Penelope Prim

by Robert Scott Leyse

  Copyright 2015 Robert Scott Leyse

  Author Website: http://www.robertscottleyse.com

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  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Except for use in review, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher and author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, and events, past or present, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Star: Angie Esther Ella

  Photo: Robert Henry

  Cover Designed and Built by RSL

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  ShatterColors Press

  New York, New York

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  Also available on Kindle:

  Attraction and Repulsion

  Self-Murder

  Tallulah Tempest

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  Dedication? The author’s rather at a loss with regard to this tale.

  It would hardly be appropriate to state: for those who harbor deep dark secrets, or suffer from duality of impulse, to the extent they feel their personality’s being yanked in two opposed directions at once and they’re irreconcilably warring with themselves. Such an unfortunate inner state of affairs is not to be encouraged.

  Perhaps a more sensible dedication would be: for those who realize it’s necessary to give constant expression to their spirit and energy, incorporate it into their lives on a daily basis, in order to avoid being lured into unstable and dangerous frames of mind as a consequence of unfulfilled potential and desire?

  Well, whatever... Enjoy the tale.

  I imagine every man’s encountered a Penelope Prim at some point in his life—a woman who, apparently ill at ease on account of being conspicuously well-endowed, feels compelled to downplay her attributes by exclusively donning conservative attire, anything calculated to confuse and frustrate the eyes. Penelope was both the most stunning woman at the office—the office being a midtown Manhattan law firm—and the woman who was least inclined to parade her beauty: she flat-out behaved as if her beauty didn’t exist. Aside from having highly appealing curves in all the right places, none being disproportionate to the others and throwing the balance off, she measured in at five feet eleven inches tall, weighed in at a size eight, clocked in at thirty-two years, and had a face of stop-and-stare-at radiance of complexion and symmetry of line. Penelope’s customary demeanor, noted by many admiring, if resigned to defeat, men was that of inviolable placidity—as if nothing short of a meteor striking the city, if that, could compel her to abandon it. She also possessed the finest head of soft-textured naturally wavy hair any woman could wish for—its color an unaltered pitch black.

  Never was Penelope’s hair seen in its free-falling state: she always kept it imprisoned in a tight bun, without so much as a wisp escaping at the edges, and its length could only be guessed at; as deduced by the size of the bun, the tightness of which couldn’t entirely rein in its abundance, it appeared that it might reach her lower back. Occasionally her frumpy dresses—generally high at the neck, hemmed at mid-shin, long-sleeved, and cut from heavy cotton or wool—would fail to deprive observers of a glimpse of the glories of her figure, as when a strong wind on the sidewalk pinned the fabric to her body. Very infrequently, and only if the thermometer reached the mid-nineties, she’d venture to wear a skirt, usually of the pleated variety in a dark color, in combination with a blouse—invariably a pale gray or off-white blouse which, if viewed from the side when the light was behind it, would acquire enough semi-transparency to permit a fairly accurate view of the proportions of her midriff and breasts. Several men, on account of these rare displays, had noted that Penelope, although of voluptuous build with an ample bosom, was possessed of a trim waistline and very fit and toned. Penelope’s blouses caused one man to observe there was a portion of her personality, be it ever so small, that couldn’t resist being a bit exhibitionistic a half dozen times a year—an observation that was enthusiastically, even if with a touch of wryness, embraced by most of those to whom it was conveyed.

  Enter Stuart, a man of thirty-seven years who’s recently joined the litigation department, where Penelope works and is highly valued, being consistently assigned to high-profile deals. Shortly after setting eyes on Penelope Stuart declared he wouldn’t know a moment’s peace until she became his. According to him, as he never tired of saying, she was a woman who, despite contrary appearances, experienced sleepless nights on account of a feverishly yearning body and desired above all else to surrender to her yearnings. He didn’t feel there was some small part of her that now and then semi-consciously played at being exhibitionistic with an adolescent transparent-blouse maneuver—not for him such naiveté, he said. He insisted she was a tease through and through, ceaselessly dropping veiled sex-signals: she was simply waiting for a man who knew how to decipher them. She was putting on a chastity-act, he said, in order to keep the uninitiated at bay, avoid being unnecessarily pestered. The man who knew how to decode her secret sex-language and approach her accordingly would be treated to sensual rapture the likes of which most never suspect is possible. She was hungry for love to an extent few women are, but her hunger was very particular and wouldn’t settle for anything less than unqualified soul-altering delirium. She’d never shortchange her hunger for the sake of putting a stop to the office-wide speculations concerning her relationship-status, the amazement that she was not only apparently uninvolved but unconcerned about it. She’d never compromise her instincts and bow to social pressure, acquire a boyfriend simply so she could parade him about. She didn’t care a whit about broadening her social circle by means of a relationship, placing others at ease with regard to her isolation. Yes, he’d stress anew, Penelope was ablaze with eagerness to surrender to the sort of all-consuming, potentially disruptive, love that convention frowns upon and such was the true reason for her reserve. The very thoroughness of her reserve indicated she had an extremely ardent and daring disposition, necessitating she exert herself to keep a lid on it. The very absence of outward evidence of desire betrayed the presence of desire that was the opposite of run-of-the-mill. In short, Stuart would conclude, Penelope harbored secret preferences and demands and needs galore, the likes of which would make a hooker blush, and was thirsting for an opportunity to indulge them with a deserving man. When a couple men, rolling their eyes and laughing, opined that he was indulging in a laughably absurd amount of wishful thinking, projecting qualities onto Penelope that suited his fancy and had nothing in common with her unfortunately prudish personality, Stuart shrugged his shoulders and smiled, saying, “Suit yourselves—you’ll never have a chance with her. Thanks for leaving the field to me—I appreciate it.”

  “How can you say,” Stuart would argue, “that Penelope doesn’t dress sexy? The dresses that you say hide her charms do nothing of the sort: they fit her snugly enough, I’d say; and when she’s walking in front of me in the hall how bewitchingly her behind undulates under the material—all that rippling sensuality, fluid flexibility, luscious muscle tone! I can feel the electricity radiate from her hips—sense the untapped hunger of a healthy woman in the prime of life, a sure darling of nature, of boundless energy and determination alike. Penelope’s hunger may be hibernating for now, but it wants to awaken and run wild and free, as uninhibited as the waves of a storm-tossed sea. You could say the general appearance of her wardrobe’s conservative—that the colors aren’t come-hither colors, as with scarlet or pink—that the m
aterial’s never fluffy and inviting, as with silk or cashmere—that there’s never an eye-grabbing pattern, as with swirly stripes or polka dots or roses set against black—that there’s never any pattern whatsoever, only solid colors—that her legs are never bare and her tights are never barely there, always being either very thick or dark or both—but I say that the more conservative Penelope dresses the more her deliciousness is set in relief, heightened by means of contrast. Penelope’s adept at understatement: the more she conceals herself the more one wants her to reveal herself. She knows what she’s doing—perhaps not completely consciously, but she knows. Plus you’re overlooking the obvious: Penelope only wears dresses. Not for her those inane pantsuits—the bane of every man’s existence. Pants on a woman are a disgrace and hail the woman who shuns them. Is there any other woman at the office who never, under any circumstances, wears pants? No! That alone should tell you something—it’s a dead giveaway. What sort of woman only wears dresses? A woman who enjoys subtle self-excitement, the sensation of her legs rubbing together, an unending caress from her calves to you-know-where. How can you be so blind as not to see that?—it’s comical that you can’t. One thing’s for sure: no woman who looks like Penelope and has the energy of Penelope and attracts every man’s lingering glance like Penelope could possibly be indifferent to frolic. She has an abundance of aptitude for carnal delight, whether she knows it or not or is willing to admit it, and I’m going to do her the favor of making her aware of it, enough that she’ll not only want to admit it but celebrate it—scream it from the rooftops.”

  “Penelope was on the cafeteria terrace, in the sun,” Stuart said one afternoon. “Her legs were crossed and the wind was toying with the hem of her dress, fluttering it over the knee of her top leg onto her thigh, steadily moving it upwards; she didn’t appear to be concerned about it and wasn’t correcting it—proof positive of what I’ve been saying from the get-go, that she’s as much of a flirt as any other woman. Women always know where their hemline’s situated and what’s being revealed—if they ignore such things, it’s by intent. They’re always fishing for glances of admiration, thrilling to the caress of eyes, reveling in the desire they inspire: it’s as essential to them as breathing. And the sun was passing through Penelope’s blouse, rendering it very see-through, allowing me to admire the way her breasts were swelling in the cups of her brassiere, the motion of each inhaled and exhaled breath; and the softness of her belly—what a pillow to lie my head on! She was chatting with one of her girlfriends—talking with her hands, squeezing her legs together—squirming in the chair, alternately leaning forward and sitting back: it was a showcase of the gliding energy of her movements—such earthy grace, animal vitality! I’ve never seen as much of her on display before and I now know, for a fact, she’s not only skilled in bed but has a fair amount of experience. Penelope’s basically whispered her secret in my ear and you’d better believe I’m going to follow up on it. What a honey she is!”

  It wasn’t long before Stuart, having arranged matters with a cooperative partner, was assigned to work with Penelope on a major case. (As an aside, it might be mentioned there’s a chance the partner wasn’t motivated by concern for Stuart’s love life: rumor had it he’d started a betting pool among the partners, the idea being to come closest to the date at which Stuart might succeed in bedding Penelope. In the event of no success on Stuart’s part, as was almost unanimously assumed, the money would be donated to the Salvation Army. Also, the fact it might be difficult to determine when, or if, Stuart succeeded was assumed to be part of the risk. It’s nothing short of amazing the way details are added with each retelling of a rumor, thereby lending greater credence to them.) The case not only required Stuart and Penelope to be in constant communication but frequently work side-by-side: it was essential that they function efficiently, with no confusion or misunderstanding concerning their often complex assignments, and they rapidly settled into doing so, finding it very easy to work together. As the case progressed Stuart plainly saw that Penelope enjoyed his company: always did her visage brighten and voice acquire nuances of tenderness when they met in the morning and discussed the day’s agenda; always was she cheerful and smiling when he was nearby; never did they miss having lunch together, an event she referred to as their “little vacation.” In addition, at her suggestion, they temporarily abandoned their offices and encamped themselves in a conference room to facilitate their progress; as they worked much non-work-related conversing, both lighthearted and serious, was indulged in and their lengthy spells at the firm were far more pleasant as a consequence.

  During their conversations Penelope revealed things to Stuart that, as far as he could determine, she hadn’t revealed to anyone else. As in that she hailed from a small town located on the shore of Lake Michigan east of Green Bay, Wisconsin—as in that she grew up ice skating, cross country skiing, ice fishing, deer hunting, snowmobiling, and playing lacrosse—as in that she may have been the only girl without a date at the prom, probably on account of being something of a tomboy at the time, intimidating to the boys—as in that it was her love of opera, which she first heard on the Texaco Metropolitan Opera broadcasts, that brought her to New York and led her to pursue her studies at Barnard College and Fordham Law—as in that she’d attended over two dozen Metropolitan and City Opera performances annually since enrolling at Barnard and always became goosebumpy on the day of a performance—as in that she never failed to be emotionally overwhelmed at the opera, often moved to tears, and once dressed as Carmen for a Halloween party and as Manon for another Halloween party and as Tosca for another—as in that she once got into a knock-down, drag-out fight with a girl at a Halloween party in middle school because the girl didn’t like her costume and started making fun of the opera—as in that she threw a glass of punch in the girl’s eyes before clawing her face and they both wound up entangled on the floor—as in that she was the clear victor, having shredded the girl’s Queen Victoria get-up, and unashamed to be proud of it. Stuart, in his turn, revealed many things to Penelope that he wasn’t in the habit of revealing. But it was easy for him to do so: never was there any worry she’d judge and categorize him, hold his confidences against him, or fail to comprehend. The end result of this exchange of confidences was that Stuart began to feel a degree of selfless affection for Penelope that caught him unawares and spawned unforeseen confusion, it having little in common with physical attraction. He’d catch himself feeling ashamed of sneaking glances at her, savoring her beauty, longing to embrace and caress her: how could he be thinking such thoughts when she was his dear friend, who’d entrusted him with many secrets and been entrusted in turn? Was he violating her trust? How would she feel if she knew he was thinking such thoughts? Frequently, he found himself in the unenviable situation of being unable to stop questioning his intentions while being unable to abandon them. More than once he was tempted to make a clean breast of why they’d been assigned to work together, inform Penelope of his arrangement with the partner, while also cautioning himself against it: no other woman had ever divided him against himself, brought about a trace of such self-conflict. It wasn’t that he’d never felt protective towards a woman, of course he had many times: it’s simply that he’d never allowed such feelings to obstruct and delay a potential conquest. He’d always embraced the maxim that all’s fair in love, without troubling to debate the matter: his conscience had never entered the equation.

  Such was the amount of familiarity that developed between Stuart and Penelope that they took to touching each other, in friendly and casual fashion, rather frequently—light shoulder taps, brief caresses of the backs of hands, playful pokes in the ribs: the touching was often something of a form of punctuation during their conversations. The interested observers at the office, noting the easy manner in which they touched one another, began to speculate as to whether they were spending their nights in the same bed. Stuart, vaguely aware of such speculations, was only embarrassed by them, as they only served to accentuat
e how far he was from making them come true. Because, to Stuart’s utter dismay and increasing sense of frustration, there was always an invisible barrier between himself and Penelope—a barrier he could neither explain nor work up the courage to openly set about breaching. They’d become very close, such wasn’t to be denied, but it was as if they’d become close in the manner of a brother and sister—as if they loved each other as brother and sister and would always remain brother and sister—as if there was no possibility of loving one another as people with separate genealogies do. What a cruel trick of fate! He’d been given a golden opportunity to get to know Penelope and was making the most of it, but the more he knew about her—not merely the facts of her life, but characteristics of her personality—the further he seemed to be from becoming her boyfriend. What was he doing wrong? Again, Stuart could only greet the question with dismay, lacking an answer. Which isn’t to say he’d abandoned hope and wasn’t as determined as ever to become intimate with Penelope: he relished every moment spent in her company, always eager to see her again in the morning after they parted ways at the office—always eager to resume the chase, realize his sole consuming desire. He couldn’t stop anticipating the moment when he’d gain unlimited access to her heart, bedroom-wise, and refused to accept that such a moment might never arrive.

  One evening Stuart, having joined one of his best friends—Justin by name—for dinner, found himself compelled to speak of his lack of progress with Penelope, Justin having been apprised of the chase from the start. “I don’t know how she does it,” Stuart began, uplifting his hands in a gesture of futility. “I’ve always been able to tell pretty quickly if a woman’s likely to return my affection, but I still can’t with Penelope. I’ve never had to get nearly as close to a woman as I already am to Penelope before she started clearly indicating whether she was or wasn’t open to the possibility of hooking up. And, for that matter, have I ever been able to be friends with a woman without courtship being involved? If I’m troubling to chat with a woman for hours, have lunch with her every day, isn’t it because there’s an ulterior sex-motive? I don’t even have a choice, that motive’s always there. Draw whatever conclusion you want, but I’m unable to get close to a woman without wanting her. But Penelope! I don’t get it: how does she remain thoroughly inscrutable, as far as sex goes? I’m accustomed to rapid transparency in that area and I absolutely cannot tell if it’s a yes or a no with her. Penelope and I trade stories from our pasts, share our idiosyncrasies, laugh all the time—have loads of fun, as good a time talking as I’ve ever had, even while working under pressure, scrutinizing legalese with a fine-toothed comb. I know the modulations of her voice, changes of her expressions, meanings of her gestures, aspects of her posture—the ways she has of tilting her head, pursing her lips, maneuvering her eyebrows, varying her glance. On the one hand it’s like I’ve never been as close to a woman as I am to her, but on the other hand the closeness is an illusion because I still have no idea if she’ll ever want to kiss and cuddle. Never does the subject of relationships come up—it’s tacitly understood to be taboo. Never has she alluded to past or present involvement with anyone—it’s as if sex doesn’t exist in her world. Not to mention that we’ve never spent any time together outside of company time, not one drink after work—it’s also tacitly understood we’ll be going our separate ways. Actually, everything’s always clear as day between us except for how she feels about extracurricular activities. Close to her I may be, but it only applies as long as we’re being busy legal bees.”