Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  I rested against a clean-looking cement pillar and closed my eyes.

  Someone’s elbow knocked against mine. I looked over and it was a man. He wore a black fleece jacket and blue jeans, a creepy smile curving his lips. His teeth were yellow and he smelled heavily of cigarette smoke. Really, this wasn’t too strange of an occurrence. I wanted to reach for my mobile and call the police, eager to do something other than panic. Then I looked around and saw that most commuters had busied themselves with their phones. They were all so lulled into a strange and false security that if as long as they had a mobile on them and pretended to be invested in whatever was on the screen they were safe.

  An orange liveried train noisily pulled into the station. My harasser made his way toward the rear-most carriage and got onto the train. I rushed on, stepping through the double doorway. I looked around. There were no free seats anywhere, looking around was all I could do to find myself an empty square foot of floor space and grip the nearest handrail.

  The doors slid shut and the train pulled forward with a jolt. The carriage curved to the left, and the standing commuters swayed with the movement. I felt very much like a stranger, lost in the sea of the faceless citizens of Boston. I was nothing to them, and they were nothing to me. A homeless man who was bundled in a purple tartan-plaid blanket lay spread out against a few seats, and a couple of troublemakers, good-for-nothings actually, were giving him a hard time, poking him and calling him names.

  “Bastard isn’t maytag material.”

  “Looks like he’s shitting bricks.”

  “Hey man, you smell like shit.”

  The carriage was filled with tired people too consumed with their own lives to pay the slightest attention to others. I shouldn’t intervene, I said to myself. In that regard, that’s what growing up here had taught me. No one was going to let out a hair-raising scream and intervene because the goons would move on to you.

  “You know, I feel like taking a piss right here,” one of them continued blandly, hawking and spitting right beside the homeless guy.

  My mind drew a blank. It was a pretty damn horrible thing to endure, to recover from such a humiliation seemed impossible.

  As the train jogged over some unevenness in the tracks, I accessed my defiant voice, “Leave him alone!” I desperately hoped I sounded strong and in charge.

  The homeless man gave me a hemorrhoid laced smile.

  The lowlifes turned around slowly, scrutinizing me top to bottom, bottom to top. The leering began, pestering on its way. They slithered over like snakes, and it was a wonder they weren’t cursing at me or spitting on me. Facing guys who’d just love to fuck with me, my tough exterior was blown. A sudden suture in my stomach rendered me speechless, disentangling the knot was without avail.

  “You little cunt—,”

  “Piss off!” said a tall, lanky neighbor, looking edgy and intense. He had iPod earbuds in his ears, and his frizzy dark hair was run through with gray. I could hear the percussive coming from his earphones, making me wonder what type of music he was listening to. He yanked them out of his ears by the dangling wire, let them drop to his chest, the tinny sound now louder and more distinct. “Move over if you want a piece of her.” His stare was unwavering as the music hissed and squealed.

  One of the boys scoffed a racial slur at him, the N-word. The homeless man they’d antagonized gathered up his coat and other junk, averted his eyes, then ran off to the other end. People stared straight ahead, or studied their iPhones, and the ones with earbuds had most likely increased the volume of their music or podcasts.

  The train vibrated and then jerked to a stop. Downtown Crossing wasn’t my stop, but it was a good part of town and a glimpse out the window assured me the area of people waiting was crowded. It wouldn’t stop the boys if they were inclined to do something to me, but patrolling security guards might dissuade them. Again, there was an undignified rush for the few available seats as people stepped off and on. I happily settled for somewhere new to stand, right at the back of the car, far from the boys. Then I saw there was an empty corner seat just ahead of me. I slipped into it gratefully, balling my body up as tightly as I could. The next stop was Chinatown, and from there it only took the train a few minutes to reach Back Bay.

  When the train pulled into my station, I moved toward the exit with at least a dozen other commuters. Before I stepped out onto the platform, I searched for the loafers. “Pretty cunt, I’m right here,” someone said. I shook as I hopped down, nearly twisting my heel in the process. I heard the boys laughing behind me. They stayed on, but their laughter followed me. Unable to bear the subtle, cruel torture, I made the decision to kill two birds with one stone.

  Thanks to TiVo, Jane and I convened a meeting that same evening. I wasn’t inclined to spill my guts about being a public transportation chicken, I told her I was being curious.

  It started with, “To the window and back. Strut for me.”

  I was mystified how I kept my calm while being thrown in a pit of vipers. A sharply dressed woman with the tiniest wraparound headset approached. “Chin up, honey.” Her fingertips trailed a line up my forearm. “Shoulders up, back straight, knees together. You want to look proud and strong, understood?”

  Quivering in anticipation of what was to come, I gave Jane a sympathetic look and took a stab at it. Although the process of culling appalled me, I managed to not look down and walked with swift bouncy strides, swaying my hips from side to side. Maintaining balance in pelvis and hip movement is key, the continuous muscular movement ensured equilibrium. With each step, I swung my hips a little extra.

  “Atta girl,” a Carson Kressley lookalike whistled at me, “hot, sylphlike bitch, so gorgeously sensual.”

  “She’s not model-thin-and-tall. The catwalk is for flat and scrawny girls, not angelic types like her,” the Janice Dickinson wannabe beside Jane prompted. “I’ve a different type of gig for this type of merchandise. 5k an hour for clothed display and busts?”

  5k an hour?

  “What type of agency is this, Jane? Like a sugar baby thingy? I’m not interested in earning a paycheck by lying on my back.”

  The stare she gave me was heavy with meaning. “I’m married to a politician, Elena. Use your brain, I cater to powerful people. Twirl for me.”

  There was some esthetic appeal to me. I was beautiful, perhaps not in a catwalk-model way, more in an exotic way. I had gamine features, my tanned skin and raven hair were good features, my blue eyes and obscenely plump lips were my best features. I put my nose to the grindstone and underwent all kinds of spa and wellness treatments, the electrolysis procedure included, which took me longer than twelve hours to recuperate.

  Still, the idea of making easy money was eating away at my conscience, griping at my soul. For that matter, I met with Jane again to end things…and found myself smack in the middle of the perfect assignment.

  Elena Anderson

  The Girl Meets Dominant

  Jane was shaking her head. “It’s a whack-a-mole situation. David and I—,”

  “Spare me the mushy details. All I have to do is sit still?”

  “In a nutshell.” The tip of her forefinger traced the bare curve of my neck. “You’ll wear something blaringly sexy.”

  “Give me the dirt.”

  “Easy predicament. Daniel’s down on his luck, he needs donors. This guy is a linchpin, he’s very influential—you’ll recognize him. There are rumors about his…eccentric, expensive tastes. Creative displays are no-brainers. The agency will pay you 25k, and he’ll back up my husband. Woot. Win-win for both of us. By the by, Elena, from the get-go I knew you weren’t interested in modeling.”

  I was none the wiser. “That’s a lot of dough for sitting still. Fair enough since the client must be a pervert, but why me?”

  “He only had eyes for you when we were having drinks last week. That said, he wouldn’t dare touching you inappropriately. I initiated this course of action through his office, there’s an e-trail.”


  Without further drama, I signed on the dotted line. When I clocked out later, TGIF wasn’t applicable. Jane’s driver was waiting for me downstairs, there was no escape to be made.

  The Presidential suite had an embarrassment of riches, most opulent thing I’d ever seen. From up here, Cambridge was a tangled cluster of lights glaring brightly in the fading sunset. Seemingly, the rich bastard renting the room had houses in the city—note the plural form—but stayed in this suite. Go figure. Trapped in a sexless marriage perhaps? If having it all just meant having it for show than I’d rather live a modest life, but that’s just me.

  The city lights started overpowering the dull orange glow of the sun, and soon it gave way to the night. I lined up my clothing and accessories for the assignment. Jane poured me a generous shot of Courvoisier. “Drink. Bottoms up, but slowly. I don’t want you to scald your throat or get you hammered by alcohol.”

  The alcohol helped exorcising my disgust, and kept me from suffering a syncopal episode. Just the thought of some rich, old, fat pervert staring at me—ick. I discarded my glass on a side table. Shivering like a half-drowned rat, I put my hands up against a bathroom wall to steady myself.

  I sat down in the vanity chair with a towel wrapped around my upper body, thinking all kinds of crazy thoughts. Fuck it. I shook my head clear of all the questions I had, stood up and dropped the towel in front of the oval mirror. At least my body looked presentable. There was no need for me to feel too self-conscious about what shape I was in. I promised myself to do calisthenics and isometrics at least five times a week.

  As I pulled the basque over my head, the fabric was staticky and clung to my hair, leaving it disheveled as though I were a witch who’d gone through electrocution. You’re saddled with an assignment, suck it up, I scolded myself. I flung my arms above my head, and with a come-hither look I snaked my spine from side to side. I laughed out loud at the prospective idea of a man worshipping me as if I were the female version of a pied piper.

  I cupped my hand over my mouth when I heard how the sound carried through the otherwise silent powder room.

  “Wigging out, Elena?” shouted Jane.

  I needed a minute to pull myself together. While I slid the stockings over my ankles and rolled them up my legs, I reminded myself that the lump sum I was going to receive for this sham would allow for ordering a Mini. It sounded beastly and shallow, more so because I had a proper job, you may even call me one-dimensional. All fine because it was 2010. With the bar set lower, everyone dreamt about easy money, let’s not pretend you’re innocent of that.

  I strapped on the garter belt, attached the stockings. When Jane was done, I heard doors closing. Now I sat in darkness, listening to the steady thud of the pumping within my chest, and the rain beating down the windows. I was half-naked, and the soft silk sheets finally began warming against my behind. I tested myself against the improvised rope restraints. The knots at my wrists and ankles had been tied with great care and precision, there were a few millimeters of slack, but only enough to frustrate me. On another note, the rope itched and chafed and burned. It seemed the client sorely liked this type of thing, though. Jane wanted me to appear uncomfortable while I was helpless and landlocked. Before tying me up, she’d told me that if she’d washed the hemp rope a few times first, the fibers would soften and become much more pliable. She’d left the rope unwashed because this enticed men. The cord started to prickle my skin the moment she’d pressed it against me, the scratchiness increasing with every coil she wound around my bare flesh.

  Might I add, boyfriends had never tied me up. Talk about sickos who took advantage of girls as though they were gutted pigs. Note to self; never date powerful, loaded men.

  The weather had only called for a light sprinkle tonight, but what we got was a steady shower. Time slowed and there was a frantic thump, thump, thump of my heart and a pop, pop, pop of the rain. After a good while I surrendered to my captivity.

  Perhaps it was minutes—or hours—later, when I heard footsteps approaching the bedroom door. It swung open, but the light on the landing was switched off so I saw nothing. I heard someone step inside the room, and the door clicked shut.

  “How did you get in here?” said a man’s voice.

  He knew I couldn’t possibly make a reply, a piece of duct tape had been used to seal my mouth shut. I looked up, startled, and shook my head sorrowfully. He was a tall man, around six foot five, with a wrestler’s built. The bodyguard, I divined. He just got bigger and bigger as he got closer until, standing one feet away from me, he seemed larger than life. I knew my eyes should have been focused on the floor, but I couldn’t help myself. I’d made a mistake. I couldn’t go through with this albatross of a charade.

  Please, release me, I implored him silently, willing him to see my desperation and stupidity.

  “What the hell?”

  Lights on. At once I brought my eyes down, staring at the shine on his black shoes. He came closer and I heard him lean forward toward me, “Hold on, you don’t know whose suite this is, do you?” It didn’t sound like a question, he was simply verifying.

  Abashed, I nodded.

  Another man’s voice could be heard. The bodyguard yelled, “In here,” and asked his employer if he knew about me.

  “My oh my,” the other man said. The voice was clear and hinted that this person was well educated. A tone had that edge of sharpness, a voice for boardrooms and corporate mergers and takeovers. Cool, calm, collected. “What have we here? A little treat?” His voice had posed the question cheerfully, so my head bounced up to meet his eyes. Gunmetal grey like Gandalf the Grey’s wizard robes, and they lit up when he locked eyes with me. He arched an eyebrow, and even though I felt fear fluttering in my belly, I couldn’t bring myself to drop my gaze back to the floor.

  Holy Mad Men. Just…wow.

  The client was leaning back casually against the doorsill, long legs planted firmly on the floor as he watched me. His gaze felt like a soft feather brushing over my body. His jaw was clenched tight, his arms crossed with biceps pulling noticeably at the sleeves of his dress shirt, and I could see how tight his shoulders were. Classic like in a George Clooney movie, this man was too handsome. Too well dressed, too groomed, too arrogant looking. Too…everything. His full lips curved upward in slow motion. It wasn’t a charming, panty-dropping smile, more like a devilish kind of smile that made the gossamer hairs on the nape of your neck stand at attention. Exactly like the grinch smiled whenever evil ideas hatched in his mind. Exactly like Tim Curry in Home Alone 2. The scene was definitely cheesy and Lifetime, I would have laughed out loud if my mouth wasn’t sealed shut.

  Of course he was tall. Of course he had a cleft chin. Of course his wavy and glossy black hair was a little long, brushing up against the collar of his shirt in that unruly Christian Baleish manner. I wouldn’t say his face was handsome. Its imperfections simply made him incredibly beautiful. The wrinkles lined around his eyes proved that he read a lot and twitched his eyes as he read, perhaps it was even a behavioral tic. Looked like there were sectoral heterochromatic nuances in his eyes, and though his lower lip was full and colored richly, it was slightly crooked on the left side.

  Despite being indoors, it felt like a breeze stirred around us. In my mind, I saw the man in front of me working in a lush field. His strong jaw was speckled with dirt and a few days’ growth, skin glowing golden in the early evening sun. On the battlefield of his face’s underside, dark, savage bristles waged war with the golden smoothness of his skin, crying out for a woman’s stroke to smoothen them out. Sweat trickled down both sides of his face, and he wiped his brow with his forearm. The sweat dripped in such a manner that a few unkempt, dark strands were stuck together, pointing and curling, framing his face…caressing his light grey eyes.

  Minutes passed before I snapped out of the dream.

  I’d seen him before. Lawyer or businessman? Trying to put a name to his face, I failed to register the words he exchanged with his bodyguard.<
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  He was a sharp dresser, and sure enough, he was wearing a Prada-quality suit. I bet his shoelaces were pressed. I saw a dimple pull at the corner of his mouth, making me diamond-eyed and giddy. I was blushing infinite shades of red, slathering on the charm with deliberate goo-goo noises, like basting a turkey with home churned butter.

  “Better.” His eyes sparkled as he surveyed me from head to toe. “Much better.”

  After the close-up of his face, I couldn’t deny that he was attractive. Like a Caucasian in a Japanese whiskey ad or a European in a luxury item ad or an American in a Ralph Lauren ad, standing on a yacht with the wind in his face.

  His hand was enormous, could totally engulf mine. Being in a lower position, I had to crane my neck back to look at my very own Darth Vader. When I did, his smile made me feel like I was having hot water poured over me, making me look red like a lobster.

  He gave his lips a lick, and now I wanted to feel if the raw silk lookalike thingies tasted as sinfully delicious as they looked.

  Why was I on fire with lust at the sight of him? Perhaps because he had this dimple in his cheek I wanted to run my fingertip across, just to see if I could straighten out his skin. Why’d I feel my muscles and my very bones aching with the frustration of pent-up desire? It wasn’t just that he was ruggedly good-looking, there was something about him. He didn’t look powerful in a metrosexual pretty boy way. A roughness, a dark and dangerous quality was drawing me in, and though the thought of being tied up by a man appalled me, the idea of him winding a knot…no!

  Okay, I was babbling in my mind like a schizophrenic off her meds. I usually did that when I found a guy attractive.

  “I like this.” I could hear him smiling. His voice was inches away from me and it sent a pleasant chill down my back.

  He touched my wrists, and even as I made a sound of protest, I tilted my head for more of his touch. He looked and smelled and felt like…sex. Not that I knew much about the unspeakable subject. It was coming up to four weeks I’d gone without, a cold reality I didn’t consider important enough to lose sleep over.