Consent to the Forbidden

"Are you free?"

"Yes."

Click.

When the call comes, I move fast. A hurried straightening up, quiet the lights, soft music. I've got it down. She lives down the block, just a three minute walk if she's in a hurry. She always is.

I'm ready when she knocks. Today she's come right after work, deduced from her outfit - paired, conservative jacket and skirt, slightly saucy open blouse, tastefully patterned stockings, and pumps. Her hair's in a bun, a few wisps astray. Probably had a meeting with the Board. This deduced by her name flanked by two others on the lobby directory in a downtown tower. Hey, I was running an errand. I was curious.

The C-suite's a tough gig. Lots of balls in the air. She must have dropped one, or she wouldn't be here. I'll never know. We don't talk about such things. In fact, we don't talk at all, when it's just us two, when she's here...for this. I'm a writer, mysteries, work at home. A match made in heaven.

Her eyes remain downcast from the moment I open the door. Our agreement. No eye contact. Safer? Denial? You pick. I'm too close.

She walks slowly past as I lock out the world. A sniffle as she kicks off her shoes. Must be bad. I ease off her jacket and hang it on the antique oak coat tree. It's how we met. Our neighbor's garage sale. We went for the same book, a kinky romance, perched like a beacon atop a pile of mysteries and bibliographies. We talked for a half hour about our shared proclivity. She got the book, I took the coat tree. And she got my cell.

She trembles as I soundlessly turn her to face me. Each time I soak her in, fresh. Her hands clasped in front, feet awkwardly pointed in. Eyes closed, preparing. Such complexity. Inside, outside, average, brilliant, poised, uncertain, childish, bossy. Fighting to find purchase and balance in every arena, proving her worth, and inevitably stumbling. Unacceptably human. To her. Which scuffle bested her today I can only wonder.

I sit abruptly in the padded leather chair, previously placed. With swift, learned choreography I raise her hem waist-high, slide fingers around her hips into lace panties and force them to her knees, a lavender twist binding black stockings. I grab her wrist and spin her firmly around to my side where she finds herself fluidly yanked over my lap. She gasps as I lay into her, my hand possessed of the spirit of whichever overlord she feels beholden too: Daddy, boss, God? I do not know.

Her kicks and squirming escalate immediately, but without words of protest. Sobs erupt, yes. Cries, shrieks, howls. But not a word. Crimson flames across both cheeks and darkens. My hand burns in tandem, sharing her pain. My heart, knowingly, her anguish.

I don't think about limits, as she confessed specific needs that sunny day in our neighbor's garage. Needs, she made clear, that could be sated by my experience and strength if meted out without debate or delay, in utter secrecy, and silence. Silence, save for reverberating claps of skin now striking skin, tearful cries of remorse, and the cadence in my heart of deepening paternal affection.

A faint beep stops our ritual as quickly as it began. The timer. The one limit. 7 minutes. Brief, yet long enough. And inconspicuous. Life, as otherwise known, will shortly recommence.

Crying like a toddler with a banged knee, she rises awkwardly and I steady her. With quaking gasps, she turns away and carefully slides up her panties so they snugly fit across her mottled and dotted cheeks. She'll feel this the remainder of the work day with every shift at her desk, or in the Boardroom, giving spark to either press the fight or demur and negotiate, as she should have earlier, impersonal and calm, guard up, stoic as the cast of ancients affixed around The Table.

She disappears into my bathroom to run a brush through her hair, clear her streaked mascara, and reapply her lips. She emerges, slips into her shoes, hand on the wall to steady a lingering wobble. I help with her jacket and hear a sniffle and long exhalation as I press out the shoulders. Done.

She lets herself out and I watch her head home down the sidewalk, repaired and ready for round two, I assume, at the office, then daycare, and likely the grocer. Barbecue at the block party tonight. Speaking of which, I have steaks to marinade.

The back door opens noisily as I empty the refrigerator of meat packs. The sound of keys hung in the mud room now reverberates along with two pint-sized peals of delight tromping towards me.

THE END