Cinnamon Kiss

She wanted to know everything about him, not just the kinky shit.

What foods did he like? What was he planning to do over the weekend? What was his favorite book? Did he enjoy his coffee with cream and sugar or as was true in her case, was it simply a caffeine delivery method, critical to function through the demands of a monotonous job, insufficient sleep, and chronic adrenal fatigue?

She peppered him with the questions throughout their workday, relishing the warm sense of satisfaction that flooded her system each time his answer resonated in her soul with piercing familiarity. His answers were concise, understated, with only a parsimonious seasoning of the sentimental insight that she longed to draw out of him.

Her motive was innocent enough. What had started as a playful crush on her part, quickly escalated into an infatuation that defied all of her dearly held preconceptions about attraction in general. For starters, she had always been drawn to a very specific archetype of masculine beauty, one which she had affectionately come to refer to as the "Viking." They were imposingly tall men, with bulging muscles, intense blue eyes, copious amounts of blond hair and predictably, in possession of a vainglorious personality to match the aesthetic. These men were masters at the art of primal conquest. She was petite, moderately attractive, with a flirtatiously sanguine personality that easily caught their attention. She was aware that their desire was based on the superficial aspects of her person, but to be fair she was also exploiting them in her own way. She adored being the object of their unbridled lust. The exhilaration of the chase and physical domination that followed had always been her thing.

It was such an ingrained part of her sexual identity, that without the inclusion of animalistic fury in the bedroom, her orgasm was virtually unattainable. While lacking in emotional substance and genuine romance, relationships with the Vikings were entertaining to say the least, and a welcome distraction from the monotony of her life as a overqualified under-earner, working an uncreative job she despised, merely to pay the minimum on her student loan debt for a degree she wasn't using. Much like their barbarian ancestors, once the Vikings had made their conquest, they quickly lost interest and moved on to find another virginal maid to ravage.

Michael was the opposite of a Viking in almost every respect. He was an intellectual, with curly black hair and brilliant dark eyes that keenly probed his surroundings over a pair of thickly rimmed spectacles. He possessed the unflappable, quiet confidence of a sage who has decoded the mysteries of the universe, yet somehow retains the innocent charm of a curious child. He was only a few inches taller than her, with the compact, athletic build of a runner. He dressed in the same invariable outfit day after day, a series of slightly crumpled, collared-dress shirts (compulsory work attire) with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, over a cotton t-shirt, emblazoned with crackled retro insignia, and gray high tops, slightly worse for wear. He was good-natured, approachable, and generally well-liked by everyone in the office. Yet inexplicably, Michael often spent his lunch hour in solitude, eating the same uninspiring turkey sandwich and potato chips, day after day with no variation. He was not a Viking, not by any stretch of the imagination, but for reasons beyond her comprehension, he was now the most fascinating, attractive, and desirable man in the world.

On the first day of her new job, he had neglected to introduce himself along with their other co-workers. He hung back, an almost imperceptible expression of quizzical amusement on his face as the requisite social niceties were exchanged. Masking her own insecurity behind a disarming smile and sparkling eyes, she made it a point to introduce herself to each person. As a serial people-pleaser, she was motivated by a visceral need to be liked and admired. She wasn't the most beautiful woman in the room, neither was she the most talented or intelligent. But most of the time, she was able to effortlessly accomplish this goal by means of natural congeniality and the unique ability to intuit the emotions of everyone around her.

Sensing his hesitation to approach, she made her way towards him with a magnanimous smile. "Hi, I'm Eleanor," she said, hand outstretched in a gesture of warm salutation. He glanced down at her hand, following the line of bare arm up her body to meet her eyes, then looked away in abrupt alarm, a slight tinge of flush creeping into his cheeks. She registered the response as embarrassment and smiled, quite pleased with herself.

"Poor thing," she thought with merciless satisfaction, "I've made him nervous."

Creating reactions in men, even uncomfortable ones, was one of her most relished enjoyments. It left her feeling incredibly powerful and in control, but his next move surprised her entirely. His energy shifted back towards her and he reached out, took her hand confidently and held it in a firm, secure grasp, while staring directly into her eyes.

"I'm Michael," he said, and smiled at her with such poignant familiarity that it took her completely off guard. Something had passed between them at the point of physical contact, an electrical current that seemed to transfer a lifetime of memory, emotion, and awareness in a single moment. Now it was her turn to blush and she pulled her hand away, suddenly horrified by the reality that her palm was sweaty. What had happened? The dramatic flip in the power dynamic had perplexed her initially, quickly evolving into intrigue, and eventually obsession over the days and weeks that followed.

Did he feel it too, but was only too shy to acknowledge it? Was it simply her hopeless romanticism inflating to mind altering proportions? This part of her subconscious rarely surfaced and had developed early in her life through the unbridled fancies of an overactive imagination and quite possibly, the consumption of an inordinate amount of fantasy novels. Whatever the cause, she could not read him clearly; the energy of desire was clearly overriding her empathetic ability and it left her feeling terribly insecure.

She found herself tuned to his voice, regardless of their proximity to one another, and magnetized to his presence in a delightfully excruciating way. She felt sick when she wasn't close to him, miserable when she was, and her discomfort was compounded by the fact that he appeared increasingly indifferent to her existence as time went on. She had attempted to flirt and seduce him no less than half a dozen times, batting her doe-eyes and reducing the length of her skirt by an additional inch after each failed conquest. Nothing worked like it was supposed to.

Perhaps in the employment of her feminine charm, she had inadvertently insulted his intelligence and this was the origin of his increasing aloofness? She thought of his smile and that vibrating touch of his hand, determined to experience it again at any cost. If only she could make him understand how genuinely she admired him, wanted him, surely he would soften towards her. Considering their short acquaintance and the fact that her feelings were clearly unrequited at that point, she set to deploying alternate means of persuasion. The questions had been a strategic endeavor to build a psychological profile on the man, to learn precisely what made him tick in order to garner his affection. If she played her cards right, she could get his attention and hopefully keep it until the novelty of her body wore off in 6 months time, as it always had with the Vikings. She was quite good at "peopling" and made everyone around her feel seen and heard through the asking of intentional questions. In general, she had only utilized this skill in the platonic sense, but had seen it create bonds of intimacy at a rapid rate countless times before. Why should this be any different? However, what had started out as her relational Modus Operandi, quickly morphed into a shameless obsession as one by one, his blunt answers mirrored those, buried deep within her own psyche.

It wasn't simply that their tastes were similar, to an astronomically improbable degree, it was that his own spirit seemed to resonate at the same frequency as her own, like two disembodied souls, incised by the universe on a distant astral plane and fated to reunite, lifetime after lifetime in a cosmic "meet cute." She did her best to maintain her composure, yet failed miserably at every turn. With seeming lack of effort or intention on his part, he held the acute power to liquify her composure with one abstentious glance over the top of his spectacles and despite her best efforts, she was keenly aware of how painfully obvious her feelings were for him. She regularly endured the sardonic eye rolls and snide comments from her fellow coworkers with untroubled grace. She didn't care what they thought. There was only one person in the office whose good opinion mattered and she would do whatever she needed to do to obtain it, even if she made herself appear thoroughly ridiculous to everyone else in the process.

"So... What's your favorite smell?" she asked him randomly one day, refilling her mug for the third time that morning and ignoring the incredulous smirk from a nearby break-room occupant. She had posed this absurdly impudent question with the express intention of saturating herself in the preferred compound whenever she happened to walk past his desk on a roundabout route to the bathroom, as she had made a habit of doing no less than ten times per day. As always, Michael appeared unfazed by the strange inquisition. He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. She watched his jaw moving beneath the sharply trimmed goatee and noticed with wistful fascination, the rise and fall of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. She was so engrossed in the voyeuristic process that the coffee mug overflowed and she came back to scalding awareness with a jerk, cursing and scrambling to mop up the mess with flaming cheeks. He ignored the frantic display happening in front of him, staring at her over his glasses with placid indifference. But was that a slight twinge of amusement she detected in one corner of his mouth?

"Cinnamon," he said, at last with a laconic blink and went back to his sandwich.

Moments later, she was back at her desk, surreptitiously adding "Red-Hot Candy" body spray to her digital shopping cart, determined at any cost to inflict him with even a small degree of the amorous torment that kept her on edge at all hours of the day and night. She fantasized about the surprised look of recognition on his face and the resulting praise she would receive for how very clever and perceptive she had been. At the very least, she was resolved to make him smile.

She would break him, if it was the last thing she did.

It was on an unremarkable Friday afternoon around 3 p.m. when he dropped a note on her desk. It had occurred after one of their typical perfunctory exchanges, the kind which (since she had begun working there 2 months prior) had quickly become the general highlight of her day and by necessity, had also inspired the practice of keeping an alternate set of panties in her purse due to the unfortunate physiological effect that his presence had on her. It was a simple scrap of paper, folded into quadrants and inscribed with her name in irregular untidy penmanship. He offered no further explanation, simply set it down and walked back to his cubicle. She stared at it in shock, as if it might vanish the moment she took her eyes away.

Her hands trembled as she unfolded the paper, staring at the message it contained with startled disbelief. It contained an address and a few basic instructions, floating sideways across the torn scrap of garish, yellow notebook paper.

"8 p.m. Password is Cinnamon. Don't be late."

Eleanor spent the rest of the afternoon pondering his cryptic message in a luminous daze. Even the illusion of productivity was impossible. Her large eyes kept flicking back and forth between the clock and Michael's cubicle where he sat with his back to her, typing away as normal. She kept unfolding and refolding the note, scanning the text on repeat to make sure she wasn't imagining things. There was a beautiful and profound vulnerability contained within those thin, scrawling lines and she felt the staggering weight of it, feeling that both happiness and unimaginable despair hinged upon how she would respond.

When 5 p.m. arrived, Michael got up from his desk without ceremony, slid his rolling chair back into place, and left without so much as a word or glance in her direction. His behavior was altogether infuriating and bewildering. Who the actual fuck did he think he was? She waited in spite of herself for several minutes, determined that she would not subject herself to the humiliation of meeting him on the elevator. When she was certain he was truly gone, she rallied herself and fumbled to collect her jacket and purse before staggering down the hallway, to the audible snickers of her colleagues.

Over the next several hours, Eleanor refocused her mind on the newly resurrected goal, which was to present herself to Michael in such an alluring state, that he would be unable to help himself. She now had confidence that he was interested in her (at least in some capacity) and the reality put her back in a comfortably familiar position of power. She couldn't help but smile as she jumped in the shower, meticulously shaving her legs by propping them up on the cracked blue tile of the bathtub. She painted her toenails cherry red and slipped into the most impractical undergarments she owned, a matching black lace bra and thong panties. The remaining articles of clothing were a gamble. Dress up and he would be onto her game, dress too casually and she might insult him, squandering the opportunity. In the end, she opted for a pair of impossibly tight jeans and a black gauze blouse, just transparent enough to reveal the outline of her bra underneath.

The look was completed by a pair of precarious red heels, smoky eye-shadow, and a glossy pucker of ruby tinted lipstick. She stood back to look at herself in the full length bathroom mirror, turning slightly to glance over her shoulder at the back view. She both looked and felt amazing. The seduction was inescapable.

"Poor man," she said to herself, imagining his stunned look of embarrassment when she showed up at his door later that night. "If he can form a coherent thought, it'll be a miracle." The idea of turning the tables on him filled her with malicious glee. She would make him pay for pretending not to like her these last two months, and for greeting her flirtations with such cruel indifference. Smug, satisfied, and delighted by her own sagacity, she tousled her hair to climactic heights, mimed a kiss at her reflection, and swaggered out the door.

To her dismay, the GPS took her on a roundabout way through town that was notorious for being especially congested on Friday night. When she pulled up to the destination, a small, unremarkable tan bungalow with untidy flowerbeds, the clock displayed an unfortunate "8:05 p.m." She inhaled sharply in alarm, but quickly dispelled the blip of concern over being late. It was only 5 minutes and after all, he had made her wait much longer.

She knocked at the door, pushing out her chest in expectation of it being opened immediately. But there was no answer, not even a subtle stirring of life from within the bowels of the house. She waited a minute, then knocked again, ringing the doorbell this time in case he was out of earshot. This too, yielded no result. Irritated, she cast an uncomfortable glance downward at the brass letterbox, hoping to confirm that she was in fact, at the right place. It was then that she noticed a scrap of paper, very similar to the other she had received that day, sticking out from one corner of the box. She snatched it up and read it hungrily.

"It's unlocked. Come in Eleanor."

Her mouth went dry. She had not been expecting this and suddenly, her confidence over having the upper hand was shaken. She took a deep breath, turned the door knob, and pushed.

Inside, the house proved to be more interesting than the exterior had suggested. Reclaimed wood floors sprung beneath her feet, spread here and there with faded Pashmina rugs. The walls were painted a basic white, but had been embellished with the most random assortment of cultural artifacts she had ever seen. Framed movie posters from the 1970's and renaissance paintings socialized with vibrant kabuki masks. Primitive pottery and delicately painted china tea cups were juxtaposed with platoons of collectible action figures on floating wooden shelves. Books were stacked on every flat surface in sight, exploding from overstuffed cases in a confusion of manga, leather bound literary classics, and fantasy paperbacks with broken spines. It was an eclectic tribute to a perplexing man, and she was even more intrigued than before. An ornate grandfather clock ticked systematically in the next room, the only sound with the exception of her own tentative footsteps on the creaking floors.

"Hello?" She called out, anxiously breaking the silence with her own voice, "Michael? It's Eleanor, I'm here."

"Back here," a disembodied voice sounded down the hall. She moved tentatively in its direction and found herself standing in front of a door, slightly ajar with an amber glow of light spilling around the edges. Her fingertips hovered above the wood. It was a moment of profound trepidation, one in which uncertainty and anticipation mingled with the curious feeling that she had actually been there before.

Michael sat in a leather armchair in the far corner of the room. His booted foot was propped on the opposite knee, hands clasped before him in repose. A contented fire crackled next to him in the rough-hewn stone fireplace. It painted the room and its contents with quivering strokes of copper light. There were more books (so many fucking books) and she felt a sinking pang of jealousy rise up in her at the thought that anything contained in the pages of these dusty tomes could be more interesting to Micheal than her, a living, breathing woman. The walls of his inner sanctum were no less adorned with atypical paraphernalia, but these were even more mysterious in nature than what she had witnessed at the front of the house.

Curious metal implements, reminiscent of medieval instruments of torture, hung neatly on hooks against the walls beside a variety of paddles, floggers, and a triad of threateningly slender bamboo canes. A hefty cedar beam had been suspended from the ceiling above with wrought iron supports, punctuated every few feet with leather manacles dangling from chain. Next to the fireplace, a glass cabinet housed no less than three dozen dildos, each one boasting a uniquely idiosyncratic charm. Elegantly curved crystal specimens, congenial silicone numbers in brilliant technicolor, and a few imposing monster cocks with a disconcerting tentacle or two among them, were proudly displayed in all their perpendicular glory. A leather massage table served as the room's main focal point. Equipped with removable stirrups and obvious restraints, the piece left little room for subtlety regarding its purpose.

Eleanor stood motionless, absorbing the scene in bewildered amazement. Her eyes scanned the shocking accoutrements, struggling to process what she was seeing and translate it into usable data. At last, she focused her attention back on Michael. He was still sitting by the fire, hands clasped in that same posture of reclined contentment, a quiet smile hovering around the corners of his goatee.

"Fuck me..." she breathed the expletive in a whisper and took a few shuffling steps to one side, entirely stunned, hand disrupting a stack of papers in the process. The sheets went swirling like leaves in November wind and as they fluttered down around her feet, she came alive out of her trance.