Slow Surrender

by Cecilia Tan

  “One more thing?”

  “Yes. Walk around the block.”

  “Which direction?”

  “So that the car may follow you, of course. Go up to Sixth and turn left.”

  Of course. “Okay. I mean yes.”

  “Very good.”

  I started to walk. I was wearing a stained shirt, black jeans, and my clunky black work shoes, but I felt like I was in stilettos and a miniskirt. I was completely slippery down below, and I could feel his eyes on me as I walked.

  After midnight there weren’t a lot of people on Sixth Avenue, but in New York the streets are never completely empty. There were small crowds waiting for the bus, loitering, doing whatever the hell people do…None of them paying any attention to me, but the thought that they might look up, might wonder why my face was so red, why my steps were so slow…

  I turned the next corner heading back toward the Garden and could hear the engine hum as the car followed around the turn.

  Suddenly his voice was sharp. “No, don’t.” The car and I both stopped where we were. “Too many people in the street at the other end.” I heard him curse away from the phone and say something I couldn’t make out, possibly in some other language. He must have been talking to the limo driver.

  “It’s the crowd from the Lightning concert,” I said while I waited for him to tell me what to do. “New York is infested with roving gangs in platform glitter boots.”

  He chuckled nervously. “Indeed. Well, judging from the look of things in this direction, we won’t be getting through there.”

  “What should I do?”

  There was silence. I guess he was thinking about it.

  “Get in,” he finally said, and I heard the door unlock on the limo at the same moment his eyes disappeared from the window.

  I didn’t even hesitate. I didn’t think about how stupid it could be to get into a stranger’s car. I opened the door and slid onto the seat. I could still feel his warmth.

  He had moved to the other side of the car. The compartment was spacious and he seemed too far away.

  “Give your address to the driver,” he said.

  The driver was a young man in an actual chauffeur’s uniform and hat. Brown curls escaped from the hat. He said nothing, waiting for me to speak. I rattled off my building’s address, and then the window between the front and back seats closed, the black plate glass sliding slowly across like an eclipse.

  I turned toward my companion. He brushed his hand over his hair, as if he was used to having it much longer and was surprised to find it cut short. He exhaled a shaky breath as the driver made an illegal U-turn, then pulled out of the street the wrong way.

  “I apologize for my error in judgment,” he said, a bit of a quaver in his voice. “I would’ve liked to watch you walk the entire block very much.”

  “Yes, well,” I said, because I felt I had to say something, “that’s New York. Never know when you’re going to hit traffic.”

  My lame joke seemed to make him relax. “Now, about that orgasm,” he said, as casually as if we were discussing the weather. “You must come before we reach your home.”

  I swallowed, almost said “okay,” then remembered, and said, “Yes. Same rules as before?”

  “Yes,” he answered, a catlike smile settling on his face.

  Okay, so no reaching into my jeans, but I could still pull on my soaked panties that held the marble. The sensation was nothing like what I was used to and I wondered how long could it take.

  I slid down in the seat a little and spread my legs, unbuttoning the bottom few buttons of my untucked shirt and getting a grip on the edge of the waistband of my panties.

  I pulled slowly this time, rocking my hips as I did it so that the marble went up and down over my clit. I shivered. It wasn’t hard to imagine his finger, or something else, touching me there, given the smoldering way he was looking at me.

  I couldn’t look away. Even in the dim interior of the limo, his eyes were intense. He sat perfectly still, his spine straight and his head held high.

  I doubt I had ever been so aroused in my entire life. My skin tingled all over even though I was clothed, causing me to speed up my movements.

  The limo sped down Broadway, I think, and for once I wished for traffic. Although my climax was close, my arousal seemed to have leveled off. I tugged harder on my underwear, then reached down and rubbed myself on the outside of my jeans, but there was no way that was going to work.

  Then the marble slipped out of place and fell somewhere around my tailbone. I cried out in dismay.

  Wait, maybe that was a good thing. The roughness of my wet panties seemed to help, but again I went up and up and then stuck on the edge of coming, but not going over the edge. I made a helpless noise, whimpering, then moaning with need.

  His tongue darted out to moisten his lips briefly, but he said nothing, watching my plight.

  “What…what happens if I don’t ‘get there’ before we get there?” I asked.

  He shook his head slowly. “You can do it,” he murmured.

  “I’m not sure I can! I…ungh.” I tried again, rubbing from outside as well as tugging on my panties.

  “You can,” he said firmly. “I’ll be very disappointed if you don’t.”

  “So will I!” I wailed.

  I looked frantically out the window and saw we had only a few blocks to go. Damn it!

  “Please,” I begged. “Please…” But I didn’t want to actually beg for a change of the rules.

  “You can do it,” he said again, leaning forward now and clasping his hands. “You can. Relax.”

  There was no way to relax, riding in this car, with this man, not allowed to touch myself with my fingers and with maybe only a minute or two left before I ran out of time. I was crying out now from the intensity of the stimulation, but I still wasn’t coming.

  And he knew it. “Almost there. Do it for me, Karina.”

  I bucked my hips frantically.

  He moved next to me, and I caught that scent of him, so spicy and sweet at the same time. He didn’t touch me, but he leaned closer so that I could feel the warmth of his breath in my ear.

  He whispered one command. “Come.”

  And I did. I screamed hard and loud as I finally went over the edge. I was falling, soaring, speeding, all at once, my body spasming as I came. One knee knocked against the door and I writhed at the waves of release washing through me.

  Normal awareness returned bit by bit. His masculine scent first. Then hearing, the roughness of my panting, and the silence that seemed odd after all the noise I’d been making.

  Then I realized I was lying on my side with my face in his lap. What was under my cheek? That was not a baseball bat, though it felt like one. He was intensely hard just from watching me, listening to me?

  I sat up abruptly and felt dizzy, blinking. He was looking at me as intently as before but made no move. I wondered if he was going to ask me to suck him off now. That was what guys in cars wanted, wasn’t it? This was the moment when he’d become like every other horny guy who met a waitress in a bar and ask me to give him head.

  Except he didn’t. “Are you all right?” he asked, his words very careful, very precise.

  I nodded. “Think so.”

  “Good. Is this your building?”

  I looked through the tinted window. “Yes.”

  His tone was oddly cordial, warm. “If you think you can stand, you may go. I’ll wait here until you are safely inside.”

  I was surprised and I’m sure it showed on my face.

  He smiled a benevolent smile. “You did well. I’m pleased.”

  I nodded. I would have asked, “Are you sure you don’t want something?” except the way he said he was pleased, it felt like I would be contradicting him. I got the feeling he wouldn’t like being contradicted. I didn’t want him to pull away emotionally yet, so I said, “Does that mean I get another wish?”

  His smile turned into a grin. “Yes. Yes, it
does.”

  Don’t think that in the throes of passion I didn’t notice that he’d used my name, my real name. He must have some special kind of caller ID, I thought. “I wish I knew what to call you,” I said.

  That made him laugh. “You are a delight,” he said, but did not introduce himself.

  “Well, don’t you think that’s fair?” I asked. “This is a game, right? And games should be fair. You know my name”—and where I live—“but I don’t know yours.”

  His smile was indulgent, but his answer wasn’t. “You didn’t wish for my name. You wished you knew what to call me.”

  “Um…” I supposed that was true.

  “You’ll know what to call me when it comes to you,” he said. “If we play again.”

  “If I call you, will we?”

  “Yes.” He paused a moment, looking away, then back at me. “When do you think you’d be most likely to call?”

  “Honestly? The way I’m feeling right now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to resist calling you the minute I get upstairs.”

  He laughed, delighted. “Thank you so much for brightening up an otherwise maudlin evening for me, Karina. How about this? Call me on Friday, at seven p.m. sharp. If you’re late, I won’t answer.”

  “I won’t be late,” I promised.

  Had we made a date? I wasn’t sure, like I wasn’t sure if we’d had sex or not. I mean, he hadn’t even touched me. I hadn’t even touched myself…well, not skin-to-skin contact. I had no idea what to call what had happened.

  I opened the door of the car, but with one foot on the curb I paused and asked, “What about the marble?” The marble he’d kept in a ring box in his jacket pocket.

  He thought a moment before saying, “It is as special as you are. Keep it as a token of my affection.”

  So I did.

  Three: Where Things Are Hollow

  In the light of morning, my mystery man might as well have been a prince of Elfland in a pumpkin carriage. That was how unreal it seemed. Stuff like that didn’t happen to people. Or at least it didn’t happen to me. I know they say the city is full of stories and strange things, but it hadn’t been a fairy-tale city in my experience. It was just a place to live, a place to work, a place to study along with eight million other people, including one very pissed off thesis advisor.

  I rolled out of bed at 7:30 a.m. I brushed out my hair, but I’d gone to sleep with it wet, collapsing into bed practically the minute I was out of the shower. So it was hopeless-looking unless I was going to wash it again. But there was no time for that if I was going to get to Renault’s by eight. I stuck a baseball cap on top of it, threw on some clothes, grabbed a granola bar, and hurried out.

  I ate while I walked. The streets were crowded at this time of day with tons of people trying to get to work. At least it wasn’t raining. The walk across town took about twenty minutes. There was no convenient way to travel by public transportation, so I hoofed it.

  I rang his doorbell at five after eight.

  Professor Renault yanked the door to his brownstone wide open. I guess he was still pissed off. He was a skinny man, with a pinched-looking face even at the best of times. “Take your shoes off,” he barked. “Come into my office.”

  He stalked to the back of the house while I untied my sneakers and put them onto the rack of other shoes by the door.

  I found him sitting at his desk in his cluttered home office, his back to the window that overlooked a small patio. His hands were folded on the desk blotter and he had a very stern look on his face.

  There was no chair for me, so I stood there on his oriental-style rug in my socks, wondering which one of us was going to speak first.

  I figured it should be me. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. My sister is the manager of that bar, and she begged me to work for her. I didn’t think it would be a big deal to reschedule the meeting with you.”

  He moved his mouth like he was sucking on something sour. “Your petty family problems are not my concern.”

  “I know, which is why I didn’t bother to tell you about it last night.”

  “Instead you lied, creating an elaborate fabrication. This is unacceptable behavior for a grown woman.” He looked me up and down, as if jeans, a sweatshirt, and baseball cap were also not acceptable in his eyes.

  I couldn’t really argue with him, though. I had lied, and had gotten caught. What I didn’t know was what to do about it.

  Then he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a folder. He laid it on the desk and opened it, and I could see the title of my thesis on the first page in large letters. It was the printout of the latest draft I’d given him to read. The thing we were supposed to talk about last night. I relaxed a little, thinking the lecture and scolding portion of the meeting was over and that now we’d talk about the actual work. When it came down to it, I didn’t give a damn what Professor Theobald Renault thought about me as a woman. His job was to judge me as a scholar.

  He picked up the pages by the corner, as if he didn’t want to handle them any more than necessary. He moved it to the side, until he was holding it over a round wastebasket.

  “What are you doing?”

  He let the pages drop into the trash. “You are not fit to graduate.”

  “Are you kidding me? Nobody knows more about pre-Raphaelite art in the city than me!”

  “Is that so? And what were you planning to do with your degree anyway, Karina? Why are you here? Don’t tell me the pre-Raphaelites are your burning passion in life.”

  I shifted from foot to foot on the carpet. “I like the pre-Raphaelites,” I said, but it sounded weak. Very weak. The truth was I had only gone to graduate school because I hadn’t figured out what to do with myself otherwise. I’d qualified for the loans, so I figured why not? It would give me time to figure things out, I’d thought. But I’d pursued my studies so single-mindedly, even my hobbies had been neglected. I didn’t know what was next for me after graduation, but that made it all the more important, in my mind, to get the degree and get going. My previous advisor hadn’t really cared one way or the other what I did, but his failing health had forced him to retire suddenly. That was how I ended up with hard-nosed Renault. “Did you even read it?”

  He didn’t answer. He exhaled slowly through his nose. “You should’ve dressed better. You’re supposed to be trying to impress me. You’re supposed to be making me think you’re not a total fuck-up.”

  “This is about my clothes? If you wanted me to look like I didn’t just roll out of bed, don’t make meetings at eight o’clock in the morning!”

  “You dress like a lesbian. Do you want people to think you’re a lesbian?”

  “What?” I wasn’t a lesbian, but I failed to see how that could be relevant. “Are lesbians not allowed to graduate?”

  “Every advisor has his own standards that must be met,” he continued. “Mine are a bit more stringent than your previous advisor’s.”

  “What is this really about, Professor?”

  “I take my job as a mentor to you women students very seriously. It says right in the university handbook that judging a student’s readiness to participate and compete in the world outside the university is my job and that I shouldn’t allow any student to pass who is not ready.” He looked around the office, for what, I didn’t know. His face became increasingly red, as if I was embarrassing him. “You have not shown the proper accommodation to the situation.”

  “Proper accommodation? Would my apology have been stronger if I’d gotten my hair done and dressed up?”

  “Yes, very much so,” he said, clearing his throat. “A floral skirt would have been best and would have signaled your receptivity. You have utterly failed to mitigate the situation. You are a disappointment.”

  “So…I was supposed to dress up in a completely fake manner to prove that my apology was sincere? That makes no sense.”

  “Certain things are going to be…” He cleared his throat. “Certain things are pleasing, and if y
ou showed proper deference and receptivity, we could put your egregious lapse behind us.”

  “Speak plain English, Professor. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Which only proves my point.” He sighed and shook his head sadly. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

  “Yes, damn it, I apparently lost track of this conversation a long time ago. Do you want me to rewrite the thesis or what?”

  He shook his head again. “No rewriting will be necessary, if you will simply…bow to the needs of the situation.”

  Maybe it was the way he said “needs” that suddenly clued me in. Receptivity. A floral skirt would be “pleasing.” He had wanted me to make myself pretty for him. His face was red and he was shifting uncomfortably in his chair. My eyes were probably as wide and round as my mouth when I said, “Oh.”

  He sighed in relief as if thinking, The idiot finally understands! and then unbuckled his belt.

  I froze where I was. He stood to let his trousers drop, but thankfully the tails of his shirt hid whatever he had under there. The sound of the loose change in his pocket jingling when it hit the floor shook me out of my paralysis.

  “You’re crazy,” I said.

  “Come now, don’t be difficult,” he insisted as he sat back down in the chair and waved his hand at his lap like a waiter showcasing a meal. “This is the way the world works, Miss Casper. Using your mouth will incur no risk of pregnancy and it will be but fifteen minutes of your time at the most. Is it worth it to throw away years of work by refusing to do this one thing?”

  “You’re seriously saying if I suck your dick you’ll pass me, and if I don’t you’ll fail me? Did you even read my dissertation?”

  He waved his hand as if dispelling a bad smell. “It doesn’t matter.” Then he gestured to his lap again. “Oral sex is not only much safer for you, but it is also more satisfying for a man my age. There is a pillow on the bookshelf for your knees.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” I said, looking in horror at the embroidered pillow jammed into the bookshelf right next to him. “Completely and utterly out of your mind.” With that I turned and practically ran to the front door. I grabbed my shoes and bolted out, right onto the sidewalk, and didn’t stop until I had rounded the corner in front of the Korean grocer.