I get only a glimpse of it, thick and pale and slightly curved towards his belly. It’s far more impressive than anything I’ve seen in a pamphlet, and it’s difficult to believe it’s meant to fit inside a woman. He slides the sheath on. Then he works his legs between mine so swiftly, there’s no going back. He pillows my head on his forearm and, with deep ragged breaths, encourages me to lift my hips for him.
He guides himself, then, all at once, thrusts and breaks my maidenhead. Amidst a wash of pleasure comes a wave of pure agony, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. I’d known it would hurt a little, but not quite so much, and I have to fight the tears that threaten to spill over.
Oh, it’s very bad. Much worse than the little pinch I’d been told to expect. I tell myself that it can’t hurt for much longer. But my bravery does no good; he notices. He blinks, long eyelashes sweeping against my cheek. “Sophie …”
“Please don’t stop,” I cry, because pleasure is my only bulwark against the pain. I batter at his shoulders. “Don’t you dare stop now!”
Maybe he knows the way a woman looks at the edge. Maybe he knows just how to push her all the way. Because he strokes into me, deep into me, the hairs of his groin tangling with mine. The wickedness of being taken on the floor this way, the buttons of his shirt scraping against my breast and belly, it all builds inside me. This is how dirty girls get taken, I think. Sluts and harlots and whores do it on their backs, on the floor under any rich man who can pay for it, under rich men just like him. That’s all I can think about as he fills me in long smooth strokes; the sharp pain fades to an insistent throb of pleasure that grows more intense until I’m clinging to him.
“Are you going to come for me, Sophie?” he asks, low and husky.
And then I don’t care what kind of girl I am.
The shuddering orgasm forces throaty cries from me as all my insides collapse around his cock. My body milks him and the feeling of fullness makes the pleasure stronger. I’m in the grips of it, overwhelmed. I dig my nails into his hips, which thrust faster and faster as he finds his own release. He grunts, his face slightly reddened with his exertion, collapsing down onto me with three or four more thrusts before he stills.
Then there we are, a sweating, panting heap of limbs and half-removed clothing sprawled on the floor. In spite of the pain, the experience was vastly more exciting than I imagined. How was I to know that something so sudden could leave me filled with tiny quakes of delight? The lingering joy of it makes me laugh when I can breathe again. “If that’s how it feels when you show very little regard for my pleasure, I’m looking forward to the second time.”
But Mr. Aster isn’t at all amused. Rolling onto his side, his eyes are stormy. “You lied to me.”
He’s got no right to be sore. No right at all. “And you read my journal without permission, so that makes us even.”
“But why? Why would you lie about this being your first time?”
For so many reasons, not least of which is that I didn’t want him to think he was so much better and more experienced than I am. And just as important, “Because I was afraid you’d stop.”
“Of course I’d have stopped. Gentlemen don’t despoil virgins!”
“I thought you said you were trying to be less of a gentleman.”
Under the force of his anger, I reach for my discarded undergarments, but they prove too little to shield me from his anger. “See here, Miss O’Brien. When the newspapers call you the most eligible bachelor in the country, you learn to avoid husband chasers; I don’t intend to be forced into marriage.”
The fact that he says it with such a note of accusation, makes me want to laugh in his face. Curling one lip with contempt, I say, “I can see how that’d be a hazard. I bet women force you to steal their diaries and ravish them all the time …”
His frosty expression melts under his chagrin.
“Touché, mademoiselle.”
“I didn’t do it to trap you. I did it just to enjoy the look on your face right now.”
His embarrassment seems to deepen, and he strokes me, almost apologetically. “You’re a very odd girl.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. You needn’t worry, Mr. Aster. I don’t want to get married. Marriage isn’t fair to women. It isn’t to our advantage. We’ve had the vote for less than ten years and we’re still making medieval contracts where all the terms disfavor the wife. I let you take my virginity because I wanted to know what all the fuss was about.”
“Now you think you know?” he asks with a smirk. “You don’t. I promise you, that wasn’t remotely the best I have to offer.”
This makes my body roar awake again. He tempts me. Is it possible that this gets better? Because I can’t imagine how, once anyone discovers this, they want to do anything else. “I never knew it would feel so different from when I touch myself.”
He groans. “Do you touch yourself often?”
“Only in the bath,” I admit, too exposed to be embarrassed anymore. “But it was so lovely and different today when I found my climax … and you were inside me …”
He groans again, turning to me, so that I can feel him stiffening against my side. “I like knowing that I’m the first man to have you. That my cock is the first to ever make you come. That when your insides gripped me and you cried out, that was the first time you’d ever felt that …”
“Why?” I ask, my breath catching.
“Because it makes me feel extraordinarily possessive.”
“I’m not a possession,” I say, though I’m far too pleased with myself to put true fury behind my rebuke.
“Then why do I feel so proprietary? In fact, at the moment, I feel rather free to do with you as I like.”
I give him a seductive grin. “And what are you going to do with me?”
“I’m going to send you back to work,” he says, shocking me into silence.
As I sputter, he removes the used sheath from his member, then begins to fasten his clothes.
“You’re finished with me?” I ask, appalled.
“The very opposite of that, Miss O’Brien,” he says, tucking himself back into his pants. “When you first came into this office, I was hoping you’d prove to be a diversion, but now I feel a responsibility to take this game quite a bit more seriously.”
That I can see he’s still aroused only confuses me more. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m going to take you as a mistress and see to it that you understand what all the fuss is about.”
A mistress. I can’t quite fathom the word. And while it clangs about between my ears, in all its bewildering implications, he gets up then offers me a hand. I take it and rise shakily to my feet.
“I also intend to keep my word to you that the second time will be for your pleasure,” he says. “You will beg for it, but given what I know now, that will take time to arrange properly.”
He takes another envelope but instead of giving it to me to open, he pulls the card out himself.
I see what’s written on it: Come back tomorrow afternoon.
Now he takes a fountain pen and adds more words. Come back tomorrow afternoon … for a spanking.
The sexual heat in my body kindles into anger. My temper must show because he says, “Don’t you think you need a spanking, Sophie? Haven’t you been a very bad girl today?”
I’m not sure if I’m more upset by the fantasy that he’s chosen to play out next, or by the fact that he’s dismissing me. He takes the lingerie from its package and holds it for me to step into. “I wouldn’t want you to have to explain the box.”
It’s a courteous gesture, but it makes me feel patronized. I decide to let him dress me in it anyway, because I want a token of remembrance. Then I yank my own dress back on, glaring at him all the while.
So, he has it figured out, does he?
He seems sure I’ll return, but maybe I won’t. Would he care? He probably is the kind of man who has stolen encounters like this one ev
ery day. For all I know, there’s another woman ready to climb into his bed tonight. The idea of it makes me wonder if it isn’t better if we pretend that none of this ever happened. “What if I don’t come back tomorrow?”
“You’ll come back,” he says, brushing a tiny kiss over my lips.
It’s strangely sweet, gentle, and not at all in keeping with what’s just happened here.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because, if you do, I’ll listen to some of the grievances you’ve so helpfully gathered from my staff.”
My mouth falls all the way open at the casual way he mixes business with pleasure.
“Also, I’m keeping your journal.”
Now my hands ball into fists at my side. “You told me you’d give the journal back.”
His features light with amusement. “And you told me that you weren’t a virgin.”
CHAPTER
Three
There’s not a lick of privacy to be had in the room I share with Ethel and Irene—which is why I kept my diary in my locker at work to begin with. It’s a nice boardinghouse and our flat has a view of the city from the fire escape where Irene grows a flowerpot garden every spring. It’s also across the street from the Civics League where we’re sometimes invited to listen to talks from progressive leaders in science, economics, and politics—real visionaries who want to modernize the country.
Given the wages we make, none of us could afford to live in the neighborhood on our own, but with three beds crowded in, we make do.
It’s just that when anything happens to one of us, the rest of us know about it. So it seems odd that they don’t notice anything different about me. I’ve finally done it; or at least let a man do it to me. I still catch the scent of him on my skin from this afternoon. But the girls haven’t suspected a thing.
“Mrs. Mortimer turned you in? That old bluenosed prune,” Ethel says with disgust, throwing her purse onto the bed. “Well, we’ll all just know better than to keep anything at the boutique, won’t we?”
“And how!” Irene cries, taking off her earbobs and hopping out of her heels. “It’s a good thing you left your petition with Hamilton. When they called you upstairs to see the Big Cheese, we thought you were finished, Sophie.”
“But he knows we’re organizing and he didn’t fire you,” Ethel muses. “That’s something … what’s he like, anyway?”
I hesitate. “He isn’t … what you’d expect …”
Given all the time in the world, I don’t know that I could find the words to describe Robert Aster, and I’m afraid to try, lest I slip up and spill something I don’t want either of them to know. I can’t very well tell them about the diary, can I? I can’t tell them about the lingerie, either, which even now slides sinuously beneath my clothes. And if I tell them what I let him to do to me, they’ll be scandalized.
Well, Irene will be scandalized.
Ethel’s a wild flapper. She isn’t scandalized by anything. She’ll want to know every salacious detail. In fact, she’s already changing into an evening gown, slinky and short. “Come on girls, let’s get a wiggle on. My guy is going to take us to the new juice joint on Forty-ninth Street and he’s bringing friends.”
Irene rubs her toes. “They’d better be buying dinner and cocktails, because I’ve been on my feet all day and my dogs are barking.”
Ethel finishes changing, then purses her lips in front of the mirror, dabbing on lipstick to make a perfect cupid’s bow. “If we play our cards right, they’ll even take us to the Clara Cartwright movie afterwards. When are you gonna learn, Irene? Give ’em a few kisses and they’ll buy you whatever you want.”
Irene swats at Ethel in mock outrage, but even she can’t resist a Clara Cartwright film. In the movies, Miss Cartwright always plays girls like us, shopgirls and secretaries and factory workers, and boy does she do it with panache. We all love her. Ethel even stole a movie poster from the nickelodeon to hang on the back of the door.
“Should we check on Gertrude before we go?” Irene asks.
“Poor Gertie,” Ethel says with a sentimental sigh. “I guess there’s no use boohooing about it again. We’ll get her job back for her, won’t we, Sophie?”
“Mr. Aster seems willing to hear our grievances,” I admit, reluctant to tell them the price he put on that willingness. Even more reluctant to tell them I’m eager to pay. “And if he won’t, then we strike.”
Ethel puts the finishing touches on her lips, then glances at me. “Sophie, you’re not wearing that out, are you? You haven’t even powdered your nose!”
“You two go on without me. My nerves are shot and all I want is a hot bath.” It’s all true. Of course, there’s also the fact that if I undress in front of them, I won’t be able to hide—or explain—the lingerie.
“Oh, don’t be a flat tire!” Ethel cries. “There’ll be too many fellas without you.”
But Irene tugs on Ethel’s arm. “You know this one. If she wants to spend all night with a book instead of a boy, let her. One of us has to be smart enough to negotiate with fat cats and tycoons.”
When they’re gone, I cross the hall, slip into the lavatory and lock the door behind me. Removing my dress, I look at myself in the full-length mirror and bite my lip at the vision. I’ve never seen myself like this—not even in my own imagination. I like the sight of me in this suggestive lingerie. I really do. The fabric is so sheer I can see the dark pubic mound between my legs and the wide nipples of small, upturned breasts … and yet, I present a far more scandalous picture than if I were entirely naked.
I doubt reformers like Mrs. Sanger and Mrs. Garvey and other women I admire would be caught wearing such a thing. But wearing this makes my blood fizz in my veins like soda at the fountain …
A little stain of blood on the fabric reminds me of why.
Of what I am now.
A bad girl, that’s what.
I let a man undress me, pull me down to the floor, and make love to me—no, that’s not what he did. He fucked me with such little fanfare it might as well have been a handshake. He just did it. Hard and fast and seemingly without regard for my pleasure … even though it gave me quite a bit of pleasure after all.
And now he wants to spank me.
That’s all I can think about as I fill the tub with hot water and give myself a good soak, hoping none of the other boardinghouse tenants knocks to interrupt my bath.
He’ll want to spank me and then he’ll want to fuck me again. He’ll expect that he can do it any time he likes now. And what if he’s right?
The parish priest back home would call me a fallen woman. Mrs. Mortimer would say I’m ruined for marriage, not that I care about that. But she’d also say I’m one step away from working in the brothel. And that’s to say nothing of how I’ve disgraced the memory of the boy back home.
That does sting.
It’s perfectly humiliating to think about what I’ve done and even more humiliating to admit how much I want to do it again. So much so, that I can’t stop clenching my thighs together and touching myself in the bath.
I am ashamed, but I don’t think it’s going to stop me …
The next morning, Mrs. Mortimer’s pinched face is decidedly pale.
“Sophie, I’d like to apologize,” she says.
Never in all the time we’ve worked in the boutique has Mrs. Mortimer apologized for anything. But if this is a prank, she’s not in on it, for there’s not a tickle of mischief in that woman’s bones. I peek past her out the glass doors of the boutique into the luxurious lobby where white-gloved bellhops rush past with parcels and luggage. Even in the summer, the Aster Hotel is buzzing with ritzy guests, men dressed in straw Panama hats and three-piece linen suits, women in long strands of pearls and sleeveless pastel dresses designed by Coco Chanel. With ostrich feather fans in hand, they mingle on the red carpet beneath the murals and potted palms and none of them pays even a wee bit of attention to the dragon lady of the boutique humbling herself before me.
At Mrs. Mortimer’s apology, however, Ethel coughs from behind the perfume counter and Irene nearly stumbles off the ladder she’s climbed to retrieve a hatbox. I find myself quite speechless and when I don’t make a reply, Mrs. Mortimer clenches her teeth to say, “Mr. Aster has informed me that I had no business going through your belongings. It won’t happen again.”
So he’s bawled her out, then. I ought to find it gratifying, but it reminds me just how much power he has over everyone who works in this hotel, including me. “Thank you, Mrs. Mortimer. I appreciate the sentiment.”
Her spine rigid, she begins to walk away then stops. “I wouldn’t be too smug, Sophie. Mr. Aster assures me he’ll be taking private disciplinary action against you; it won’t help matters when he finds out that you have a suitor.”
Private disciplinary action. I swallow at this. And I worry, too, that maybe she’s peeked into my journal. Then I hear the rest of what she’s said. “A suitor?”
I see there’s a long-stemmed red rose clutched in her talons. She lays it on my counter. “So it seems. Someone sent this for you by messenger without a name or a card. Inform your uncouth suitor—whoever he is—that you’re not to receive gifts in the workplace; it’s gauche. It’s unacceptable. This isn’t a bordello, my girl. No matter how standards may have fallen lately, this is still the Aster Hotel.”
Irene nearly leaps to my defense, curiosity shining in her eyes. “A rose? Well, I think it’s sweet!”
“Diamonds are sweeter,” Ethel chirps.
“I’ll have no lip from you girls,” Mrs. Mortimer says in a tone of disapproval one normally reserves for criminals, bums, or lawyers. “Men in this city prey on young ladies and if you let your head be turned with gifts, you’ll be ruined like Gertrude.”
This is entirely too much for Ethel, who says, “We coulda clammed up about Gertie. Let her wear a ring on her finger and none would be the wiser.”
It Stings So Sweet Page 24