belong to three women’s groups—one golf, one social, one church; you are a practicing Methodist and you tithe fifteen percent of your retirement; your best friends are Tessa and Catalina, whom I believe are the ones who got you into this mess to begin with; you’re originally from Pennsylvania, born in Reading, but spent a lot of time in Washington, D.C.; you love Asian food; enjoy a good steak—medium rare; and eat liver every Thursday even though you hate it, as a tribute to your husband and because you feel guilty you never ate it with him at the K&W every Thursday when he was alive; you’re a sucker for a kid with a cause, and donate time and money when asked; you graduated with honors from the University of Maryland with a degree in business; your Beacon score is 780; and you are a bodacious size 12, measuring 38-26-39, two inches across the board more than Marilyn Monroe’s; you like opera, tolerate ballet, but would opt for a good comedy instead of a drama if asked; you like football and baseball, but can’t stand to watch basketball, which could be a problem for us; you like to cook; appreciate a good quality red; and would like to travel to Europe someday; you have step-children that rival Cinderella’s step sisters in their greed, and never had any children of your own.”
“Wow. Is there anything else?”
“You are exercising your butt off to lose weight by next week, when it’s not at all necessary as I like my women voluptuous . . . and trashy. Red lips, red nails, and too much mascara is an incredible turn on for me.”
“Well so much for what you know, although I do have my acrylic nails painted Wild Currant every other week. It used to be called Joan Crawford Red but these days the younger set doesn’t attach any significance to the name Joan Crawford so they had to rename it. And yes, I have been dieting, and I have been exercising, like crazy actually. And because of that, I have not been eating any liver. So your investigator got something wrong.”
“Does that mean you’re ready to let go of your husband?”
“I wouldn’t have applied to consider becoming anyone else’s wife if I wasn’t.”
“Technically you didn’t, your friends did.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right.”
“If this works out between us, I would hope to have that kind of devotion down the road. But just for the record, I hate liver, too.”
“Well, I am definitely an all-or-nothing kind of girl, I wouldn’t agree to marry you unless I was all in.”
“I can’t wait to meet you—to talk to you, to look at you, to touch and to taste you.”
“You’re only going to get to do two of those on the first date.”
“Can I choose which two?”
“It’s not going to be the last two.”
He laughed. “I wouldn’t bet on that if I were you, but if there’s anything I’ve learned during my many years of debauchery, it’s that men are visual creatures. I’m sure I will only need to look at you to want you.”
“What if you look at me and don’t want me?”
“Not possible. I already want you, and that’s just from talking to you. Plus, I have an excellent reference with regard to your appearance. Matt said you’re a very lovely woman and he has an unerring eye for beauty.”
“He meant on the inside.”
“Interestingly enough, that’s exactly where I want to be . . . inside you.” Again, that deep smoky voice.
“You really do come on strong. I am beginning to suspect that you’re way out of my league.”
“No, no you’re not. You’re exactly what I want, what I need. And you should know that I have a bad habit of getting what I want. I don’t let anything get in my way—if I want it, I see to it that I get it.”
“What if I don’t want you?”
“Not an option. I’ll make you want me. I’ll move heaven and earth until you do.”
“I can’t be bought.”
“Who’s talking about money? There are other ways for a man to make a woman want him, and believe me; I know every single one of them. If your body is at all responsive, and you know what I’m saying—you’re mine, all mine. No doubt about it.” The huskiness in his voice was enough to convince me even if nothing else did.
“We’ll see. Right now, I’ve gotta get up and go walk. Then eat grapes and ham slices for breakfast.”
“Do me a favor and don’t walk your butt off. I don’t do bony.”
“Trust me, I’m a long way from bony.”
“Good. Take a cell phone with you this time.”
“I had one with me but I thought I could make it back on my own. Then when I needed it I couldn’t get it to work, I think the rain ruined it.”
“Pay attention to the weather, don’t take chances.”
“Yes sir!”
“You’re learning to be submissive, I like that.”
Before I could catch my breath and reply, he was gone.
Chapter Eight
Candlestick
When I got down to the mailbox, this was waiting for me: V,
I took your advice and told her parents. But it didn’t work out as planned. I didn’t want them or my friend to know who was calling so I used the phone at the pier. I asked Becky if I could call home, and she let me use the office phone. My friend’s mom answered and I disguised my voice by covering the mouthpiece with my shirtsleeve. I saw that on TV once. Anyway, I told her what my friend was doing and that all her friends were worried about her. Then I hung up.
That night my friend called and told me about this idiot who had called her mother to say she was drinking, sleeping around, and doing drugs. She was really angry, and I could only hope she didn’t get the idea that the idiot had been me. I asked her what her mom had said to her and she laughed. “She thought it was a prank.”
“So she didn’t believe any of it?” I asked her. “Nah. She’s obtuse. She said kids were always trying to do things like that to her in high school too, because she was so pretty and they were jealous of her. So who do you think’s got it in for me? I’ll bet it’s that fat bitch Jessica. In fact, I’d bet on it.” I didn’t know how to answer so I agreed with her.
We’re going to 2001 on Saturday, she’s got some guy who’s going to get them a motel room. She met him last weekend and she gave him her cell number. He’s a truck driver for a cement company and he’s older, much older, maybe 30. Now what?
I fished in the mailbox for a pen, and while I looked out at the curling waves kissing the shore I thought about what I should say to this girl.
Jazzy, If you want your friend’s mother to believe you, you’re going to have to give up the idea of anonymity. She will believe you, as her daughter’s best friend, because she knows you. There’s no way around this, you have to call her up and ask to see her when no one else is around. Or . . . you could go to YOUR mom and explain things, then she can go to your friend’s mother. I know this is hard, Jazzy. But if you do nothing, and something bad happens to your friend this weekend, it’ll be even harder on you. A girl in her teens has no business going to a motel room with a man in his twenties or thirties, they’re only interested in one thing and although I doubt I have to spell it out for you, I will: He wants to get her clothes off and he wants to screw her (or whatever it is you kids are calling it these days, in my day, we called it balling). Don’t wait until the weekend to tackle this. The sooner you tell your mom or call hers, the sooner you can be assured that your friend will be all right. At least down the road, if not right now.
V.
I turned the page so the next person visiting the Kindred Spirit mailbox would have a clean slate to write on and not be tempted to thumb the previous pages. But almost everyone did, including me. Then I replaced the notebook and pen and began my walk back. It was a beautiful day today; a cerulean sky was fanning the edges and shadows were appearing everywhere, reminding me that at this time of the year twilight was never far away, even now, though it was barely three. I’d had to wait for the bug man and the dishwasher repairman and so I’d started my walk much later today. Tomorrow night I would meet Philip at The Isles Restaurant on Ocean Isle Beach and, although I hadn’t lost all the weight I had intended, I was able to fit into a dress that had hung in my closet for years. One I had never worn.
The dress was a reward, the kind women buy when they’re beginning a diet, hopeful that things will go well and that they’ll be able to fit into it. It wasn’t the right time of the year for this type of dress, but I was determined that now that it fit, I was going to wear the sucker.
It was black with medium-sized white polka dots. It had a halter-top, a belted waist and then a flared bell-shaped skirt that went to just below the knee. The top would allow my ample décolletage to peek out, the cinched waist would flatter my figure making me look like I had an hourglass shape, and the full skirt hitting below my knees along with the black pumps, would make me look taller and camouflage my hips somewhat. It was a Jessica Howard creation that had cost $180 dollars seven years ago. I knew that because it still had the tag on it. But despite it having been shoved to the back recesses of my closet for so long, it was a timeless classic. I hated that it was a summer dress, and that it was now just late March, but every time I tried it on I felt lovely and confident. So . . . gooseflesh or not, I was wearing it. To hell with the stylish suit with the lacy cami, I didn’t want to scream matron; I wanted to hint at saucy, even if I was going to freeze my tukas off.
By the time I got home, I had just enough time to take a shower and slap on some makeup before it was time to head to Totally Chic to have my hair done. The shop was open late tonight and I’d managed to get an appointment. I was going to have my hair cut in a short bob. It was kind of shaggy short right now, but I thought a sleeker look would go better with my swanky dress. I’d already had a manicure and pedicure, so this would be the finishing touch. A facial would have been nice but experience has proven that within a day of having one, my skin erupts with at least one gigantic zit, and as I am descended from a mother who fancies herself to be a witch, it was sure to be on the end of my nose or at the bottom of my chin. Oh, and speaking of chin, I needed to remember to make sure Karen checked me for chin hairs. I usually have one or two working their way toward being a coarse little whisker, and faint though they are, they show in profile. And all the sexy-looking polka dot dresses in the world wouldn’t be able to undo the damage if Philip had to stare at a chin hair all night.
When I got home my phone rang. I ran to answer it anticipating Philip’s voice on the other end. Instead it was another crank call. No one was on the line. I was beginning to think that these random calls where no one was on the line were not accidental. I feared I might have some kind of stalker or crank caller messing with me. I told myself that if I got one more, I would call the phone company or go to the police station. Not only was this a nuisance and a bit scary, but it was a continual let down to dash for the phone thinking it was Philip calling and being disappointed when it wasn’t.
I went to check my email. He hadn’t sent anything new so I reread his earlier message. Then being bold, I took the initiative and was delighted to find he was online too.
VaVaViv: Okay, I’ll bite. Why do women like the Master/ Slave senerio? And why do you?
PeterPeterPeater: Boy your spelling IS atrocious.
VaVaViv: I told you not to criticise my spelling/typeing. Answer the question. PeterPeterPeater: LOL, you did it again! Never mind. Okay, okay. Back to the subject on both our minds. The idea of a dominant and submissive lifestyle scares most people, but that’s because they fear something they don’t understand. Before we go any further, let me establish that I am a dominant or “dom” and I truly enjoy having a submissive woman, but I AM NOT INTO PAINon the giving or receiving end. Why be a submissive you might ask, and why do I love them so much? First, because being told what to do is freeing. It’s actually the ultimate in liberation, believe it or not. Most women lead lives that are full of decisions, one right after the other, all day, every day. To be able to have someone they trust tell them what to do liberates their minds. And for a woman sex is pretty much all in her mind. Her brain is her most important erotic zone. As a dom, if you don’t have control of her head, you don’t have control of her body. Some women are so resistant to giving up control and letting pleasure in, that they need to be tied down in order to relinquish it, to hand over the reins and let go. Women who don’t know how to relax need this more than anyone. I’ve had many women tell me that they’ve never felt freer than when they were tied up. I love bringing the ultimate pleasure to women, and I find it so much more pleasurable if they let me dominate them, completely. In doing so, I can orchestrate their orgasms far better than they ever could. It’s amazing to watch a woman lose herself to a man. Once she submits to him and begins to accept his commands, does his bidding without complaint, both she and he become so in tune to each other that the pleasure they
each seek is amplified ten-fold. The orgasms are cataclysmic, you’ll see.
VaVaViv: So, I gather you’ve done this before? PeterPeterPeater: Too many times to count. All converts. Wanna take a test and see if you’re a candidate? Would you like to do some basic roleplaying, see where it leads?
VaVaViv: I don’t understand, what has roleplayig got to do with being tyed up? PeterPeterPeater: It’s very telling, especially to a man who has made it his business to read women. For instance, if you see yourself as the student in a teacher/ student scenario, a nurse or patient in a doctor/nurse scenario, a secretary in a boss/secretary theme, if you quiver to think of a handsome cop pulling you over and negotiating a ticket with your body, then chances are you fantasize about being taken by a powerful man. Most women think of themselves as good girls, and won’t admit to any of this of course, so it has to be forced on them. You have to take away their choice. Make it so they can’t say no. Even though they don’t really want to say no, they feel as if they have to. They feel that they can’t go against all that they’ve been taught because they don’t want to have to deal with the guilt. Take away their choice; make them submit, and you’re really freeing them up to do all the things they secretly want to do or have done to them. Deep down, most women want to be naughty. I suspect that you are not a woman who desires to be taken against her will, but that you are truly a bad girl nonetheless, and that some light bondage might even be where you find your greatest release. By the way I’m having an extremely hard time not correcting your spelling.
VaVaViv: Holy Moly. We haven’t even met yet and you know all this? Sorry about the speling, get used to it.
PeterPeterPeater: I just suspect it. Strongly. How about you take a test?
VaVaViv: What kind of test? PeterPeterPeater: Find three scarves and a candle, a long slim one. I’ll give you ten minutes to collect everything, and then I’ll call you on your house phone so we can use the speaker.
VaVaViv: What if I don’t want to take this test? PeterPeterPeater: When I call, you answer, “Yes Master,” or I’ll hang up. Logging off now. Find those items and get ready for me.
The Widows of Sea Trail-Vivienne of Sugar Sands Page 6