by Megan Hart
I scrubbed quickly, conditioned and moisturized. I even
I scrubbed quickly, conditioned and moisturized. I even
shaved my legs, though it seemed utterly unlikely anyone
was going to be touching them, since I'd turned Austin
down and Mr. Mystery had only felt me up a little bit. By
the time I got out of the shower, my nipples had peaked
into tight, hard nubs that defied me not to tweak them as I
dried myself with a soft towel.
In my bedroom I shed the towel and stood in front of the
bed. The lonely bed. It was king-size, and even though I
never shared it with anyone, I stil slept only on one side.
Some habits are harder to break. I smoothed the quilt,
then puled it down to reveal the crisp, white sheets I'd
paid too much for. It had seemed like a good thing to do
at the time, spend money on fancy sheets for my new
place. I'd regretted it the next time I was hungry, but that's
the way it goes.
The window had nothing but a sheer curtain covering the
glass, but I wasn't too worried about being seen. The
parking garage across the street was the only building high
enough to give anyone access to peep at me, and my
apartment was set a little too far back to make it worth
anyone's while. Stil, the thought someone could be
watching me had me covering my breasts with my hands
watching me had me covering my breasts with my hands
for just a moment.
I cupped them, the weight familiar. I'd gotten tits in fifth
grade but hadn't realy grown into them until I was a junior
in high school. I couldn't realy remember a time when I
didn't curve this way. I could recal being thinner, yes, but
not flat-chested.
Under my palms, my nipples stayed hard, tight peaks. I
wished for a man's mouth on them, but had to settle for
licking my fingers and circling the hot flesh. A whisper, a
sigh, a moan leaked from my throat. I saw the ghost of my
reflection in the glass. Faint and insubstantial, nothing more
to me than a slash of dark where my eyes should be and
the white, curving shape of my body.
"I've been watching you." His dark eyes gleam and his
mouth twists up into a smile I can't resist returning. He
moves closer and I can smel him, warmth and spice,
purely masculine.
He holds out a hand and I take it. His fingers are long and
strong and entwine with mine so tightly I can't pul away.
Not that I want to. I want him to tug me close, up against
his body. I want him to put his other hand on my ass to
press me against his crotch. And I want him to dip his
mouth to stroke along my neck and settle his teeth briefly
at the curve of my shoulder.
He licks me with a quick flick of his tongue and my
nipples get hard and tight. He can see them through
the soft fabric of my blouse. His lips part. He sighs.
I press my body to his and he kisses me. Hard. He backs
me up against a wal and pins both my arms above my
head with only one of his hands. When the other slides up
my thigh, beneath my skirt, and finds me wet and ready, he
smiles again.
Before I know it he's turned me. Pushed me. The bed's
soft and my cheek presses onto the pilow. My ass feels
cool in the breeze made when he flips up my skirt. His
hand cups each cheek, maybe measuring, maybe just
caressing. I don't know. I don't care. I push myself into his
touch.
He blindfolds me. Darkness weighs my eyelids and I close
them beneath the cloth. He ties my hands; excitement
surges in every breath from my throat, past my lips. My
tongue darts out and I taste sweat.
It's not that I can't move if I realy want to. It's that I'm
bound to his whim, that I'd have to fight and struggle
against him if I want to get free. And I can, he hasn't tied
me so tightly I can't.
I just don't want to.
His cock is long and thick. It fils me, al the way. I'm
stretched from the inside.
I don't have to do a thing. He takes control, he sets the
pace, and it's perfect. I don't have to direct him. He just
knows. Every thrust presses something sweet until I cry
out.
I ride the waves of pleasure. I lose myself in it. Up and
over, writhing on his dick as he slaps my ass once, twice.
It doesn't hurt bad enough to keep me from coming al
over his prick and al over my hand.
It wasn't a unique fantasy, as far as fantasies went. What
made it different from others I'd had was the man in it
wasn't an actor or an anonymous quiltwork of features. It
was Mr. Mystery, of course, and though my own hand
had done the work, it had been his face that set me off.
had done the work, it had been his face that set me off.
And with that in my head, I went to sleep.
Chapter 10
The next morning I woke with a craving for oatmeal.
The power of suggestion, I told myself as I mixed water
into the contents of the packet I found shoved way back in
my cupboard, formerly ignored in favor of diet soda and
junk food. That was al. But when the maple-syrupy
goodness hit my tongue, I knew that wasn't al it was.
It had been a simple command. Eat oatmeal for breakfast.
Sweeten it however you like. Straightforward and
uncomplicated.
It had taken away the issue of what to have for breakfast,
a problem I faced every morning as I rushed around trying
to get ready and spent precious minutes staring without
enthusiasm into my refrigerator. I didn't have to think about
what to have, or waste time concerning myself. Eat
oatmeal for breakfast, the list had said, and I did.
I'd eaten oatmeal every day as a kid. Sometimes for
dinner, too. My mom bought it in bulk from an Amish
market. Great huge tubs of big, roled oats. Not the fancy
kind with Benjamin Franklin or whoever he was on the
kind with Benjamin Franklin or whoever he was on the
front. The kind you had to slow cook. Funny how I hadn't
thought about how easy, filing and tasty oatmeal could
realy be until I got that note.
Even though the mail almost always was delivered or in the
process of being delivered before I had to leave for work,
many times I didn't care to brave the crowd flocking
around the mailboxes and just waited to pick it up after
work. Until recently, I'd never had anything exciting to
pick up.
This morning, though, I muscled my way through the
crowd and puled my mail from the box. My heart
pounded as I flipped through the junk and bils. I had a
postcard from my dentist reminding me I was due for an
exam.
And a new note.
Today, you wil be strong and know you are beautiful.
Wow.
I closed the card, returned it to the envelope, and slid it
through the slot of mailbox 114. I didn't stop to hide what
I was doing, not caring if anyone saw me do it, though at
I was doing, not caring if any
one saw me do it, though at
that moment the flock of tenants had flown away and I
was the only one there. I peered through the glass window
at the card in its cradle of other mail and wondered how
such a simple command could have completely stolen
away my breath.
Paul traveled often, so it wasn't unusual for me to go
several days or a week without seeing him. On the days he
was in the office, though, he never failed to come out to
greet me when he heard me arrive, or if I'd managed to get
to my desk ahead of him, he always stopped to say good-
morning. But not today. I heard him muttering into the
phone through his closed door, but he didn't come out. He
had, however, left something for me on the desk.
A list.
It didn't tel me to be strong or know I was beautiful, but I
couldn't stop thinking about that as I read the chores and
tasks he'd left for me. He hadn't given me anything out of
the ordinary. It was only my reaction that was different.
I would never have said we had a close relationship, but it
was always cordial. On the day he'd taken out my splinter,
it might even have gone beyond that to warm. Too warm
it might even have gone beyond that to warm. Too warm
for Paul, apparently, because he barely looked at me when
he came out of his office around eleven, his coat on and his
briefcase gripped so tight in one hand his knuckles were
white. I sat up straighter at my desk.
Strong and beautiful.
"I'l be gone until about four."
He didn't need my permission, of course, so it was stupid
to say, "Okay."
That was al he said. Tension like gum stuck to the bottom
of a sneaker stretched between us. He wouldn't look at
me.
This pissed me off.
I hadn't asked him to treat my wound. I hadn't made him
touch me. And I wasn't going to sic him with a sexual-
harassment suit or anything asinine like that, either.
He nodded, his gaze cutting away from mine. "Bye."
"Goodbye, Paul."
I could see the crimson creeping into his ears even from
my seat at the desk. He didn't acknowledge me after that,
just left. That pissed me off, too.
I hadn't become an executive assistant because I'd
dreamed of it ever since I was a little girl. I became an
executive assistant because nobody seems to have
secretaries anymore. And because it was the cheapest and
fastest business degree I could earn that would qualify me
for a position in the range of salaries that would alow me
to move the hel out of Lebanon and start a new life.
I never intended to stay at this level forever. I'd taken the
job with Kely Printing because of their employee-
education program. I had to work there for a year before I
could start taking night classes toward my MBA, a cost
the company would partialy reimburse if I qualified, and
I'd make sure I did. I wasn't an executive assistant
because I didn't want to be something else. Just too poor.
And until today, I'd never felt bad about what I did, this
one step up on a ladder that had many rungs.
The list he'd left hadn't been written with fine ink on
creamy paper, just scribbled on the back of a paper
already printed on one side in handwriting so fiercely
already printed on one side in handwriting so fiercely
indecipherable that reading it was like cracking code. It
wasn't a long list but even so, it was a list and I looked at it for a long time.
That piece of paper, those numbered sentences, effectively
broke my day into chunks. They provided a purpose, a
path, a pattern. I didn't need Paul to give me that; I was
more than capable of prioritizing my daily duties, and yet,
staring at the instructions gave me a sense of
accomplishment before I'd even completed a single task.
It surprised him, I think, when he came back to the office
just after I should have left. I hadn't dawdled, but the list
had been very long and some of the tasks I hadn't yet been
trained for. I'd figured them out, though, my fingers tap-
tapping on the keyboard as I filed in data spreadsheets
and saved files and sent e-mails. I was shutting down my
computer as he disappeared into his office.
I took my time gathering my sweater and water bottle. In a
moment Paul reappeared in his doorway. Paul had not
loosened his tie or taken off his suit jacket, not at the end
of the day. He looked tired.
"Paige. I wasn't expecting you to stil be here." He slid his
"Paige. I wasn't expecting you to stil be here." He slid his gaze from mine in a manner so blatant I couldn't have
missed it. "I got al the files you sent."
I could've let it pass, pretended something wasn't strange
between us. Maybe I should've, but his attitude rankled.
"Is everything al right? I mean, I did everything you asked
for, right?"
He nodded, but when he spoke, his voice was gruff and he
avoided looking at me. "I've been very pleased with your
performance."
I thought of what Brenda had said, about how the girls
never lasted long. Wel, I needed this job and I'd be
damned if I was forced out of it. I could find another job if
I wanted, but it would be when I wanted. Not when Mr.
Johnson decided to make me miserable enough to quit.
But there was more to it than that. Strength and beauty.
Flaws and strengths. Lists. It was bound wrists and a
blindfold and being told what to do without having to think
for myself.
We stared at each other until he looked away.
"Thank you," Paul said. Then he went into his office and
"Thank you," Paul said. Then he went into his office and
closed the door behind him.
The misdelivered note handwritten in fine ink on gorgeous
paper wasn't anything like the one Paul had given me. So
why, then, had they both become so inexplicably linked?
Kira caught me on my cel phone as I drove home. Our
conversation didn't last long, and while she might not have
felt the strain, I did. We hadn't been best friends for a long
time, but like al my other old habits, Kira was a hard one
to break.
Her cal took my mind off Paul and the lists, but got me
thinking about Austin again. I wasn't sure that was an
improvement. She didn't apologize for inviting him to the
Pharmacy with us, but she didn't bring up Jack's name,
either, so I guessed that was sort of a draw.
I let her talk on and on even though I didn't have much to
say. She didn't notice, or ignored, my lack of replies, until
finaly she hung up before I could remember to tel her I
stil had her purse. Typical. Kira was always careless with
what she had, no matter how much or how little.
At home when I wanted to drive for a while to clear my
At home when I wanted to drive for a while to clear my
head, I could have my pick of backcountry roads, winding
through cornfields and cow pastures and woods. I could
I could open the windows and let my hair blow in the wind
with the radio cranked up loud, singing along. I could lose
myself on the ribbon of asphalt and make time stand stil.
Not here. I could've found a rural road if I went out of my
way, but it would've taken more effort to do it than it was
worth. Instead, I suffered stop-and-go traffic through
urban neighborhoods with my windows roled up and my
doors locked. Harrisburg wasn't a big city, but anyone
who didn't think it had crime was a fool.
The song came on the radio just as I puled into the
parking garage. I'd just started listening to the public radio
station out of Phily. The Cure had done a cover of
Hendrix's "Purple Haze" with a lot of funky backbeat and
some sort of weird Star Trek effect. It was an old song
and not one the local stations played.
I was transported.
"You ladies here to see the guys, right?" The guy
behind the counter gives us all a knowing wink as
behind the counter gives us all a knowing wink as
though he's seen our type before. "Bachelorette
party?"
It's not. It's an anti-bachelorette party, a divorce party, I
guess you could cal it. I've just signed the paperwork
dissolving my marriage to Austin. For the first time since I
was seventeen years old, I'm a single woman.
I have good friends. I can be glad of that. Kira couldn't
make it tonight, but I've got Nat, Misty, Vicky and Tori.
Laurie and Anna made it, too. It was my idea to come to
see the boys dancing at the nudie bar, but they al joined
the band and jumped on the wagon as soon as I suggested
it.
The bouncer leads us past a stage with two poles on it
where two bored-looking girls teeter in slutty shoes and
wiggle lethargicaly. There's nobody in the club yet, though
there's seating for a couple hundred horny men. We folow
the bouncer to a back room, al of us giggling like maniacs
and more than a little nervous.
It's not what I expected. I'd seen the Chippendales dance,
but this…this is a smal room painted entirely black with a
smal stage in the center, a single, silver pole rising to the
smal stage in the center, a single, silver pole rising to the
ceiling. A couple smal tables and a couch I don't want to
sit on ring the stage. There's no music. There's nobody.
Until the curtain at the back of the room parts and a young