Naughty Nelle

by L'Amour, Nelle

  She gave me a hug, her taut, toned body pressing into mine. She’d texted me earlier in the day that she would be here at Penn Station at this time, after spending the day in a Long Island court dealing with a nasty divorce case. We’d agreed to meet up for drinks.

  “You look amazing,” I breathed into her ear. “I want to introduce you to—”

  I flipped around and she was gone. My eyes darted around the crowded station. She was nowhere in sight. Shit. Sarah was gone. Fucking gone. Why some bizarre girl I hardly knew made my heart beat into a tailspin, I could not explain. I just knew I had to see her again. And I wanted to see her soon.

  “Gwen, can I take a rain check?”

  “Sure. What’s going on?”

  My mind raced. “Is Dawn still at Bergdorf’s?”

  With a puzzled look, she assured me nothing had changed on the sixth floor of the venerable department store and gave me all the info I needed. Her sharp inquiring mind, however, wanted to know why I urgently needed a women’s clothing personal shopper.

  “I forgot it’s Miss Thatcher’s birthday tomorrow and I need to get her something fast.” Miss Thatcher was my prim and proper spinster secretary, who’d likely never been laid in her life.

  Suspicious Gwen cocked an eyebrow. I cocked back a smile. “Honestly.”

  With her eyes and ears on me, I pulled out my cell phone and made a call.

  “Since when is Miss Thatcher into Marc Jacobs and wearing a size six?” she asked after I ended the call.

  “She lost a lot of weight and is changing her style.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, she wants to expand her horizons. And meet a hot guy.”

  Gwen shot me another wry look and then told me she was looking forward to tomorrow night.

  All was looking good.

  Fuck the Black Eyed Peas.

  My girl toy filled my head. If I had my way, and I would, she would be playing with me tonight. It was going to be a good, good night.

  CHAPTER 8

  Sarah

  Fuck him.

  Remorse giving way to rage, I decided to walk home from Penn Station. The furnished apartment I was subletting on West Forty-Fifth Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues on the edge of the theater district was not far. Besides, it was a warm May night, and I needed the air to clear my head. Unfortunately, the intense throbbing between my inner thigh area kept me in a fog. Ari’s beautiful face filled my mind while his beautiful dick filled every other part of me. And then the image of that stunning redhead made it all go away faster than losing my virginity. The reality that I was no longer “the twenty-five-year-old virgin,” as Lauren sarcastically called me, made me shudder with disbelief. It had to happen sometime, but now I wished it hadn’t happened with that Adonis. Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. The asshole didn’t even thank me for fucking his brains out. But I was the idiot for letting him seduce me. Now I hated myself for succumbing so readily to his selfish, lustful assault.

  I got to my brownstone in no time. Mounting the five-step landing that led to the front door, I dug deep into my large bag in search of my keys and sighed with relief when I found them. Had it not been for Trainman, I would have had no bag or keys. For all I know, that kid, having access to my identity and address, might have vandalized my apartment and wiped out everything. And if I happened to be home at the time, who knows what else might have happened. I trembled thinking about the possibilities.

  I jiggled the front door key into the tricky deadbolt lock. It was a royal pain in the butt to get it to unlock, but one could never be too safe in this big city, especially in my neighborhood, which was still considered a little seedy.

  Once inside, I used a tiny key attached to the chain to open one of three tarnished mailboxes lining the chipped walls of the dingy entryway. Two other tenants lived in the building—Mrs. Blumberg, on the second floor, a retired Broadway actress, who always had a story to tell me about her song and dance days and was convinced she was related to the city’s former mayor, and Mr. Costanzo, on the ground floor, who owned a nearby pizzeria. They were both always trying to feed me. My apartment, identical to theirs, was located on the third floor.

  I reached my hand into the narrow metal box and grabbed the pile of mail. Bills. Bills. And more bills. And a letter from the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. I would deal with all of them later. Right now, I had to hurry and get myself ready for the Black Eyed Peas concert in Central Park. Perhaps some good music and food would get my mind off my sick mother and the sick feeling I had about being used by that asshole on the train.

  Usually the trek up the steep three flights of stairs was effortless for me, but this evening it was challenging. I was worn out, my insides torn, both physically and emotionally. As I mounted each step, the image of my mother, wan and frail, life ebbing out of her, alternated with the image of Ari, tan and fit, putting life into me. I could still feel his hot pulsing cock deep inside me. I wanted the memory to go away and move on. Liar. I wanted more of him.

  Breathing heavily, I unlocked my apartment door after several attempts. Jo-Jo, short for Josephine, the sweet black cat I was caring for, immediately brushed up against my ankles and meowed. Her true owner, a flamboyant, singing-dancing transvestite, was away on a yearlong tour of La Cage Aux Folles.

  My flat, a railroad apartment, was small but pleasant. I was lucky to have found it on Craigslist. It was rent-controlled, so I wasn’t paying much, and the tenant I was subletting from even gave me a small break for looking after his cat. The only thing odd about the apartment was that the walls were painted a flaming hot pink, and there was a large framed poster of Josephine Baker (obviously the inspiration for kitty’s name) above the pseudo-Victorian sofa. The other flea market finds that filled the apartment gave it a je ne sais quoi charm that appealed to me.

  Jo-Jo followed me into the small galley kitchen, where I proceeded to open a can of Fancy Feast and put it into her special bowl on the Formica counter. From the corner of my eye, I noticed that the message light on my landline was flashing red, signaling I had some.

  Leaving Jo-Jo to her food, I slogged over to the phone located on the other end of the counter and punched in the code to retrieve my messages. I had six new ones, all from my best friend.

  Lauren: “Where are you?” CLICK. Lauren: “What are you wearing? Remember, my cotillion friends are coming.” CLICK. Lauren: “Where are you?” CLICK. Lauren: “Guess what! Taylor is taking me to the Hamptons.” CLICK. Lauren: “Call me!” CLICK. Lauren: “FYI, your cell phone is turned off.”

  End of messages. My heart sank. So much of me wanted to hear Ari’s sultry voice. “Saarah. Call me. I want to make you wet and fuck your brains out.”

  Stop it, Sarah! I silently chided. He was probably already bedding that stunning redhead. And he had no idea where I lived or how to get in touch with me. Chances were I’d never see or hear from him again. Yet, the raw aching I felt for this man continued to consume me. The aftershocks of my off-the-charts orgasm measured 6.0 on the Big-O scale and my pussy was still pulsing.

  Enough. I’d better call Lauren and let her know that I was back in town and that I would meet her at the Seventy-Second Street entrance to the park at 7:30. Before I had a chance to dial her number, the intercom buzzed. Lately, any time it did, my heart dropped to the floor, thinking it might be someone serving me for non-payment of bills. Or even worse, some messenger with the news of my mother’s passing. Anxiously, I hurried back to the door to my apartment and pressed a nearby button.

  “Yes?” My voice trailed off as I spoke into the intercom.

  “Delivery for you,” said a male voice with a heavy New York accent.

  That was strange. I wasn’t expecting anything. Unless Catherine, my demanding boss, had decided to send a stack of her expenses to take care of over the weekend. I had taken the day off to visit my mother, and she was not happy about it one bit. So, this was her revenge.

  “Just leave it outside on the stoop.” I
never let strangers inside the building. As both Mrs. Blumberg and my mother said, you just never knew who could be the next David Berkowitz, the city’s next serial killer.

  “You need to sign for it,” said the invisible voice.

  “Fine. I’ll be right down.”

  Grabbing one of the loose pens that I kept in a tin can on the counter, I galloped down the three flights of stairs. Waiting for me outside was a twitchy man holding a box that must have measured five feet in length. It was magnificently wrapped in violet paper and topped off with a white bow the size of a basketball. This could not possibly be for me. And it was definitely not from my stingy boss, who I think hated me.

  “Sign this,” said the man, handing me a receipt.

  Sure enough my name, Sarah Greene, was printed on the paper along with my address and apartment number. Huh? And then it hit me. Of course, it was a gift from my mega-wealthy, debutante friend Lauren, who probably sent me something nice to wear to the concert tonight so I wouldn’t be an embarrassment in front of all of her high society friends. She had threatened to burn my entire wardrobe once, and this was her way of sending me a message.

  Grabbing the receipt, I plastered it against the hallway wall and signed my name. The deliveryman promptly left, and I humped back up the stairs with the large package in my arms. What did Lauren pick out for me? Knowing her over-the-top expensive taste, I’m sure it was something like Seven for Mankind tight-ass jeans and some bold print halter-top cut so low you could see my navel. Trendy things that flat-chested, straight-as-an-arrow, bohemian me had no right wearing. And would not look good in.

  Once back inside my apartment, I gently laid the massive package on the couch and carefully unwrapped it. I’d never seen such a meticulously wrapped present, and the dazzling bow must have cost a small fortune. Lauren could afford it. Her father, Randolph Hoffmeier, was a major Wall Street honcho, and she already had a substantial trust fund from her Mayflower-descended family.

  The box was from Bergdorf’s. Wow! The only time I’d ever set foot inside that store was the one time Catherine sent me there at lunch to pick up a tube of her favorite Chanel red lipstick. Dressed in my cheap, unfashionable garments, I stuck out like a sore thumb among all the expensively dressed chic women and couldn’t wait to get out of the place. I spent the rest of my lunch break down the street, consoling myself at T.J. Maxx.

  I carefully removed the box top. Layers of delicate white tissue paper lined the interior of the other half. I peeled them away and then gasped. Facing me was a beautiful black silk dress with two sparkling spaghetti straps. A tag hung off one of them. Marc Jacobs, size 6, no price. I lifted the dress by the straps and held it up in front of me. It was stunning. Simple and elegant. But certainly not the kind of thing one would wear to a rock concert in Central Park. What was Lauren thinking?

  My eyes returned to the box and came upon a small, white envelope with my name printed on it. Draping the dress over one arm, I reached for it. The flap unsealed, I slipped out the contents. My eyes grew big as I read the note and so did the explosions that were rocking my body.

  Ms. Greene ~ Please wear this tonight. I shall collect you at 8 p.m. Meet me downstairs. ~ Ari

  P.S. Please do not wear pantyhose.

  A mixture of holy cow and damn him saturated my brain. How the heck did he know where I lived? Wait. Of course, he must have gone through my bag while I was asleep on the train. He got my address from my driver’s license. He must know everything about me. My height. My weight. My checking account number with my home phone number. My social security number. What kind of gum I chewed (Big Red). Crap. I bet he even thumbed through my sketchpad and read the journal I kept with my favorite sayings.

  One of them flashed into my head. When in doubt, leave it out. Damn it! I should have never let him sink his cock inside me. None of this would have happened. None of it. Except…there was no doubt. I had wanted him as much as he had wanted me. My mind flitted to the ravishing redhead. Though they looked like they belonged together, maybe I had jumped to the wrong conclusion and she was just an acquaintance. Or just one of his many girlfriends.

  Truthfully, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be among the many. When it came to men, I lacked confidence. Added to this, I was going through a very vulnerable period of my life with my mother being so ill and my future insecure. And there was another problem. I couldn’t see him tonight. I had plans with Lauren. Trust me, she rubbed it in my face that she was able to get those reserved-seat tickets for the Black Eyed Peas because her father’s investment company managed Fergie’s assets, and that I was lucky she counted me as one of her best friends.

  The shrill ring of my phone hurled me out of my thoughts. It must be Lauren. I dreaded answering it because she got super mad if I didn’t call her back right away. For a friend, she was very high maintenance.

  Finally, after the fifth ring, just before the call went to my voicemail, I ran over to it and picked up the receiver.

  “Saarah, do you like your dress?”

  Gah! It was him. The temperature in the kitchen suddenly rose ten degrees. And my heartbeat accelerated. The phone shook in my hand.

  “It’s very nice.” Who was I kidding? It was the most fabulous dress I’d ever owned. And the most expensive.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing you in it.”

  Shit! How the hell was I going to tell him that I had plans? That I couldn’t see him tonight.

  CLICK.

  I wasn’t. My mother always preached: No risk, no gain. I immediately dialed Lauren’s number. It went straight to her voicemail. Beep.

  “Lauren, something’s come up. I can’t go to the concert tonight. I’ll explain tomorrow. Have fun.”

  CLICK. Phew! That saved me from having a nasty, drawn-out conversation with her. I suppose I could also try her on her cell, but truthfully, I didn’t want to. A pang of guilt shot through me, but I reminded myself that it wasn’t like she shoved out a fortune for the ticket; it was comped. Plus, she had her entourage so she wouldn’t be alone. I’d still pay the consequences tomorrow, but right now, I had to get ready for my date with Trainman.

  Taking my new dress with me, I skipped toward my adjacent bedroom. A loud knock at my door stopped me in the hallway. Retracing my steps, I peered through the peephole. Mrs. Blumberg. She was rather entertaining, but quite frankly, I had no time for her right now.

  I unbolted the door. Chewing a big wad of gum, she faced me. Half my size, the elderly woman was holding a shopping bag. While she always seemed to have a grocery bag in her hand, the Bergdorf’s bag was unusual.

  “I was just on my way to shul when this came for you,” she said in her thick “New Yawk” accent.

  She handed me the bag bag. Inside was another gift-wrapped package, this one significantly smaller, maybe a foot long by six inches. My heart fluttered. Now what?

  Mrs. Blumberg’s crinkly eyes fixated on the black dress that was still folded over my arm. “Hot date tonight? I hope he’s Jewish.”

  God, she was nosy. And so annoying. I didn’t respond.

  “So, how’s your mother doing?”

  Sadness swept over me. After I left the hospital, my mother was scheduled for another treatment. They always made her feel sick to her stomach. I fought back tears.

  “She’s hanging in there.”

  “Oy!” My neighbor shook her head, a bright-orange ball of frizz. “I’ll say a prayer for her tonight. You know, you should come with me one Friday.”

  “I will and thanks.”

  Mrs. Blumberg meant well. Despite her constant meddling, it was hard not to like her. Her eyes lingered on the shopping bag.

  “So, what are you waiting for? You gonna show me whatch’ya got?”

  God, she was being difficult.

  “Mrs. Blumberg, I’d love to spend time with you but—”

  “I know. I know. It’s okay to hurt an old lady’s feelings. You got a hot date.”

  Her voice trailed off as she turned on her h
eel. Closing the door behind her, she got in her last two cents.

  “Make sure you wear clean underwear. And don’t let him touch you there.”

  I sighed; if she only knew. “There” tingled at the thought of being touched by “him” again. Wasting no time, I reached into the shopping bag and tore the package open. Two words on the lid of the shiny white box blazed in my eyes: JIMMY CHOO. I lifted it off to find another note, the scrolly handwriting identical to that of the note that accompanied the black dress. I was convinced it wasn’t his, but rather that of a Bergdorf’s employee.

  Wear these tonight. Remember, no pantyhose.~A

  Holy cow! He also bought me shoes. The kind Sarah Jessica Parker wore in Sex in the City. A creamy white duster bag encased them. My heart thudding, I slipped out the shoes. I gasped. A pair of six-inch high black satin peep-toe stilettos. Size 9.5AA. How the hell did he know my crazy shoe size? Did he remove my two-sizes-too-wide combat boots stuffed with inner sole pads to make them fit while I was dozing on the train?

  A frightening thought crossed my mind. I was born wearing combat boots. How was I going to manage to walk in these sexy beasts? I took off my boots and placed the high heels side by side on the floor. Placing one hand flat against the wall, I stepped into them, right foot, then left. Sarah, plain and tall, was suddenly taller. Six inches taller. A six-foot-three pillar.

  I let go of the wall. Okay, I could balance in them. But could I walk in them? I was going to do my trial runway walk down the hall to my bedroom. Still carrying the little black dress, I took my first step, then my next. My ankles wobbled, and the intense throbbing inside me wasn’t helping my balance. Focus, Sarah. Focus. Pausing for a deep breath, I took another step and then another; I was getting it down. My bedroom was just an arm’s length away. Victoriously, I stumbled inside it. Jo-Jo, whom I’d honestly forgotten about, followed right behind me.

  My shoebox-size bedroom, painted in another shade of bright pink, consisted of a queen-size bed that took up most of the space, a faux-French mirrored armoire with a matching nightstand, and a sliver of a closet. Jo-Jo jumped up on the bed and curled up on the garish zebra print satin sheets left behind by the transvestite. Not wanting the dress anywhere near the furry cat, I draped it over my closet door. I glanced at the alarm clock on my nightstand. 7:15 p.m. I had less than an hour to get ready for my date. Quickly, I slipped out of my skirt, letting it fall to the floor. As I pulled my T-shirt over my head, a waft of his intoxicating cologne drifted into my nose. God, he smelled so divine. Maybe, I should never wash this tee. Hold on to it as a keepsake. A souvenir of losing my virginity.