I smiled. “Love it. Just no snails, please.”
“Don’t worry—escargot won’t be on the menu. They’re out of season. See you at eight, Jasmine. And how about you wear that little red number you had on last night again? It suited you. The shoes, too.” With that, Rodney hung up.
I could hardly wear the red dress from last night; it was stained with my sweat and pussy juice, and I wouldn’t have time to get it dry-cleaned in time for dinner. And there was also the little matter of me confronting Rodney for having me tailed. I was puzzling over what to do about both predicaments when Rebecca stuck her head in the office door.
“The takeout’s here,” she said. “I’ll set everything up in the break room.”
“I’ll be right there,” I replied. I could feel a monster headache coming on. I rummaged around in Senator Grayle’s bottom drawer, where I knew he kept his Excedrin. I took three tablets from the bottle and dry-swallowed them before heading to the break room.
Rebecca had already set out the takeaway along with paper plates, napkins, and bamboo chopsticks by the time I arrived. She’d also set out two cans of Diet Coke for me, knowing that I liked it better than the healthy herbal tea she preferred. “I have the kettle on if you decide you want tea later,” she said.
“No, Diet Coke is fine.”
Rebecca frowned. “You know, they say that diet soft drinks cause brain cancer. You really should consider cutting down.”
I flopped into a chair and dished myself a hearty helping of cashewed chicken. “At the rate I’m going, I’d probably be better off with a brain tumor.”
Rebecca’s brown eyes glistened with concern. “Now Jasmine, you know you shouldn’t talk like that.”
“I dunno, Rebecca.I’m not sure if I have much of a future in Washington anymore. And if I don’t have a future in Washington, I’m not sure if I have a future at all. Washington is all I know. And I’d rather die than have to go back to North Dakota.”
Rebecca took an eggroll from the takeout box for herself and then handed me the other one. “I thought things were going well with your Rodney Doyle angle,” she said, smothering her eggroll with hot mustard sauce. “Did something go wrong between you and him? I hope not, for our sake. Seems to me his paper is our last hope.”
I felt my mouth turn to cotton. Did I dare reveal to Rebecca how things were really transpiring between Rodney Doyle and me? Rebecca was a sweet, innocent, and honest young woman who, as far as I knew, always traveled the straight-and-narrow path, both in her job and in her life. I could hardly expect her to get involved in high-risk capers of sexual intrigue. Could I?
Rebecca gave me an odd look. “Are you all right, Jasmine? You seem a little preoccupied.”
“No, I’m fine,” I lied. “Just tired, is all. The past two days have been a little crazy.”
“That’s true,” Rebecca said. “I’m worn out too. Working fourteen-hour days trying to keep the press from breaking down the front door is no fun. But we have to do our best to stay positive, whatever happens.” As if to emphasize her point, Rebecca smiled brightly and polished off the rest of her eggroll.
I envied Rebecca her devil-may-care attitude in the midst of such a crisis. Then again, she was such a skilled and well-connected secretary that I’m sure she knew she could have another job lined up at some other Congressman’s office on the Hill within a month or two of looking. Who knew—with her efficiency, knowledge, and always-sunny attitude, in another five or ten years, Rebecca could be working at the White House. “I wish I had your positive attitude, Rebecca,” I said. “It would make my life a lot easier.”
“Anyone can have a positive attitude who wants one,” was her swift and sunny reply. “They’re not hard to come by if you just try.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes before Rebecca spoke again. “So, what is going on with Rodney Doyle and his paper? You never said. And I am curious why he called this morning while you were out sounding like he did.”
My chopsticks stopped in midair. “What do you mean, sounding like he did? What did he sound like, exactly?”
Rebecca wiped the grease from her fingers with her napkin. “To tell you the truth, he sounded jealous.”
Jealous? My jaw dropped. How could Rodney Doyle have been jealous of my activities at the House of Flowers? He set the whole thing up for me, for Christ’s sake. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Rebecca scrambled to explain. “I wasn’t planning to say anything about it at first, because I thought maybe I was imagining things. But now I see you acting this way at lunch, and it makes me wonder if my first impression was right.”
If Rebecca was right about Rodney being jealous, the fact he’d probably had me followed made a lot more sense. Still, the ends didn’t justify the means. I put my throbbing head down on the table, managing to get some sweet-and-sour sauce in my hair in the process. “This is just getting worse and worse,” I groaned.
“What? What’s getting worse?” Rebecca laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. “We’ve worked together for a long time, Jasmine. Whatever it is, you can tell me what’s on your mind. Trust me.”
I looked up. “I’m not sure you’d want to know the truth.”
“Sure I would. Try me. Believe me, Jasmine, after working in Senator Grayle’s office for as long as I have, there’s not a lot I haven’t seen already.” Rebecca raised her eyebrows at me. “If you know what I mean.”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes. “Come on, Jasmine. It’s not as if I haven’t heard about Rodney Doyle’s notorious reputation with the ladies. And I read the Beltway Times practically every day, so I know what kinds of topics that rag likes to cover. And given the size of the bags under your eyes this morning, I can pretty well imagine what you’ve been up to. So dish.”
I sighed. “All right. It looks like you’re already on to me, so you might as well know the truth. Rodney Doyle and I are having an affair.”
Rebecca clapped her hands. “I knew it!”
“At least, I think it’s an affair. I don’t have a lot of experience with these things, so maybe I’m wrong.”
Rebecca reached across the table and gave me a hug. “Jasmine, I’m so glad to hear it! You’ve needed something like this for a long time. You’re such a workaholic, I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever see the day you found someone.”
I abruptly broke off the hug. “Now wait a minute. I didn’t say that I’d ‘found’ anybody. As far as I can tell, this thing with Rodney is just a fling. Not that I mind.”
Rebecca went to take the kettle off the hotplate, and poured herself more tea. “Whether it’s for real or just a fling, Jasmine, at least it’s something. Honestly, I don’t think you’ve been on a date the entire time I’ve known you.”
“That’s because I haven’t,” I said, embarrassed. “Up until yesterday, anyway.”
Rebecca raised her teacup in a toast. “Well, then here’s to you and Rodney,” she said. “Cheers.”
“Not so fast,” I said. “I’m not really sure if things are going the way I want them to with Rodney.”
Rebecca’s face fell. “Why not?”
“I dunno—it’s sort of complicated.” My throat tightened up at the prospect of revealing the truth to Rebecca. I didn’t think she’d take it well.
Rebecca patted my hand. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” she said. “But I’m here to help if you need it. All you have to do is say the word.”
I stared down into the remains of my cashew chicken. “Thanks, Rebecca, I appreciate it,” I said. “I really do. But I think this is a situation I’ll have to deal with on my own. It’s very—ahem—personal.”
Rebecca’s expression softened. “Say no more,” she said. “Like I already said, I’m aware of Mr. Doyle’s reputation with the ladies, believe me. And my original offer still stands. Whatever you might think of me or my personal life, Jasmine, I’m not as innocent as you think.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I replied. “But for now, I’d like to keep private things private.” I pushed my plate away; suddenly I was no longer hungry. “You can have the rest of the takeaway,” I said. “I need to get back to work.”
Chapter 11
At six p.m., my workday was finally beginning to wind down. I’d spent most of the afternoon running interference with the press—which had gone on the offensive when it became clear via the House Speaker’s angry rant on C-SPAN that Senator Grayle was in trouble with Congressional leaders for blowing town in the middle of an important floor vote. The outlandish (and totally false) standard statement I’ve been issuing to the world at large in response to the whole mess was that Senator Grayle contracted appendicitis while in jail, and had to be rushed home to North Dakota so his personal physician could perform the appendectomy surgery.
I doubted that would hold the press vultures at bay for more than a day.
My only hope at this point was that some other politician in Washington would also be caught with his pants down in the next twelve hours, so the media would have some other press secretary to pick on besides me.
Or maybe the President would decide to declare war on somebody tomorrow. That would be an even bigger help. But neither possibility seemed likely.
I peeked over t he cubicle divider and saw that Rebecca has already gone home. Damn. I was hoping she might be able to give me a tip on how to find another fuck-me red dress on such short notice, but no luck. And it was too late in the day to pop by the couture department at Nordstrom’s. I had just under two hours to prepare for my next tryst—I hoped—with Rodney Doyle, and I didn’t have a thing to wear.
I locked up the office and headed out to the street to flag a taxi. A cab pulled up to the curb almost immediately, and as I climbed in I was stunned to see it was driven by the same cabbie who’d taken me to the House of Flowers that morning.
He smiled at me in the rearview mirror. “Evening, miss. Did everything turn out all right for you this morning over in Columbia Heights? I was worried about you when you didn’t call me for a ride back.”
“I got a ride home safely just the same,” I said. “But thank you.”
“Where to now, miss?” The cabbie looked to be about my father’s age, with deep-set smile lines in his face and around his eyes, as if he’d spent a lifetime being happy. And no wonder. Cab drivers arguably had the best jobs in Washington—a birds’-eye view of all the political wheeling and dealing, powerbroking, and scandals via their fares, without having to get personally involved in anything themselves. I secretly wished I could lead the carefree life of a Washington taxi driver instead of having to face my fast-disintegrating career in PR.
The cab was approaching the Metro Center Mall. I figured I could do a little shopping, then catch the subway back to my apartment to freshen up in time for my date with Rodney. “Just let me off up here at the corner,” I said. “I need to go buy a new dress.”
The cabbie nodded his acknowledgement and pulled the cab right up to the curb in front of the entrance to Neiman Marcus. “My wife likes to shop here,” he said. “I hear they have some nice things off-the-rack in the formalwear department.”
“Thank you,” I said, and handed the cabbie a twenty for an eight-dollar fare. “Keep the change.”
The cabbie tipped his hat in gratitude. “Much obliged, ma’am. My name’s Dexter. Be sure to ask for me by name next time you call Yellow Cab for a ride. I’ll pick you up anywhere, anytime. And when I say ‘anywhere, anytime,’ I mean it. No place is too strange or out of the way for me to go pick up a beautiful young lady in distress.”
Distress? I wondered what Dexter meant by that remark. Puzzled, I got out and slammed the cab door shut behind me. Dexter gave me a wave as he sped off.
I headed into Neiman Marcus. I was a bit intimidated at first, since I’d always considered the store too expensive, its merchandise to “old” for me. I wandered the aisles of the women’s formalwear department, not at all interested in the overpriced, gaudy fashions that hung from the racks. It seemed everything in the store was designed to appeal to women who were in their fifties and older—lots of tent-like dresses in garish colors covered in gaudy sequins. I thought the only place it would have been appropriate to wear such monstrosities would be to a costume party at a senior citizens’ home.
Fed up, I headed out of Neiman Marcus and into the main shopping mall. I wandered up and down the concourse, glancing at shop windows and searching in vain for inspiration. The few stores that had dresses which appealed to me didn’t carry my size. The only other options were “fat lady” stores, which just sold cheaper versions of the gaudy tents I saw in Neiman Marcus. I silently wished that I could go over to Nordstrom’s and get another gown (and maybe a hot orgasm) from Rhonda Pearce, but it was too late in the day for that. Rhonda and the couture department closed up shop at four-thirty.
Frustrated, I headed out of the mall the way I came. The subway station was just outside Neiman Marcus’ main entrance, so I’d have to trudge back through all the hideous old-lady tents on the way. I picked up speed as I entered the store, checking my watch as I went. It was 6:21; I knew that the subway trains left every fifteen minutes, and if I was quick I thought I might make it through the store and down into the station in time to catch the 6:30 train. But in my hurry I took a wrong turn and somehow ended up in the menswear department.
As I stood surrounded by bulky wool suits and overcoats, I had an idea.
I grabbed a large black wool overcoat off the rack at random. I checked the price tag and was delighted to find it was marked down. I took it up to the nearest cashier’s desk and paid for it with my Visa card.
The middle-aged woman behind the checkout desk smiled sweetly as she wrapped up my purchase. “A gift for your father, miss?” she asked. “Or for someone special perhaps?”
I grinned. “Definitely for someone special.”
The clerk adjusted her reading glasses and handed me my package. “Well, I hope he likes it, dear.”
“I hope so, too.” I turned on my heel and headed out of the store. I’d missed the 6:30 train by then, but I still had plenty of time for the 6:45. As I stood on the platform waiting for it to arrive, I mentally went over the contents of my lingerie drawer at home. It didn’t take long; with the exception of the plain white bras and panties I wore almost every day, there was almost nothing in it worth remembering.
Almost nothing.
In my mind’s eye I could see the red teddy and matching G-string I’d bought myself in the plus-size department at Victoria’s Secret for Valentine’s Day last year. The teddy and tiny scrap of panties were at the bottom of my drawer, in their original paper wrappings and with the tags still attached. I remembered how I’d been feeling a little depressed earlier that year at not having a date or a boyfriend for the third straight Valentine’s Day, and had given myself a little retail therapy by buying overpriced lingerie I never thought I’d have occasion to wear.
Today, that occasion had finally arrived.
The subway train slid onto the platform. I stepped inside the last car, and even though it was nearly empty, made a point to stand grasping one of the overhead hand-loops instead of sitting down. The bumping and shaking of the subway car made the Chinese balls still tucked inside my sheath that much more enjoyable when I was standing up.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and let my body be overtaken by the intense vibrations rising in my pussy as I headed home. My crotch went hot and my forehead went clammy as I felt my orgasm approach. Rodney’s prediction had been right—carrying the Chinese balls around inside me all day had taught me control. If someone had told me this morning I’d be able to have mind-blowing orgasms just by standing still on the Washington Metro, I’d have said they were crazy. And yet, here it was about to happen. The control and restraint my body had learned in just twelve hours of keeping the Chinese balls clasped tight between my legs was incredible; I was on the brink of a body-
quaking orgasm, and yet neither my face nor my body registered that fact on the outside. Anyone who passed me by would only think that I was just a little tired from a hard day’s work at the office, not in the throes of multiple spontaneous orgasms.
My climax overtook me just moments before the train arrived into the station closest to my apartment. The delightful spasms stopped just as the train car doors slid open. Perfect timing. I really had to hand it to whoever invented those ancient Chinese Enlightened Pathway Balls. Thanks to that man (or woman), I could now enjoy discreet, touch-free orgasms on my daily commute. Pure genius.
I headed out of the subway station with a spring in my step. There was nothing like having eight or ten spontaneous orgasms during a workday to perk up my mood. Yesterday morning, I wouldn’t have thought such a thing was possible, and yet today, “getting off” on the train seemed almost routine. What a difference twenty-four hours could make!
And if my date with Rodney went as planned, tonight would be one for the record books.
Chapter 12
I arrived at Rodney Doyle’s posh apartment building at ten minutes after eight, just as I’d planned. I thought being fashionably late would only add to the sexual tension. And I needed all the thick, dripping sexual tension I could get in order for my little plan to work.
The heavy overcoat I’d bought at Neiman Marcus was at least three sizes too big. The sleeves covered my hands entirely with room to spare, and the hem would have dragged the ground if I hadn’t been wearing my three-inch fuck-me heels. I wore nothing underneath the overcoat except my red teddy and matching G-string. But to make me as nondescript as possible on the outside, I wore wraparound sunglasses and had a black silk scarf wrapped over my hair, Jackie-O style. I didn’t want to risk drawing any unnecessary attention from the doorman or anyone else. Given some of the stories I’d seen printed in the Beltway Times of late, I wouldn’t have been surprised in the least of Rodney had hidden cameras in the lobby and hallways of his building.
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