Disciplined

by Lenore Ashwood

  “Seems pretty straight forward,” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. It was unheard of for a new consultant to make more than five thousand. And even then, it often took over a year to get even a small amount higher.

  “It doesn’t seem straight forward at all. What does it mean I have no role? How am I supposed to act?”

  “No role means be yourself. Same for the client. Which doesn’t really help you, since you don’t know him.”

  “Do you know him? Broca?”

  “I think he might have been at the mixer. Did you run into a wolf? That’s his usual mask at those things.”

  “Oooh,” she said thoughtfully.

  He slid his hands up to cup her breasts, breathing in the smell of her hair.

  “What else doesn’t make sense?”

  “What does the partner thing mean?”

  “If it was a multiple partner engagement, usually the consultants make up the extra people.”

  “Oh. Doesn’t the client ever want to have his own people?”

  “Sometimes, but usually part of the turn-on is being with strangers. Plus, when you get multiples, sometimes things can get out of hand. Having consultants with experience there means the situation can stay controlled.”

  She turned to look at him.

  “You know a lot about all this, for a security guy.”

  He shrugged. He knew way more than she realized.

  “In the early days we had to figure everything out as we went. It was a big learning curve.”

  She looked at him a moment longer before replying, “Huh.”

  He propped his chin on her shoulder when she went back to looking at the screen, running his thumbs over her nipples until they hardened. She wiggled on his stiffened cock, making him groan.

  “You know what’s funny?” she asked.

  “That you’re a tease? Because I wouldn’t describe that as funny.”

  “That Broca was a brain surgeon who pioneered learning about the speech centers of the brain in the 1800s. But he also advanced a lot of bullshit theories about eugenics and race. The perfect combination of good and evil, in my opinion.”

  “That explains his conversation topic.”

  “Do you think he’s my evaluator?” she asked, lightly running her fingers over the hands that were playing with her breasts.

  “Most likely. Cavendish usually starts things off slowly and then evaluates right after. Although this seems pretty fast,” he mused, trying to puzzle what Yuki was up to. “It could be there’s an opportunity with the other client sooner than expected.”

  “Huh,” she said. She adjusted on his lap so she could reach back and grip his cock. It was all he could do not to push her against the computer desk and slide into her. “My grandmother would be appalled at this part-time job I found.”

  “Would your grandmother prefer you stick to a version of society’s morals or that you do what you need to become a doctor?” he asked.

  “Good point,” she breathed, adjusting her grip on his cock.

  “One more thing,” she murmured, arching against him as he pulled at her nipples. “What is ‘minimal manual bondage’?”

  “Restraining you with his hands, like this.” He gathered her narrow wrists in one hand and slid his other down to her pussy. “But not so tight that you can’t break free.”

  She moved a hand, and he let her go. When she stood up, he stood beside her and pushed her back down into the chair then spread her legs open and kneeled between them.

  “Did you have any more questions?” he asked, sliding his hands under her thighs and lifting them onto his shoulders, smiling when she hitched her butt closer to the edge of her chair and his mouth.

  Her eyes glazed as she watched him run the back of his hand over the trimmed hair of her mound.

  “Are you sure we should do this right before an engagement?” she asked, her voice husky. “Maybe I should build up some sexual tension for tomorrow.” She gasped when he slipped a finger into her.

  “Or maybe you should have one last amazing orgasm, so you don’t feel tense with your evaluator,” he suggested. He pushed aside the tightness the words put in his gut. She was a consultant. And right now, she was here with him by choice.

  He turned his face to press kisses against the juncture of her thigh. Her head fell back and a long sigh left her.

  “Cantaloupe,” she whispered, and he drove his tongue into her pussy.

  * * *

  This time when Dimi woke up, she was curled against him. He yawned, and like a chain reaction, she yawned too.

  “This has got to be the best Sunday of all Sundays,” she murmured.

  “Why?” he mumbled, breathing in the scent of her hair, their sweat, their sex.

  “One, orgasm,” she started her list. “Two, biggest paycheck of my life. Three, living in a nice house I don’t have to pay rent for.”

  “Well, I’m glad I made one of your top three,” he teased.

  “You should be glad, because I’m a very practical person who doesn’t believe in warm fuzzy anything. And I don’t think you do either. Do you?” she asked, squirming to look at him with a quizzical eye.

  “You’re right; I don’t. I don’t believe in most of the things in Hollywood movies.”

  She turned all the way around and slid a leg over his hips to face him.

  “What do you believe in?” she asked.

  “I believe in focus. In relying on myself. In honesty between two people about what they want. We’re a lot alike, I think.”

  She was nodding even before he finished.

  “We are. I believe in focus. In order. In being disciplined. I don’t believe in love; I believe in knowledge,” she said simply. “And according to my results, light spanking.”

  That made him chuckle.

  “I can fit that into my goals,” he replied, brushing a hair out of her face.

  Her lips quirked at the corner. “What are your goals? What do you want?”

  “I grew up poor. I had to fight, literally, to earn a living. I knew a lot of people who did that. I had a lot of friends who didn’t make it out of Kyiv. I want to open a training gym to help kids become MMA fighters.”

  “In Kyiv?” she asked, running a finger alongside his mouth.

  “Not right away. New York, first. Then maybe Kyiv. I need to make sure the business is sound, that I have a curriculum that works. The U.S. is more open to business than the Ukraine is. For the most part,” he allowed.

  “So you’re a business man,” she said with some wonder.

  “I took computer courses in Kyiv, then in London. And then I got my degree in business in New York.”

  She leaned back, as if seeing him with new eyes.

  “Shocked that I’m not a brainless, tattooed thug?” he asked. She snuggled back against him, planting kisses on his chest.

  “No. Well, maybe a little. But I like your brainless thug-ness, so it’s a win for me.”

  “Education matters. Not just for the knowledge, which I care more about, but for the prestige. Having degrees matters in this country. It’s stupid, but it’s true.”

  “Education matters to me too,” she said, her finger tracing the lettering and the cross on his chest. “And not because of the prestige. Your parents must be proud of you.”

  “My mama will never get over me not becoming Sergei Polunin,” he admitted, causing her to lean back again.

  “A ballet dancer! Did you take classes as a child?”

  “Of course I did,” he admonished her. “Every tall boy in school went to ballet. You never know where the next prodigy will come from. Sadly for her, it wasn’t from her womb.”

  “And she never got over it, really?”

  “I think when I send them a monthly check, she has a moment of forgiveness. But only a moment.”

  He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him to lie fully on top of him. He nestled her against his half-hard cock but otherwise didn’t move.

  “Tell me ab
out your dream to be a doctor. Tell me about your babushka,” he said, combing his fingers through her hair.

  She fidgeted and then lay still, breathing in and out deeply.

  “You probably know most of the facts. I never knew my parents. She died of cancer, and I swore to her I’d become an oncologist.”

  “I want to know the real reason,” he said quietly.

  “Some of the people I go to school with,” she started, hesitant. “They want to find cures or perform life-saving surgeries. There’s this overriding idea that if they study hard and become good doctors, they can save people from dying.”

  She pushed against his chest to prop her head on her arm and look at him.

  “My grandmother had cancer, but she didn’t die from it. She died from sepsis. And she got sepsis, because of the chemo she’d been on. The false hope of prolonging her life ended it sooner than it should have.”

  He expected to see pain in her eyes, but he saw anger.

  “There’s no cure for the kind of cancer she had. For most cancers, really. There are just ways to put it off for a certain amount of time. But there’s a choice everyone can make. Living in dignity or dying without it, and I hope I can provide the kind of care that recognizes dignity. That at least recognizes there’s a choice.”

  “As an oncologist?”

  “Maybe. Or as a palliative doctor. It seems too early to make that decision, since I’m not any kind of a doctor yet.”

  She laid her head back on his chest, and he went back to combing his fingers through her hair. He understood dignity. And respect. And from her, neither of those things were a surprise.

  19

  Anya almost spilled her breakfast smoothie when the buzzer sounded. She looked around, following the sound to a handset on the kitchen counter.

  “Hello?”

  “FedEx delivery at your front gate,” said a bored voice.

  “Uh, okay…” She looked at the keypad then handset with no luck. Then she lifted the phone and found the instructions. “C’mon through,” she said, holding down the star button like the card said.

  She stood on her front stairs in the morning light. Her unit was close to the gate, so she could see the truck as it drove through and pulled into her short driveway.

  She sipped her blueberry smoothie, her bare feet on the smooth concrete. I’m making an obscene amount of money and receiving mysterious packages—just another Monday. She laughed out loud and shook her head.

  “Anya Wilcott?” the man asked, carrying a large box and a small package.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  He punched a few buttons on his device then set the big box down and handed her the other item.

  “Have a good day,” he said, already walking away.

  “Same to you.”

  She tucked the small bag under her arm—a book, from what she could tell—and opened the door. She put her smoothie around the corner along with the book and retrieved the bigger box.

  Her old self would have ripped open the envelope to see what the book was, but her new self was torn as to which package she should open first. She went for the box.

  Inside were two same-sized boxes. One said Vera Wang and the other said Donna Karan.

  She opened the Vera Wang box and saw a complete outfit, each item tucked into its own compartment.

  She opened the second box to see the same thing—a dress, shoes, a purse, jewelry boxes, and a wrap.

  At first glance, she thought they were both black, but when she slid the treasure closer to the window and opened the curtains, she saw one was a midnight blue and the other a deep plum.

  The Vera Wang dress was a heavy, stretchy fabric, sleek and simple in navy blue. It was sleeveless, with a collar that would cover her neck, and no back.

  The Donna Karan dress was a much thinner fabric but also a kind of jersey material. It had a high neck and sleeves, but no back at all. In fact, she wasn’t sure how her ass wouldn’t be exposed once it was on.

  The accessories were identical except for color.

  Both outfits had shoes with a smattering of clear crystals over the toes. And each had a very small handbag with the same crystals, and a wrap that had the feel of a very fine wool.

  Part of her wanted to try each dress on right away, and another part looked at the shoes and wanted to start practicing.

  Putting aside the vain thoughts she used to tease Jenn for having, she opened the package and pulled out the book. Broca’s Brain by Carl Sagan.

  According to the back cover, it was a collection of essays written by Carl Sagan in the late seventies and covers science fiction, religion, and human consciousness.

  “Interesting first date,” she murmured.

  She flipped open the cover and a note slid out.

  Wear only what’s in the box, in the color of your choice. Front or back, it will make for arousing conversation. B

  “‘Front or back,’” she said, looking over to the boxes. Sure enough, the navy dress had a slit that extended to the crotch in the front, the plum with a slit that ended at the top of her thighs in the back.

  Finally, actual intercourse with a complete stranger. It was tantalizing, the mystery of it.

  She looked through both boxes, checking for panties or a bra, but there were none. Scooping up both dresses, she headed to her bathroom and stripped naked.

  She held up each dress in front, deciding to try the navy one on first. The thick fabric had a rough texture, and its darts and tucks fit her perfectly. If she stood with her legs apart, it would give Broca easy access to her from the front.

  She lifted the dress off and slid the plum option over her head. The thin material glided over her body in soft folds. Most of her body was covered, except for the wide-open back. When she moved, the slit parted and cool air drifted over the back of her legs. It was as if her front was covered but her back was completely exposed.

  She pictured meeting the unknown Broca, and the cryptic note. She decided on this dress and walked back to the living room to grab the shoes.

  As she walked in and saw the couch, her mind flashed to Dimi and yesterday. If she were to have dinner with him, she would have chosen the navy dress, and as soon as the thought occurred to her, she analyzed it.

  She didn’t have any regrets about the masquerade. She’d seen several people having sex and let somebody she didn’t know grope her. She’d slept well and been financially rewarded. After tonight’s engagement, she’d have the first chunk of money to pay the registrar for med school.

  And yet she’d just made the decision to not face the client she’d be having sex with, whereas facing Dimi—if not a stranger then surely not much more than an acquaintance—seemed easier. Maybe because he’d already seen and touched every part of her in the most intimate way.

  Intimacy. In all her sexual experience, she would never have used that word. She’d had, what… six partners in her life? All guys she’d dated and known well. Easily known them more than a month, anyway. She only knew Dimi for a couple weeks, and she had a deeper connection to him than anyone.

  She grabbed the box with the remaining plum accessories and returned to her bathroom. She pushed all thoughts about intimacy away as she pulled on the heeled pumps and wrapped the light wool shawl around her shoulders.

  A shock of panic shot through her. Hair and makeup!

  She took careful but quick steps back to grab her phone to review her engagement details. Should it have specified a hair and makeup time?

  She typed out a message to the Cavendish coordinator.

  I have an engagement tonight. Will Georges be over to do my hair and makeup?

  Do you need him to? came the reply.

  Yes, please, she replied. Why hadn’t she paid more attention to how he did her hair?

  Let me check if he’s available.

  She was just searching online for hairstyles for evening wear when the Cavendish app chimed.

  He’ll be there an hour before your car is due. Cli
ent doesn’t want anything elaborate.

  Thanks, she replied. She’d pay more attention this time. All the things she’d scoffed at in other women, the fussing over nails and hair, now they all mattered.

  “I can learn,” she told her mirrored image. “You’re a learner.”

  She walked into the bedroom to the hallway, getting the feel of the shoes. She loved the way the soft plum fabric moved with her body. The material was so thin even walking through the still air of the house allowed cool air to wash through and over her skin.

  Designer clothes delivered to her door and an on-call makeup assistant? She could definitely get used to this.

  * * *

  “Hello!” called a familiar voice from the living room.

  “Georges, I’m in the office,” she called. She flipped the Broca’s Brain book over and typed in a new search term.

  “Girl, why are you in here ruining your manicure when you should be in the bathroom moisturizing your dry feet?”

  “Ha!” she said, spinning to show him her feet in soft socks. “Already done. It’s the one thing I remember you harassing me about last time.”

  He put his hand over his heart and smiled. “My little protégé learned something! Now shut down that computer. You might not need full glam, but even casual beauty doesn’t come easy.”

  She did as he asked and followed him to the bathroom. She dropped the gown over her head and took off the socks to put on the heels.

  “Walk,” Georges said, motioning for her to follow him to the hallway.

  She walked down and back and then stopped.

  “I was thinking my hair should be up,” she volunteered.

  “Of course you would. And you’d be wrong. We should have put you in extensions so your hair would play peek-a-boo with that gorgeous open back.”

  “Oh,” she said, pressing her lips together. “You can’t do that now?”

  He slapped a hand to his cheek.

  “That takes more time than you have fashion sense, my angel. But the hair you have will suffice for tonight. Back to the bathroom!” he singsonged, leading the way.