Silver Lining

by Diana Simmonds

  Carmel turned and the smile on her face told Amanda she knew she was being observed and admired. To her chagrin Amanda felt a blush rise up her throat and she placed a hand over it, wishing she had worn something beneath the black and silver pinstripe of her new Armani Privé jacket.

  “Like what you see?” Carmel asked, and it was obvious she was not referring to the work environment.

  Nevertheless Amanda chose to look about and nodded. “Very much,” she said.

  Carmel sat on the couch and patted the space beside her; again Amanda obediently sat where she was told. It was a weird sensation, as if she were a very insignificant rabbit trapped in the gaze of a very important and strangely appealing predator. What an odd analogy, was the last thought that crossed her mind the moment before Carmel took the glass from her hand and kissed her once more.

  “I hope you’re not one of those prim types,” Carmel whispered as her whisky-flavored tongue caressed the inner softness of Amanda’s lips.

  “I’ve never been called prim,” Amanda muttered and slid her hands down Carmel’s arms to her breasts. They were heavy in her palms and she pressed into them as her seducer’s body began a slow, rhythmic undulation against her own.

  “I suppose there’s no chance we’ll be walked in on?” Amanda whispered as her pelvis began to move of its own volition in time with the soughing black silk.

  “None whatsoever,” said Carmel crisply. She unbuttoned Amanda’s jacket without further ceremony and pinched her nipples hard through the frivolous rose pink satin bra that Amanda had not expected to be revealed in such circumstances. Amanda gasped and squirmed, her eyes instantly dark and flaring at the audacity of the move.

  “Ah,” murmured Carmel. “The kitten awakes. Now let me stroke you, sweet cat.” She unclipped the buckle of Amanda’s crocodile belt and slipped cool fingers inside the waistband of her cream cashmere Armani pants. Long nails scored Amanda’s belly and the internal fluttering began to cause her breath to come fast and shallow. She reached for Carmel but her hand was rebuffed. “I do the petting,” said Carmel in a voice Amanda barely recognized. “Lie back and let me look at you.”

  For a split second Amanda’s mind was filled with vague alarm and thoughts of What the hell have I got myself into? Then she remembered her surroundings and who she was with and decided to go along for the ride. Bemused, yet aroused, she hitched herself up on her elbows and watched Carmel’s practiced fingers flip the button and slide the zipper of her pants. The outfit was one she had coveted as soon as she’d seen it on Cate Blanchett when she got her Hollywood Boulevard star: it was elegant, understated and old-style glamorous.

  Carmel didn’t appear to be particularly appreciative of the clothes, however. She tugged the pants down around Amanda’s ankles while her tongue, lips and teeth avidly sucked, nibbled and licked at Amanda’s smooth belly. Then she slid lower to the fine, almost invisible streak of white blond down that pointed the way to the two-shades-darker curls of pubic hair. Her breasts snuggled Amanda’s thigh and the soft warmth of them was intoxicating on Amanda’s flesh. To her consternation Carmel slid off the couch and knelt before her, tugging away the already wet crotch of pale pink satin boxers, pushing Amanda’s legs wide apart and plunging her face into the wetness, her fingers parting the damp-darkened hair until she found what she was seeking. “Oh there you are sweet puss cat,” Carmel whispered. Her tongue slipped in and out and around Amanda’s throbbing clitoris. “Let me stroke you, pretty kitten,” she murmured and her fingers joined her tongue until Amanda heard her own moans of delight sounding loud in the silent room. It was surprisingly sensual to watch what was happening, her own belly muscles twitching, her own legs spread far apart, thigh muscles flexing as she involuntarily pushed herself harder into Carmel’s darting tongue and all-consuming mouth; and Carmel’s sleek dark hair that rhythmically caressed Amanda’s tingling thighs. The feeling was sensational but the circumstances were strange. Amanda was uncomfortable about being “serviced” so efficiently even as she watched and distantly appreciated the peculiar erotic charge.

  “Let me touch you,” she gasped between thrusts of Carmel’s tongue and fingers. But she was ignored, and instead, to her amazement, Amanda saw Carmel’s free hand reach up beneath the short black skirt and begin a furious assault on herself. “Hey, let me,” Amanda said, but Carmel was oblivious and Amanda flopped back on the couch, closed her eyes and wondered at the freaky situation in which she found herself. The rising sensations of approaching orgasm were coursing through her body, yet her heart was untouched although beating fast. As her mind registered excitement, she was distantly aware of being ferociously turned on.

  This is what it’s like to be a guy, she thought as her pelvis moved convulsively with a life of its own. An impulse flashed into her mind, she lifted herself back up onto one elbow, reached down and thrust her fingers hard through Carmel’s hair, gripping the dark head tight, holding and moving the open mouth and probing lips until they were in just the right spot. She was rewarded by a stifled moan of delight and ever more frantic masturbation by her elegant assailant as she feverishly sucked on Amanda’s flesh.

  “Talk to me.” Carmel’s words were muffled but urgent.

  In a voice she barely recognized Amanda whispered roughly, “Fuck me hard. Suck me and don’t stop.” Carmel groaned and began to lift her head. Amanda kept her hand on the smooth hair and forced it down. “And stay on your knees. You hear me?” she ordered and was rewarded by another long, delighted moan from Carmel and the talented mouth obeyed Amanda’s command. “That’s it, oh yes, that’s it. You are good!” Amanda whispered and kept her fingers firmly laced through Carmel’s hair guiding the willing lips and tongue as her own belly began to flutter in unstoppable waves of orgasm. “Harder! Faster!” Carmel obeyed and Amanda groaned and spread her knees even wider to take the ramming tongue and fingers in equal measures of pleasure and pain. Finally, almost in self-defense, she cried out, “Don’t stop. I’m coming, I’m coming,” and was rewarded by Carmel’s answering growl of delight; then Amanda gave up all pretense of mutual satisfaction and fell back on the soft leather couch, allowing herself to experience the final thrusts of tongue and fingers and rolling waves of orgasm in one of the most one-sided but perversely pleasurable events of her sex life.

  Amanda lay still for a moment, eyes closed and heartbeat racing, her mind frantically processing the last few minutes. Where in hell does this put me? What have I done? Am I a complete fool or what? She wondered about the probably disastrous minefield of company politics into which she had so blithely gone skipping. Carmel had risen to her feet in a swish of perfume and, without a word, disappeared into what had to be a private bathroom. Amanda quickly got to her feet on shaky legs, adjusted her sodden underwear as best she could and pulled up her trousers. She felt silly and defenseless, with her clothing in disarray, amid a strong sensation of having been used—rather than the other way around. It was weird and disconcerting, although thrilling too, she had to admit. What am I going to tell Natalie? The thought shot through her mind as she buttoned her jacket with shaking fingers; but the answer formed and came back to her just as quickly: Don’t be an idiot. She wouldn’t believe you anyway. And she’d just want to make a film of it.

  A glimmer of doubt waved at the far reaches of her consciousness, but Amanda refused it entry and, by the time Carmel reappeared, she was looking almost as slick as before. She had run her fingers through her pixie-cut blond hair to restore the expensive windswept look. Her jacket was correctly buttoned and her belt was once again cinched at the right notch. All was in place. For her part, Carmel looked as if she had just left a beauty salon. Her makeup immaculate, hair and dress likewise, even though Amanda now knew she was a Basic Instinct kind of a woman.

  “Feeling good?” Carmel chirped brightly. “That was fun.”

  Amanda nodded and managed to croak, “Great, just great.” Then she added, “I feel like I should have given you a good time too though, Carmel.” />
  Carmel looked at her, head tilted, a quizzical smile on her face. “You? Sweet puss cat, you did give me a good time. I loved it.” She stroked Amanda’s cheek. “Don’t get the wrong idea little one. I’m not a lesbian. I’m happily married. I just like having fun with a gorgeous chickadee occasionally.” She beamed a scarlet smile at Amanda, picked up her tumbler of somewhat diluted scotch and handed a dumbfounded Amanda the martini glass. “Now let’s get back to the party before someone gets any funny ideas. And this is our delicious secret, yes?”

  And so it was. On the way home that night Amanda rationalized that telling Natalie would achieve nothing, or worse: she would want to talk about it and storyboard it until the cows came home. When she entered the apartment she discovered Natalie was still out and a scribbled message propped on the hall table said simply “Don’t wait up.” It meant the bathroom was free for a long shower that dealt with all possible evidence of Carmel’s perfume; and that further cemented Amanda’s resolve.

  Next morning, walking onto the main floor at eFrères to whispered tales of misdeeds and thick heads, she simply smiled and laughed with her colleagues, but being both the relatively new girl on the block and extremely ambitious, there was absolutely no one that Amanda would have dreamed of telling. And, as the weeks and months went by and she settled into the culture of the company, the encounter with Carmel became something that almost vanished into hazy disbelief. Then, months later in midsummer when Amanda knew for sure that Godfrey Nielsen must be at his estate in the Hamptons, she was summoned to his office and instead it had been Carmel who was there to break the news of Amanda’s six-figure bonus. Carmel had also rewarded her favorite highflier with another of her own special ten-minute gifts. And all the while her breezy attitude toward Amanda remained unchanged except during those minutes when she was on her knees being ordered about by the junior vice president. Otherwise, she was always professional, friendly and disengaged in a way that made it surreal for Amanda to watch Carmel—wet-faced, tousled and wild-eyed—as she knelt between Amanda’s uncontrollably trembling legs, turning her insides to liquid fire.

  Chapter Three

  A ping from her computer drew Amanda’s attention away from the chilly morning beyond her window. Last Christmas and summer felt like long ago and the world was turning even colder as Wall Street seemed to be entering its own ice age. The inbox notification showed a new e-mail from “DarlingM”; she clicked on it and read the single line: “How are you this morning? Okay?” Malcolm must be psychic, she thought as she clicked on “reply.” But she couldn’t think what to say at this particular moment, so she deleted the empty message space and sat back.

  She was known as a cool, unflappable operator even when things were going pear-shaped—as inevitably happened from time to time in the wonderful world of derivatives. Nevertheless, her hands were trembling and she was glad of a distraction. She tapped a once-folded, cream-colored sheet of heavy notepaper on her mouse pad. She leaned back in her chair and the leather creaked and sighed as it obligingly tilted even further. She closed her eyes; not only were her legs doing the trembling thing but her stomach was in a knot. The one-line note from the Grand Fromage of the division, as he was known in eFrères-patois, was unlikely to be good news.

  The note said simply, “Amanda—see me asap—Dennis.” It had been waiting on her desk when she arrived at 7:05 and instinctively she had done exactly as requested. Or ordered, whichever it was. It seemed the same because he was the kind of guy that actually said “Asap” as if it were cool and authoritative and not momentarily fashionable executive-speak. Now, at 7:25, she was back at her desk and gazing out the window. In truth, however, she was actually taking in little of the view. Her mind and body were numb. It was almost as if her blood had turned to some cold, alien substance and was barely circulating through her veins.

  Weeks had passed since sharing the ride up in the elevator with Marise. Weeks during which the world they knew had been turned upside down and shaken harder than even the wiliest survivors of the financial catastrophes of last century could recall. Around the world and across the country, banks were collapsing, mortgage providers were sinking, investment values were plummeting, homes were being seized and their bewildered occupants evicted. Millions of jobs were disappearing and, overnight, virtually everyone in the English-speaking world had heard of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, even if they still had no real idea who they were. For Amanda, every bold and brilliant action taken over the past couple of years—which had been lauded and applauded at the time—seemed now to have always been obvious and egregious errors for which she was somehow solely responsible. She was no longer a heroine; and in the cold unforgiving light of global scrutiny where they had once strutted confidently, her fellow heroes and heroines were all scurrying for cover.

  The working day was not the same either. Emergency meetings had become the norm, as had ashen, harried faces. High-ranking executives who had proudly clocked up sixty and seventy hours were now dragging themselves to their desks ever earlier and leaving them, reluctantly, even later. Amanda was exhausted and bewildered. Her so recently envied Midas touch appeared now to have turned toxic; and she wasn’t alone. Throughout the building and along the street very smart men and women just like her were experiencing the dawning of another reality, and it was not a golden one. For the first time in their working lives they were neither in control nor on top and none of their tricks and trade secrets were working anymore.

  That morning Amanda had awoken even earlier than usual. Beyond the drapes it was still as dark as a Manhattan night could ever be. She lay quietly, listening to Natalie’s steady breathing and the sounds of the city. Although she had barely risen into consciousness, Amanda’s mind was already racing and her heartbeat was uncomfortably fast. The minute her eyes opened the thought appeared out of nowhere—that the roller coaster on which she had been riding upward for six thrilling years was now on a downward plunge that showed no signs of bottoming out. The only thing that kept her from panicking like so many of her colleagues was that history showed what goes around comes around and there had to be an end in sight. Didn’t there?

  Amanda had been seen as a bit of a dork for taking history as one of her major subjects. It was not a fashionable choice; but the past and its recurring events had always fascinated her. Right now, it was also oddly comforting to understand—even vaguely—that she was not alone in her bemusement and fear and that she at least had a sense of the inevitability of the plummeting fortunes all around her—and the inevitability of those fortunes rising again, soon. But Amanda had also written a thesis on the Crash of 1929 and that meant she had no illusions about how soon the lines on the graphs might stop sinking and begin an upward climb once more. It probably wouldn’t be next week, but certainly by Christmas. She swallowed on the knot of fear that swelled in her throat. Natalie stirred and stretched. Amanda closed her eyes and steadied her own breathing; she didn’t feel like talking about this just yet, if ever. She had no answers—barely had any sensible questions, if she were honest—and Natalie’s insatiable curiosity for gossip was wearing thin at this particularly unnerving time.

  “I know you’re awake,” Natalie said and slid her arm across Amanda’s belly. “What are you thinking about?”

  Amanda shifted slightly and stretched. “Nothing much, just staring into space wondering what it’s all about.”

  “You and a million others. What are you up to today?”

  “Trying to hang on to my job, I think.”

  “As if, babe, as if. You’re a star; it’ll be cool.” And Natalie had given Amanda’s leg a squeeze before she slipped back to deep untroubled sleep. And Amanda lay still and alone and tried to avoid further consideration of what the day might bring.

  * * *

  Now, just a few hours on, here she was, flipping the heavy cream paper of Dennis’s briefer than brief note round and around between clumsy fingers. Amanda had taken the note with her when she answered its peremptory summons a
nd continued to hold it as Dennis tried hard to look her in the eyes while telling her that although he personally was really, really sorry, they were going to have to let her go.

  It was such a mundane, overused and dishonest phrase, Amanda thought as her stomach turned cold as ice.

  “Let me go,” she murmured, straight away picturing a heavy ball and chain at her ankle from which she would—today—be liberated. “That’s nice.” It was an unusual response she realized, and she smiled at a plainly surprised Dennis.

  He cleared his throat and tugged at the knot of his tie, stared at his blotter and then swallowed, audibly, before saying in a hoarse voice, “So, you’re okay about this, Amanda? Not going to throw a hissy fit or anything?”

  Amanda was irritated somewhere toward the front of her mind. Aside from the inappropriate use of the frivolous term when he’d just told one of the company’s hitherto most valuable assets that she was being dumped overboard, she was not the hissy fit type and he of all people should know that. But maybe it was he who was the more uncomfortable of the two and his words were evidence of it.

  “Me? I don’t think so, Dennis. Not my style.” She smiled down at him; the corner of his left eye began to twitch. “How awful for you to have to do this, Dennis. I thought there were special guys called in to perform the executions.”

  Dennis’s grin was less a twitch and more a spasm; he shifted his pen on the blotter and Amanda saw that his hands were trembling.

  “Oh no! Godfrey wanted it to be done the eFrères way. You know—the personal touch.” He tried grinning some more but it didn’t really work.

  “How sweet,” Amanda said softly. “I guess the Lehman’s people felt so much worse than I do.” She squared her shoulders. “How long have I got to get out of here?” She asked, thinking of the scenes on the TV news of executives being frog-marched from buildings on ten minutes’ notice, carrying containers of pathetic belongings.