by Artemis Hunt
I steel myself.
I can do this.
I smile. “Thank you, Chris. I take it that I’ll start tomorrow.”
“Seeing as I’m left in a lurch without a PA, I’d rather you start right now. But tomorrow will be fine.”
We both get up together, pushing back our respective chairs. He hands me back my portfolio, and I take it.
“Sully in HR,” he says.
“Right.” I take a step backwards and almost stumble. “So I’ll see you tomorrow, Chris.”
I’m never going to get used to saying that name as long as I live, I swear.
“Tomorrow then.” He regards me with that unsettling stare of his.
I scuttle out of the room before I can embarrass myself further. Oh, this is a mistake. A major mistake, taking this job.
What have I gotten myself into?
CHRIS
I can’t stop thinking about the new girl as I step into my penthouse.
What’s her name again? Elizabeth . . . something. I shouldn’t have given her portfolio back. Now I’m going to have to ring Steve Sully in HR to ask for it. But fuck. Steve is going to crap about why I hired a PA straight out of college.
“You’re thinking with your balls, man,” he’s going to say. Steve and I go way back since college and he’s earned the right to say ‘balls’ to my face.
He would be right too. I was thinking with my balls. And penis. And a thousand hormones coursing through my adrenal glands, or wherever testosterone is made in. The last time I thought with the organs south of my navel where hirings are concerned, I encountered big trouble.
“Yeah,” I can hear Sully’s sarcastic tone, “tell me about it.”
Sully was the one who kept me out of trouble in college, when every girl who thought she had a chance was throwing her panties at me, bending over, and holding her ankles while I took her from behind. I was a high school athlete into marathon running and tennis, and I suppose I was rich (old money) and not too bad-looking (mother’s genes), so I was fairly popular.
As long as I treat each relationship as purely sexual, I’ll be OK. I even have ‘NEVER AGAIN’ tattooed in Sanskrit on my lower back to remind me of how fucking wrong emotional relationships can go.
Oh yeah. NEVER AGAIN all right. I’ve learned my lesson. Leaned it marrow deep the hard, hard way.
Rita has been here to clean, I can see from the way things are arranged. My cellphone buzzes in my pants pocket. I retrieve it. The flashing photo on the screen says that it’s TAYLOR.
“Hi,” I say.
“You free tonight?” a suggestive female voice asks on the other side.
“Let me check my schedule.” I pretend to pause for a bit. “Yeah, I can slot you in for twenty minutes.”
Sultry laughter. Taylor is on a roll. “Should we meet at your place?”
“Why? Is Aaron out of town?”
“Of course not. It’s his free pass night and he’s gone off with the boys to a strip club. You haven’t answered the question. Your place or mine?”
“Neither. Here’s a clue. ‘Follow the white rabbit’.”
“That’s almost too easy, even for you.”
“See you there. And wear something nice.”
“You betcha.”
I ring off. In the hallway mirror, I have a wide smile on my face. Taylor is really something – blonde, blue-eyed, a total Valkyrie knockout. And happily married in one of those New Age open relationships to a guy who likes to see her fuck someone else as much as he likes to fuck her himself. Taylor is uncomplicated. She doesn’t want anything from me other than my hard body and harder organ, and it suits me just fine.
But something else intrudes into my perfect vision of Taylor. The wide innocent brown eyes of that Elizabeth girl . . . I think her name is Tyrell . . . staring into mine. Her eyes are so arrestingly large they take over her whole face. It’s not that she’s spectacularly beautiful. She’s attractive, yes, and with the right makeup (not that she was wearing any today), she can look reasonably fetching.
I find myself thinking of those amazing eyes as I change out of my suit and tie into something more acclimatized to the White Rabbit. I remember my first sight of her coming into my office – her shapely legs, her sweet hesitant face – and it hits me then like a punch to the gut. A wave of numbing desire sweeping below my belt.
I rarely have reactions like this to women – that all-encompassing, sap-rising, rod hardening, gut-wrenching libidinous ‘I want to take you right here on my desk’ desire that threatens to cramp my very legs, so much so that I have to hold the side of the desk and quickly slip into my seat to mask my obvious erection. Good thing I did too, or she would have noticed the tent in my damp pants.
For some reason, Elizabeth Tyrell pushes all my buttons. She didn’t exactly dress sexy. She was extremely demure, and she has an eager-to-please, ambitious aura that has everything to do with the work itself and nothing to do with me.
I like that. I find that refreshing. She exudes innocence from every pore. I mean . . . she’s from small town Alabama. What else can I say?
Why the hell did I hire Elizabeth Tyrell? Now I can’t seduce her. I don’t do employees . . . unless they make the first move, of course. That has happened plenty of times before. Steve is always reminding me that it’s sexual harassment unless it’s mutual.
Something tells me that I’m going to want to seduce Elizabeth Tyrell very badly. And something else tells me that she won’t want to have anything to do with me.
Fuck.
Now I’ve got to really rein it in.
*
The White Rabbit is a fetishist club, and everyone – men and women alike – check me out thoroughly as I enter. It’s not as if I’m wearing leather and skulls-and-crossbones studs. I’m used to being given the once over all my life starting from when I was about fifteen. Blame it on my mother’s good genes.
I’m dressed in all black. Black silk shirt. Black pants. Black jacket. Nothing outstanding in here, where seven eights of the patrons are all clad in black leather.
Semi-naked women pirouette furiously in iron cages raised high above the tables. The crowd is roughish – or at least, they give the impression of being roughish.
A woman in a cat suit comes up to me. “Wanna get up in a cage with me, tiger?”
I smile. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Pity. Is it a he or a she?”
“She.”
“If she’s not here, you know where to find me.” She glances at me significantly as she weaves her way through the crowd.
I spot Taylor at the bar before someone else can accost me.
“You’re late,” she accuses.
She’s dressed in black PVC. Her breasts are pushed up high by a corset with fishbone cuttings, revealing the white skin of her torso underneath. Her long, long legs are encased in black stockings, and her skirt is a gleaming wedge.
I find myself getting a hard-on just looking at her.
For answer, I bend my head and engulf her in a savage kiss that leaves her breathless. Her hand gropes for my crotch.
“Wow,” she says as we part for air. “I didn’t reckon you’d be that happy to see me.”
“Let’s go in there.” I nod to a darkened doorway.
We move swiftly inside the room beyond. It’s empty of other people. There are hooks on the walls and ceiling, and harnesses and sex swings hanging from some of them.
My urgency is immediate and raw. I slam Taylor against one wall. She raises her arms and grasps the hook above her as I tear off her PVC top in hunger, revealing her medium-sized tits and ripe painted nipples.
“Ohhh,” she moans.
I bunch up her skirt. She’s not wearing any underwear, and her sweet pubic triangle with its sparse blonde hair and wet sex lips is contrasted enticingly between her milk white thighs and her black garters and stockings.
I have a fetish for women who dress in garters and stockings. It drives me crazily, blindingly wild.
I unzip my fly without taking off my shirt and shrug off my pants. It gets caught around my mid-thigh, but I don’t care. I’m not wearing underwear either, and my cock is granite hard. Feeling for Taylor’s glistening sex, I ascertain that she’s as wet as she looks before I thrust my way inside.
“Aaaaaah,” she cries as my cock slides into her slippery, hot passage.
“You feel so good, baby,” I murmur breathily against her cheek. I begin to rock my hips against hers. The sex is brutal and primal and rough, the way we both like it. There’s always the chance that anyone can walk in on us, and in this sort of place, they wouldn’t bat an eyelid.
Taylor clutches at the hook above her in a semblance of bondage. I continue to thrust into her deeper and faster, and our pants and kisses merge and become more intense.
I suppose I really shouldn’t tell her that my fevered mind keeps superimposing Elizabeth Tyrell’s innocent face onto hers.
And when I come, it’s Elizabeth that I’m fantasizing about.
Shit.
I think I’m obsessed.
BETH
The next morning, my new boss (I would have liked that term better had he not been so strange) outlines some ground rules about how we are going to work together.
He calls me into his office. He’s looking particularly gorgeous today with his slightly disheveled hair (does he ever comb it?) and his dark blue on black pin-striped sharp suit which must have cost over two thousand dollars.
“See this?” He points to the lower right side of his computer screen. He has a huge LCD monitor on his desk. It’s discomfiting to be so near to him, but it’s necessary for me to peer at his screen. “It’s an Office Communicator. You don’t have to come into this room if you want to communicate with me. You can just type me a message, and I’ll reply.”
“OK,” I say, nodding.
So he’s not the face-to-face boss-employee type. I can live with that.
He indicates the phone. “You can call me as well. You don’t have to come in here.”
“OK.” I nod again.
He seems to not want me around in his office. I wonder if he has something to hide. Maybe he has Confidential files scattered around that I will not be privy to.
As I leave his office, I can feel his eyes burning into my back. I don’t know what it is about him, but he makes me feel naked. It’s probably a good thing that we’re not going to be seeing much of each other, despite being separated by only one wall. Not that I wouldn’t mind seeing more of him, of course. He’s gorgeous. But he might catch me staring at him too long, and that wouldn’t be appropriate.
So all in all, this Communicator arrangement is a good thing. For me. Not that I’m letting him know.
Around lunchtime, I get a call from Lyla all the way down in Accounting.
“So?” she says. “Give me the scoop.”
“What scoop?”
“On your new immediate boss. The Big C.”
“The Big C?”
“Yeah. ‘C’ for ‘cheese’. ‘C’ for ‘Christopher’. ‘C’ for can you spell utterly desirable with a ‘C’?”
“Sssssh.” I’m actually afraid Chris will eavesdrop on this conversation. This is my first job, and I’m not sure if office phones are bugged or something just to make sure we are all working and not making personal calls to our mothers.
Something which I have done this morning, actually, but on my cellphone.
“Oh Beth,” my mother gushes, “that’s wonderful they’re paying so much for a first job these days!”
“I know. Wonderful,” I echo.
And now you can pay for my knee replacement surgery, she doesn’t say.
My sister, Samantha, grabs the receiver from her. I can hear Mom scolding her, “That’s just plain rude, Sam, I didn’t bring you up to be rude this way” in the background.
“Beth,” Sam’s breathless voice breezes over Verizon. “So does that mean I can go to TMU?”
“Yes, you can too go to TMU.”
I have to hold my phone away from my ear for all the joyous screeching this ensues.
I love making my family happy. It was a given that I would help support Sam through college, just as my older sister, Janey, did for me.
To shut Lyla up, we go for lunch at a little Chinese noodle shop across the street. We are quite a contrast, appearance-wise. I’m tall and knock-kneed and geeky with my straight brown hair. She has auburn ringlets and she’s a cute 5’ 2”, as petite as a French lass.
As we dig into our wonton noodles with chopsticks (me awkwardly, she like a pro), she says:
“So . . . did he make a pass at you?”
“Of course not. Why on earth would he make a pass at me?” My noodles plop back into the soupy bowl with a minor splash, spattering my blouse. Though, I have to admit, my new boss’s intensity is unnerving. As are his eyes. But that would hardly constitute as a pass. Anyway, a supremely eligible man like him would never make a pass at me.
“Because he’s got quite the reputation.” Lyla leans over. “Did you know that the last five PAs that he hired walked out on him?”
“No.” That is alarming. “What did he do to them?”
“No one quite knows. It’s a well-kept secret, but not secret enough that it won’t make the water cooler rounds. Telling people you slept with the CEO isn’t quite going to cut it here, even if he’s the Chairman’s son. It isn’t going to cut it with his family either, so he doesn’t go around bragging, if you know what I mean.” She closes her eyes and opens them again mischievously. “Ooooh, I wish he’d make a pass at me. I would welcome his sexual harassment with open legs.”
“Lyla!” I laugh. “That’s crude.”
“Have you got eyes, girl? He’s fucking gorgeous! And fucking rich.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“OK, level with me. Back when we were sophomores, you were a virgin. Tell me that has changed.”
I don’t really know if I should be talking to Lyla about my sex life (or lack of it). She’s not exactly known for keeping things zip.
“I did go out with Zeke Pandler for a while,” I say. I really did. He was in high school with me and we sort of dated. Without sex.
“You’re avoiding the question. Are you or are you not still a virgin?”
I’m still sort of on the fence about whether I should be continuing on this line of conversation. Lyla takes my silence for assent.
“Oh my God, you are, aren’t you?” She puts down her chopsticks. “That’s scandalous. What are you saving it for? Nunhood?”
“My views on this haven’t changed,” I argue. “I believe that sex is a beautiful thing to be shared between a man and a woman who are preferably married. My Dad and Mom had the most wonderful marriage ever before he got killed in that industrial accident. They’ve always taught me the value of saving it for the right person who’s going to love you and cherish you and stay with you for all – ”
If Lyla’s eyes can roll anymore, they’d roll right off her forehead.
“Spare me, Beth. Puh-leez. That is so 1880s. I’m willing to bet you they were having plenty of sex in Little House on the Prairie: the Director’s Cut. You’ve got to go with the times, girl, not get stuck in a time-space continuum warp.”
“I have to be true to myself and my – ”
“Spoken like someone who has never gotten laid.”
“Maybe I’ve just never met the right guy,” I say defensively.
It’s true. I’ve never met anyone I wanted to have sex with. And I’m kind of old-fashioned, like Edward in Twilight. I’d really, really like to save it for someone I love. I’m not a prude, I swear it. I just believe in what my parents taught me, and I’d never sleep with a man just for experimentation . . . or if I wasn’t certain that he loved me.
I don’t expect someone like Lyla to understand, of course. In college, we were not allowed to bring guys back for sex in the dorms, but she did. Secretly, of course. And every tim
e she did, I was kicked out of our shared room and I had to bunk in with Gemma Sandler down the hall.
I go back to the office. Christopher Morton (and yes, I haven’t brought myself to think of him as Chris) has gone out and he’s left me a message on the Communicator.
“Out for lunch. Won’t be back. Will be on Blackberry if anyone wants me.”
That’s fine by me. So far, working as Christopher Morton’s PA is a breeze. He’s so independent, and my job so far consists of fielding his calls, notifying people who want to see him if he’s available, and arranging his meetings and schedule.
Mostly through Communicator.
I get to see him occasionally though, when he walks in and out of the office and when I go in to put documents on his IN tray. In these times, he’s friendly but distant, focused on his computer and refusing to meet my eyes. It isn’t a big deal. Chris Morton is intimidating enough without me having to strike a daily conversation with him. What can I say to him anyway beyond “HR is on Line 2”?
On the fifth day, I get a funny call.
“I want to speak to Chris,” says a firm female voice.
“He’s in a meeting right now. Can I take a message?”
“Yes. You tell that no good son of a bitch I’ll right over to slap his stupid mug. I’m not afraid to do it too in his office. How dare he block my number?”
“Uh . . . ” I’m really not sure if I should say anything. “I’ll give him the message. And you are?”
“He knows who.” The line goes dead.
My heart has gone into a standstill just listening to that.
Okayyy. How do I give Chris Morton, a man I’ve only known for a week, that kind of message? Especially since he’s my boss?
It turns out I don’t have to wait long to find out. The meeting is still going on in the boardroom, which is adjacent to Chris’s office, when a tall leggy blonde in a flouncy designer dress that must wear a Gucci label or something equally expensive strides in. Her heels are three inches, but she still walks with the confidence of a supermodel.
“Where is he?” she demands, and I recognize the voice of the woman on the phone.