by Gina Watson
She worked for a little while on an assignment due next week. When the god returned she put away her personal work and waited for him to issue a command.
Within fifteen minutes he called through the intercom.
“Yes, Mr. David.”
“Did you get those tickets and the letter completed?”
“I did.”
“Bring me the letter.”
He hung up. No please, thank you, kiss my ass. She printed the letter and gathered the tickets and then walked to his office.
He didn’t look up from his desk when she passed him the letter. Leaning back in his plush leather chair he read. When he inhaled deeply she knew she’d made a mistake. Damn. Like her, he was a perfectionist. She didn’t make many mistakes, but lately she’d been preoccupied and presented with what she referred to as New York brain.
He pinched his thumb and index finger together and pressed between his eyes. With his eyes closed he said, “Clara, this office rarely employs a student. However, I’ve kept you on here because your work is usually good and you are dependable. There’s the added bonus of knowing that with you I don’t have to worry about promiscuity. If either of those things changes you become less of an asset and more of a risk.” He pushed the letter across his desk with his fingertips. “There is a gross error in the body of this letter. Fix it. Additionally, I need you to come in tomorrow. Edward Koch is coming in to make what will probably be the largest donation in the university’s history. If you have a somewhat respectable dress, wear it. He’ll expect to be wined, dined, and entertained so call Prime and make reservations.”
She left his office and wiped at her eyes. She refused to cry, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t been hurt by his words. In six years, this marked the third time he’d caught her in a mistake. Yes, in six years she’d only made three mistakes. That didn’t matter. He only cared about the present. And what about his inability to remember her name? “Stupid man,” she whispered. She was so pissed she was shaking.
What hurt most was his remark about her attire. And fuck Mr. Koch. He was a skeevy, disgusting little man. It wasn’t lost on Cara the types of entertainment Koch demanded. Mom had observed him at the club the last time he’d come to town. He hadn’t been satisfied with a lap dance so Mr. David had arranged for some of the dancers to follow him back to his house. Mom said he had to pay thousands to let Koch do what he did to the women. Cara didn’t want to know the details, but she often wondered how Mr. David could accept donations, no matter how large, from a person like that.
***
That night Cara emailed her thesis mentor to let her know that she had to work in the office of the VP for a very important visitor. She then walked to her mother’s closet and surveyed her apparel options. When she pulled a black sheath dress from the lineup she knew she’d found the dress. It was fitted and had cap sleeves and a peplum waist—perfection.
She paired the look with a classic black pump with a two-inch heel. She’d need a pair of hose so she telephoned her mother from the landline.
“Hey, baby.”
“Hey, Mom, how’s your night going?”
“A few regulars have come in, but it’s a little slow.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Ah, it’s nothing. I don’t feel much like dancing tonight anyway.”
“Say Mom, I need to borrow your black sheath dress tomorrow.”
“Wonderful!” Mom cooed over the fact that Cara was finally going to doll up her appearance. “I can curl your hair and do your makeup. You’ll be gorgeous.”
“It’s only for a stupid meeting so no hair and no makeup. Can you pick me up a pair of nylons?”
“I’ll bring you a pair from the club.”
“Thanks. I’ll wait up for you.”
“Actually I’m…uh…Victor’s in town so”—
“Mom, are you seriously going to have sex with that asshole?”
Mom exhaled into the phone. “Cara, I’ve told you before that I have needs. I need to feel wanted, loved, and desired.”
“Loved? What he gives you has nothing to do with love.”
“I don’t expect you to understand, but when I’m in his arms I feel loved.”
“Whatever, Mom. When will you be home?”
“Early. Probably five-ish. I’ll leave the stockings on the table.”
“Fine.”
“Bye, baby. I love you.”
“Love you.”
Cara slammed the phone into its cradle. Victor Palmer was a douche who’d been stringing her mom along for years. The slime was actually married with children. Whenever he came to town on business they’d hook up. Thank goodness it wasn’t often, because once he left she’d enter into a period of deep melancholia that included listening to old-school jazz and blues and downing Maker’s Mark by the barrel—at least she was a classy broad.
The morning of the big meeting Cara showered and then slathered her skin with almond-scented lotion. Combing out her hair, she thought about her mother’s desire for her to do something with her hair. Maybe it couldn’t hurt. She shrugged, and then poked through the various array of hair products on the counter. Yogurt mousse? She massaged the product into her hair. The white foam smelled like candy.
She dried her hair using the hairdryer and attempted to use a round bristle brush, but only succeeding in getting it tangled beyond the point of release. “Fuck!”
“Baby, let me.” Mom said over the hair dryer.
“Thanks. How the hell do you use this thing anyway?”
For as long as she could remember, her beautiful mother had worn a black silk negligée of some sort to bed. She’d slip on a matching silk robe to walk around the house. Patiently she unraveled Cara’s hair from the brush.
“You’ve got the Presley hair—blonde, thick, and abundant. We’ll have to pin it up and dry it in layers.”
“Sounds tedious.”
“It’s beautiful.”
A half hour later her hair did in fact look beautiful. Glossy and stylish, Cara admired her look in the mirror, reminding herself of her boss.
Her mother stood behind her with her hands draped over Cara’s shoulder. “There, now we just need to apply a little blush, eye liner, and mascara.”
“No. I draw the line at makeup.”
Mom smiled and shook her head, recognizing a lost cause. “Your hose are on the kitchen table.” She lifted the toilet lid and sat.
At the table, Cara stared at the stockings in shock. When her mother entered the kitchen she demanded an explanation. “Mom, these are not pantyhose. What is this?”
“Thigh-highs.”
“Thigh-highs. How will they even stay up?”
“The tops are elastic lace.”
“I swear, sometimes I wish you were just a regular mom.” She snatched up the thigh-highs and padded to her room. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she rolled a stocking up her calf, over her knee, and up to mid-thigh. She straightened the lace around the top of the hose. She repeated the exercise, and then she stood, walking to try out her newfound accessories. They were actually preferable to wearing a full stocking, and had the added bonus of making her feel a little sexy.
She put on the dress, but couldn’t get the zipper to close. She sucked in her gut as much as possible and then was able to seal the deal. It was tight, but if she didn’t take a deep breath or sit, she’d be okay. The dress didn’t really go with her jean jacket so she went to her mother’s room and knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
The low lamplight on her bedside table illuminated her vices like a spotlight. A fifth of bourbon, still uncapped, sat proudly beneath the lamp with a demitasse coffee cup riding shotgun. What worried Cara was the prescription bottle of Xanax. Mixing the two wasn’t ideal. In the bed her mother cried and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief that no doubt belonged to yours truly.
“Mom, are you okay?”
“Yeah, baby.” She sat up and blew her nose. “You look beautiful.”
“Thanks. Hey, you’re not mixing whiskey and Xanax are you?”
The low hum of Etta James filtered through the air. “No.”
Hmm…her no didn’t seem likely. “Do you have a coat or a jacket I can wear with this? I don’t think my blue jean one will work.”
“Of course it won’t work.” She walked to her closet and pulled a black trench coat. This will look nice.” She passed the coat to Cara.
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll be home by one if you’d like to get lunch.”
“We’ll see.” She climbed back into bed and curled her body into a ball.
“I love you, mom.”
“I love you, baby.”
Chapter Two
Max awoke at five-thirty to the light strains of Balmorhea. Just as it did every morning, his Jura Giga 5 fully-automated espresso maker brewed a rich, crema-topped shot of espresso. He angled his feet over the side of the bed, stood, stretched, and then walked in the nude to retrieve the nectar of gods from the built-in coffee station in his bedroom.
Sipping the smoky, rich, and chocolaty espresso, he dropped down to the floor and started in on the arduous task of completing one thousand crunches.
At crunch number two fifty he took a break to finish off his coffee. He completed his morning abdominal obsession, and then dressed in his running attire, donning his new cross trainers in the process. One of his favorite things in life was a new running shoe. Hence, he purchased a new pair every month. Once dressed, he was off down the hall to access the back stairs, jogging swiftly down.
On the back patio he completed a sequence of runner’s stretches, inhaled deeply, and then took off toward the bayou. He enjoyed waking before most. On days when he was unable to complete a bayou jog he was most pissy.
The city had graded the area around Pease Bayou, which ran for miles. The city had put to good use the money the David family had donated for the sole purpose of outfitting the space with a running track. The bayou had several crossover areas that could extend a jogger’s mileage from three miles to over fifteen miles. Most days Max ran a large rectangle that logged him about eight miles. He could run the circuit in just under an hour. He’d been faster in high school, but he had to admit he wasn’t really pushing himself. He only sought to clear his mind and stay conditioned.
As he ran, he nodded politely to the usual diehards he met regularly on the dirt and gravel path. He searched for the blonde, but she didn’t seem to be on the track today and wasn’t that a shame? She had a great running stride and he would be willing to bet money she’d keep pace with him. Whenever he got the chance he ran a little behind her and to the left. The effect was spectacular—her full breasts bounced with every foot strike and her entire chest heaved as she sought more oxygen. Watching her tight, full ass absorb the impact was as close to heaven as he’d ever get. He hated to admit it, but he was extremely disappointed at not finding her out in the early morning southern Louisiana air.
At three minutes to seven, Max was jogging back onto his property. He hit the kitchen and grabbed a Greek yogurt, blueberries, honey, and granola. To the white Raynaud Cristobal porcelain bowl he added equal amounts of yogurt and blueberries, topping it with a tablespoon of honey and granola. He carried the concoction up the stairs and to his bedroom.
With the spoon in his mouth he froze.
“Hello, Max.”
At the sultry, come hither voice, Max swallowed the yogurt in his mouth. “Madeline.”
“I’m sitting for Gabe, but he’s mixing colors so I had to find something to occupy my time while I wait.”
Max cocked a brow at her innuendo. This could work. Actually, he was already hard as stone as he watched her pull the white plush robe apart and let it fall to the floor.
He sat with his hip against the dresser and continued to eat his yogurt. Madeline turned, displaying her backside to him. She turned her head to look back over her shoulder at him. “What do you think, Max?”
“Bend over.” She complied. “Open yourself so that I can see your cunt.” She reached her hands to her ass and spread her cheeks apart. He groaned low in the back of his throat. She was a thorough waxer, he’d give her that. Madeline started to rise, “No. Stay like that until I tell you otherwise.”
He ate slowly, enjoying the taste of the exotic clover honey and the quiver of her exposed, wet cunt. Madeline liked to fuck—hard. She knew from experience that he did too.
When he finished his breakfast he divested himself of his sweaty shirt. He then walked to the corner of the room and lowered himself onto the ottoman of his black Herman Miller lounge chair. He unlaced his new trainers and removed them, taking his time to pull the tongue and stuff the laces into each shoe. Standing, he removed his athletic shorts and underwear. Naked, he grasped the ottoman firmly in his hands and carried it over to Madeline who still assumed the position. He set the ottoman in front of her. “You’re going to need this.” She understood his meaning and propped herself up with the help of the ottoman.
He grabbed a condom from the drawer in his nightstand, rolled it on, and then walked around behind her and gave her exposed ass a hard slap. “I’m running a tad behind schedule due to your unsolicited visit so this is going to be hard and fast, and solely for my enjoyment.”
She moaned and then he slammed his hard cock into her. Oh, yeah—this is exactly what he needed to round out his morning routine. He slammed her repeatedly with thrusts so hard it had the heavy ottoman inching across the floor. Madeline’s screams were loud and guttural. His own grunts were feral and animalistic. He used her body wholly for his own pleasure. He lifted her leg, placing it on the ottoman so that he could go deeper and harder. The sounds of their skin slapping together and the accompanying wetness filled the air. By the time the chair had made it across the room, he was coming with the force of a freight train, his roar loud as fuck.
He immediately pulled from her and removed the condom. He walked to the bathroom and flushed the rubber down the toilet and dialed up his shower to heat to a perfect ninety-nine degrees. Back in his bedroom, he gathered his sweaty running clothes. Madeline stood nude, watching him. He needed her to go so that he could focus on his upcoming day. He picked her robe up from the floor and held it out to her. “Thank you, Madeline.”
“I was hoping to have a shower with you.”
“Did you not hear me when I said your unscheduled visit put me behind?” He pulled fresh underwear and socks from a drawer and set them out on the bed.
“I heard. You’re taking a shower anyway. I just figured I could join you.”
“Not now.” In his closet he pulled a dark blue Hugo Boss suit from the rack.
“I’d like to see you tonight, Max.”
He carried the suit from his closet and hung it on the valet. “Maddy, with the exception of an occasional fuck, I’m not interested in pursuing anything between us. Have I ever let on that I was?”
“No, but”—
“No buts, Madeline. Go down and meet Gabe. I’m sure he’s ready for you by now.”
She ran from his room. What the hell had gotten into her? He’d lost count at the number of times she’d offered herself up to him, but they’d always fucked and then gone their separate ways. Now she desired more from him? She’d just gone and ended the only thing they’d ever shared—sex. He’d get no more from her. Once a woman started to get possessive it was time to let them go.
As he showered he thought of the blonde runner. He might give a relationship with her a go. At age thirty he was starting to wish for something with a little more substance. He recalled how sex used to be with Elizabeth. She’d wanted him to call her Beth, but he’d loved how her four syllable name rolled from his lips. They’d been so young and so in love. He sighed. He still had the ring he’d bought to propose marriage. Since her death he hadn’t been able to develop a deep relationship with anyone. It was just as well…he was cursed. He’d lost his mom and dad, and then he’d lost her.
He let the hot water wash over him while he wallo
wed in self-pity. When he was done, he straightened his spine and squared his shoulders. It was time to face the day.
***
Max entered his office space with a bang, hoping to see a bright-eyed Clara. What he found instead was an empty desk and office.
“Dammit, where is that girl?” He grumbled aloud.
“Good morning, Mr. David.” She’d emerged from the faculty lounge. “I was just putting on the coffee. What can I do for you?”
The first thing he noticed was her long, thick blonde hair. Then his eyes took in the fitted dress she wore, revealing a plush figure. She was short and stacked, the heels elongating her legs. With her ample bosom and curvy hips she was like a nineteen fifties centerfold. She still wore her ridiculous glasses, but the ice blue color of her eyes mesmerized, their beauty incapable of being harnessed despite the hideous frames. They were feral animal eyes—like those of the Alaskan Husky he used to have. Her plush pink lips were his undoing when she moistened them with her tongue.
“Mr. David?”
His gaze followed down her legs and then landed on the little boy next to her. “Uh…Clara, who is that?” He pointed at the boy.
“This is Marcus, your sponsor.”
“My what?”
“From Dopheine Orphanage, sir. You sponsored the development of the music program at Christmas. And you sponsored Marcus.” She squeezed the boy’s shoulder.
Max rubbed his forehead. Clara was always playing tricks like this on him. He definitely remembered all the personal money he’d donated for the instruments and the practice space so that the orphans could have a music program. What he didn’t remember was sponsoring a child. He’d give money all day long, but what the hell was he going to do with a kid?
Marcus smiled brightly, “I pway the biolin.”
Clara nodded. “You should attend a practice…Marcus is quite the virtuoso.”
“Can I speak with you for a moment?”
“Of course.” She squatted and spoke to the boy. “You go and see if the card you made for Max is dry. I’ll be back in a second.” The little boy complied.
