“And how were you sitting, my dear?” Mr. Brockington said excitedly. “Go sit over there.” There was a chair nearer to the bed but he pointed to a high-backed chair across the room. “Reenact the scene, my dear. Show me exactly what transpired in the classroom.”
Milan felt awkward as she walked over to the chair. At five feet, eight inches, pretending to be a little girl didn’t feel quite as comfortable while standing as it had while she sat on Mr. Brockington’s bed.
As daintily as she could manage, she eased herself into the chair. Getting into character, she sat primly with her hands placed on her lap, her back straight and her knees pressed together. After a few moments, Milan began to slowly part her legs. To keep the scene interesting, she improvised and began to stroke her inner thigh.
“Oh, you naughty, naughty little girl,” Mr. Brockington said with delighted mischief dancing in his eyes. “Were you actually touching yourself like that? Right there in the classroom?”
Milan concurred with a regretful nod. “But I didn’t mean to. I didn’t realize I was touching myself.”
“Do you always touch yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Just your thigh?”
She shook her head.
“What else do you touch, Milan? Remember, you can tell me anything.” Mr. Brockington’s voice quivered as he spoke.
“Sometimes I rub my secret place.”
“Show me your secret place, Milan.”
“I can’t—boys aren’t supposed to see it. And I really didn’t mean to touch myself in school. I only do it in bed at night…” She paused and bit her lower lip nervously. “It helps me fall asleep.”
Stimulated, Mr. Brockington’s breathing became labored and erratic. “Come and sit with me, Milan.”
After crossing the room again, she climbed back on the bed.
“You’re a bad girl; you provoked little Tommy What’s-his-name. It’s no wonder he couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“Are you going to punish me…Daddy?” she asked, testing to see how her employer reacted to his new title.
“I’d never punish you; you’re my darling little girl. Now, close your eyes, sweetheart. I have a surprise for you.”
“Okay, Daddy,” she squealed. Grinning, Milan squeezed her eyes tight as she waited for her surprise.
Noah Brockington took her hand in his and placed it on his private part. Milan jerked her hand away. “What is that? It’s so big and hard. Can I open my eyes?”
“Yes, go ahead and open your eyes, my dear.”
When Milan opened her eyes, Noah Brockington flung off the bed cover. Sticking through the slit in his pajama bottom was a very rigid, russet-colored penis.
Shocked, Milan covered her mouth, her eyes genuinely wide in amazement. She thought an erection like this was unheard of for someone terminally ill.
“I can scarcely believe this myself. It’s a miracle,” he said. “You’ve raised the dead.” He smiled as he reached for her hand. “Now, don’t keep me waiting. Touch it, dear girl, let’s see if it still works!”
Twenty minutes later, after being informed that she’d officially stolen his heart, she washed the sticky white fluid from her hands while Brockington emitted satisfied snores. Before pleasantly drifting off to sleep, he’d promised her nirvana and more.
chapter twelve
“Did you make out your shopping list?” Irma asked Milan the next morning as she prepared Mr. Brockington’s poached eggs and buttered pumpernickel bread.
“No, I didn’t,” Milan said snippily. She was comfortably garbed in a long bathrobe and soft terrycloth slippers.
Taken aback, Irma regarded her with an indignant sidelong glance. “Sounds like somebody got out of the bed on the wrong side this morning,” she retorted as she brushed past Milan. Carrying Mr. Brockington’s breakfast tray, Irma muttered discontentedly about having to carry the heavy tray and climb the long flight of stairs.
Briefly contemplative, Milan watched the overweight woman huff and puff as she ascended the stairs. Narrowing her eyes, Milan tilted her head and cradled her chin between her thumb and index fingers.
When Irma returned to the kitchen, Milan sat perched atop a stool in front of the island in the middle of the room. Hunched over the granite countertop, Milan wrote furiously on a piece of Brockington monogrammed stationary. Her hand moved rapidly across the page. Despite the thickness of the expensive stationery, the thuds of the pen hitting the paper in quick succession sounded like an explosion of small caliber bullets fired by a trigger-happy gunman.
Milan finished writing and sat up straight. “Here,” she said holding out the paper. “This is my list for today.”
“You must have lost your mind. Listen up, Milan. I don’t take my orders from Greer and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you start bossing me around,” Irma yelled, worked up to the point of erratic breathing. “You can forget about that little arrangement I was willing to share with you,” she said, waving an admonishing finger as she spoke.
“Are you finished?” Milan asked calmly.
Irma rolled her eyes, took a deep breath to collect herself, and began puttering around the kitchen. She ignored Milan’s presence as she tidied up the kitchen.
“You attempted to take advantage of me yesterday. In fact, it seemed like you were trying to pimp me.”
“I did nothing of the sort,” Irma protested. “How could you even attach a nasty word like that to a high-moral woman like me? You better take a look in the mirror before you start calling names; you’re the one doing unnatural things with that sickly man upstairs.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear your unkind remarks because Noah—”
“Noah!” Irma repeated, astonished that Milan had the audacity to refer to their employer by his given name.
“Yes, you heard me correctly,” Milan said, smirking. “I call your boss Noah. He enjoys those awful-looking poached eggs you make, so I guess I’ll have to suffer keeping you around. Now, get yourself together and go out and get my breakfast.” Milan held the paper at arm’s length and shook it tauntingly.
“The hell if I’m going to take orders from you,” Irma said, stubbornly.
Milan walked over to the kitchen intercom and pushed a button.
“Yes,” said Noah Brockington. The single word was spoken with a happy lilt.
“Noah,” said Milan, in a whining girlish voice. “I want you to speak to Irma. She’s being mean to me.”
“Send her up, my dear,” Mr. Brockington said. His voice was warm with affection.
Milan twisted toward Irma, folding her arms in front of her chest. Her eyes gleamed victoriously.
Looking stricken, Irma left the kitchen to climb the exhausting flight of stairs once again. After a few minutes, she huffed back down to the kitchen. Sighing, she ripped off a paper towel and wiped perspiration from her forehead. “Do you want me to pick up your groceries from Genuardi’s?” Irma’s lips stretched into an embarrassed grin.
“No, I prefer Whole Foods,” Milan said in a taunting sing-song manner, her tone very much like that of a petulant child. “Now, please hurry.” To speed the woman along, Milan clapped her hands twice. Looking shell-shocked, Irma grabbed her pocketbook and bustled off to do Milan’s bidding.
During Irma’s absence, the new nurse arrived with a clipboard and other medical documentation that concerned Noah Brockington. “Good morning, I’m Ruth Henry,” the woman said cordially.
“Milan,” she offered, deliberately leaving out her surname. Ruth Henry had dark hair mixed with gray. With her slightly stooped posture and what appeared to be the beginning of a very unattractive hump just below her neck, the woman had early signs of osteoporosis, Milan determined with lips pursed in condemnation. Aging was so unattractive and Milan believed it was a woman’s social responsibility to keep the process at bay. The beauty industry went to great lengths to keep women looking their best, and this woman, a nurse no less, hadn’t even bothered to take calc
ium supplements. Milan had no respect for Nurse Henry, she decided. “I’m in charge here, so please direct all inquiries to me,” Milan said, keeping her tone impassive.
She escorted the nurse to Mr. Brockington’s master suite. “Noah, this is Ruth Henry, your temporary nurse.”
“My dear, will you sit with me awhile? New nurses tend to be a bit rough.”
Ruth Henry’s cheerful expression instantly distorted. “I would never—”
Milan interrupted the nurse’s objection. “Noah, your nurse is here to help you, not hurt you. I want you to be cooperative,” Milan coaxed. “I’ll be in to see you in a few hours. Now, behave yourself.” With Noah’s sad yet adoring eyes trying to hold her captive, Milan turned and whisked out of the room.
The winds of fate had shifted in her favor. Though she was swathed in a fashionable, clearly adult robe, she had sense enough to put her hair in a ponytail, replete with a big girlish bow. She had a few more innovative ideas that were sure to have Noah eating out of the palm of her hand, and turning all his money and possessions over to her. Milan laughed wickedly at the thought of Greer’s reaction when she discovered she’d been disinherited.
But she had to work fast; Greer would be back in two weeks. A short time to accomplish a life-altering goal.
While the nurse tended to her charge and Irma puttered about doing much of nothing, Milan decided to go shopping for costumes. Greer had always used Mr. Brockington’s personal vehicle for running errands, and now Milan had the key to the old man’s vintage car as well as the key to his heart. But she thought the antique BMW was as old and ugly as Noah Brockington and she wouldn’t be caught dead inside the car. So she chose to drive her own year-old Nissan Altima to the nearby Suburban Square Shopping Center.
Undoubtedly, she would be replacing her moderately priced car very soon for something that screamed money. Her taste had suddenly shifted from the sleek European cars she once coveted and now veered toward the Hummer. It was a big, bad, and bodacious piece of machinery and absolutely appropriate for a gutsy woman such as she.
She arrived at ritzy Suburban Square armed with Mr. Brockington’s credit card. Milan yearned to explore and invade all the posh shops, especially Coach. The scent of leather shoes and handbags called her name. But she was forced to exercise restraint. There’d be plenty of time for pleasure shopping once she’d secured her position; her mission today was to pick up an assortment of girly items and accessories to add authenticity to her role of pubescent schoolgirl. She intended to throw herself fully into the character of Noah Brockington’s darling little girl.
The salesperson at a high-end little girls’ specialty shop greeted Milan with a sunny smile and offered her a trendy little shopping carrier. Milan immediately began to gather and toss heaps of satin hair bows, barrettes, and headbands adorned with silk rosettes into the carrier. A table filled with oodles of colorful panties with ruffles and frilly edges caught her attention. When she spotted a pair of white cotton panties with three rows of eyelet lace in the back and DADDY’S LITTLE GIRL embroidered in pink, Milan felt reassured that in a very short while, she’d be the sole beneficiary of all Noah Brockington’s worldly goods.
chapter thirteen
Milan burst through the front door loaded down with shopping bags, including two with the Coach logo. Unable to resist going inside Coach after completing her girly shopping, she’d bought a pebbled leather shoulder tote and a signature metallic outline large hobo.
Irma was in the kitchen thumbing through a food magazine. Clearly, the woman had too much down time.
“Take these to my room,” Milan instructed Irma. Then, remembering that she didn’t want Irma to have an opportunity to snoop through her bags, she gave her a scathing look and said, “Oh, never mind,” as she rushed toward the staircase. On her way up, she called over her shoulder, “I’ll have a baby spinach salad Niçoise with pan-seared halibut for lunch. Bring it to my room. On a tray. Hurry, I’m famished!”
Irma sucked her teeth.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that!” Milan yelled as she ascended.
When she reached the landing at the top of the stairs, she noticed Noah’s bedroom door was wide open. Damn! She’d hoped to creep past her aging paramour and slip into her own bedroom to gaze adoringly at her new purchases.
Begrudgingly, she stuck her head inside Noah’s bedroom and formed her mouth and facial expression into what appeared to be a caring smile. As instructed, Ruth Henry was reading Great Expectations to the patient. The nurse smiled back, closed the book, and nodded toward Noah, who was snoring softly.
“He’s taking a little snooze,” Ruth Henry said, her voice a cheerful whisper.
“Thanks for reading to him. He loves those awful classics,” Milan said, shaking her head and rolling her eyes as if offering condolences.
“Oh, it was my pleasure. I enjoyed reading Great Expectations, it’s one of my all-time favorites,” the nurse squealed, much too loudly, and hugged the tome to her chest.
Milan shot a quick look at Noah. “Be quiet,” she snarled at the nurse.
“Sorry.” Ruth Henry cast a cautious glance at Mr. Brockington who, thankfully, was still sleeping soundly. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just…,” the nurse stammered excitedly, “well, I’m such an avid reader and to have reading included in—”
“Whatever!” Holding up her hand, Milan wouldn’t let the nurse finish gushing about her love of reading. She eyed Ruth Henry disdainfully, shook her head, and without another word, continued walking past the room. What an idiot! Striding down the long hallway, she curved around the bend that led to the staff accommodations, which included her own bedroom. She was, after all, still just staff. But that didn’t bother her. She was glad to be far, far away from Noah’s perverted den.
She haphazardly dropped her purchases, closed the door, and hastily locked it. Spared from having to interact with her lustful benefactor, she let out a long sigh of relief. But the feeling was short-lived as Milan listened to her stomach growl. She pushed the intercom. “Is my lunch ready yet?” she asked irritably.
“A few more minutes,” Irma said, slowly and calmly. Too calmly. She was obviously monitoring her tone and refraining from sucking her teeth.
“How many freakin’ minutes? I’m famished.”
“Uh, I had to go through a stack of gourmet magazines to hunt down those recipes, but I found them. I’ll have everything ready in another thirty minutes or so.”
Milan bristled. Some caterer! Shouldn’t a real caterer have a collection of recipes committed to memory? “I thought you said just a few minutes,” Milan asked, agitated. “Since when does a half hour equal a few minutes?”
Irma responded by breathing into the intercom, then she stammered a half-hearted apology. Pissed off, Milan flopped down on the bed. Who knew how long it would take a woman who showcased her culinary skills with an assortment of soups and soggy eggs to put together an elegant meal? Milan hadn’t had any good food since…well, since she’d gotten the axe from Pure Paradise. Her face felt hot as she remembered her humiliating exit from the day spa. Unable to push the distressing thought from her mind, she began to feel tense and extremely angry. Needing a target to unleash her fury, Milan reached for the intercom, prepared to fire a barrage of insults at Irma, the so-called cook.
But struck by a better idea, she withdrew her pointed finger, hopped up and traipsed over to her lingerie drawer and rifled through wads of silk, satin, and other soft fabrics until her hand wrapped around the object of pleasure—her eighteen-karat-gold-plated vibrator. Now smiling, she slipped out of her clothing and under the coverlet. The next twenty minutes were a multi-orgasmic blur as she relieved her tension with the vibrator.
When Irma finally rapped on the bedroom door, Milan was in a tranquil post-orgasmic state. “Come in,” Milan said dreamily.
Irma entered the room. A scrumptious aroma that boasted Irma’s familiarity with gourmet cuisine wafted from the wicker bed tray she carried
.
Milan smiled delightedly and sat up straight. After shifting into a more comfortable position, she reached for the tray. At that moment the golden vibrator rolled from beneath the sheets and onto the coverlet.
Irma looked startled and then turned crimson. Clearly uncomfortable, her blinking eyes wandered everywhere except in the direction of the offensive rolling object. Milan glanced at it, then shrugged, totally unconcerned that her secret pleasure had been exposed. “Oh, this looks absolutely divine,” Milan said, digging a silver fork into the halibut and not even bothering to throw the coverlet over the usually bright gold vibrator, which was now dulled by the light film of her feminine juices.
“Will that be all?” Irma asked, not looking at the vile thing on the bed and instead taking a sudden interest in the pattern of the Persian rug.
Milan swallowed. “I’m impressed, Irma. You’re quite the chef when you have a recipe on hand and when you put your mind to it.” Milan paused, tasted the spinach salad. “Mmm. Tasty,” she exclaimed, then her expression darkened. “In the future, however, please don’t bring my meals on this…” she pursed her lips and looked scornfully down at the wicker tray, “this piece of wood,” she said with a dramatic shudder. “I’d like my meals delivered on a silver platter inside a covered dish.”
Irma nodded gravely.
“I expect the exact same services extended to Mr. Brockington. Capisce?”
Milan enjoyed how the tables had turned on Irma. Just a few days ago, the woman was trying to take advantage of her, pretending to have her best interests at heart when all the while she was trying to pimp her. Now, through a twist of fate, she had to cater to Milan and act as her servant. It was just incredible the way Milan’s life had improved.
“Will that be all, Milan?” Irma sounded appropriately chastised.
“Actually, no. I want the key to that trunk,” Milan boldly informed her.
A Bona Fide Gold Digger Page 8