Pauline couldn't believe she was actually keeping the appointment--her first ever illicit assignation. She had booked off work, but had told her fiancé, Martin, she was going to an off-site seminar, explaining why she was dressed in a smart silk business suit. Driving furtively, feeling guilty, her mind was a tumult of mixed emotions. Although, really, she told herself--again--she was only following directions. She had been told where to go and when she was expected, not asked--not asked when she might be expected and where.
What she was doing was, if not actually morally, then ethically wrong; there was no doubt about that; still, she felt compelled to try it--at least once--regardless of the consequences. It was not just the thrill of the illicit, she realized, but the delight of submission, that drew her; a strange, novel brew of desire that tempted and beckoned her.
Pauline felt bad for Martin, but assuaged her guilt by convincing herself--deluding herself--that it was really his fault. It was his friend who started it. "Anyway," she rationalized, "things have been cooling off between us--Martin and I--Martin and me, lately." After a pause, she went on with her self-talk. "Granted," she had to admit, "it is a bit of a chicken-and-egg situation."
Glancing at her face in the rear-view-mirror, pleased with her look, she initially thought, "Yes, well made up;" but then, succumbing to a moment of doubt, she wondered if it was, perhaps, too much--too provocative. And, speaking of provocative, what about her lingerie? Black lace--too skimpy? "Of course, no one's going to actually see my underwear, are they?"
As all those thoughts flitted about her head, straining her self-confidence, she suddenly became aware that her GPS was guiding her into an unfamiliar neighbourhood. Once again, her nervous agitation flared, but not so much because of the strangeness of the neighbourhood; more due to the nearness of her destination. All of a sudden, she felt the intense need to remove her engagement ring. Pauline focused hard, while sitting at a stop light, deliberately not looking around; she didn't want to confirm that everyone was watching her; for she felt it must be absolutely obvious that she was a cheater. So, she concentrated on her ring to shut out any and all other feelings. She kept pulling at the ring, but it wouldn't budge. She started to get flustered. The damn ring hadn't, she realized, been off in a couple of months. Almost panicking, she licked, once more, twisting and turning the recalcitrant ring just above her knuckle. Her spit, eventually, spread over her knuckle, lubricating her finger, and worked its way beneath the gold band; which finally slipping off. The light changed; someone honked. She plopped the ring into her pocket as she started rolling. Suddenly apprehensive about losing it, she fished it out, and, driving with one hand, looking with one eye and half a mind, she managed to put it into a zippered purse compartment at the next light.
At twenty-six years of age, Pauline was an independent, 21st century millennial. An accounts officer at a large Credit Union, she lived alone in a plush condo, which, although mortgaged to the hilt, she owned. She had recently accepted a marriage proposal, and was engaged to Martin, a twenty-nine-year-old junior bank manager. He was sensible and sensitive, and lovingly considered his fiancé to be strong and confident. Their relationship was very egalitarian; their decision-making always collegiate. They were, in Martin's view, very well-suited. They're problem--though they barely acknowledged it, let alone confronted it--was, however, Maurice, Martin's rather odd, forty-year-old friend, and apparent mentor. Pauline and Martin had, at times, debated Maurice's sexual orientation, but had come to no firm conclusion--"Not that it matters," they agreed. In fact, Maurice was totally and completely heterosexual, though, he always played his cards close to his chest.
Thinking back to what led up to all this--what led up to her driving surreptitiously across town, to a secret rendezvous at the apartment of her fiancé's odd friend, Pauline marveled. She, also, shuddered at the contemplation of a looming unknown, and for the millionth time, questioned her own judgement, indeed, her own sanity. Of course, the truth was that she could hardly see past the very veneer of the dynamic situation into which she was so naïvely inserting herself.
Now, for his part, Maurice had a much better understanding, a much clearer view of the dynamics of the developing situation. He had recognized a latent submissiveness in Pauline--or, as he often called her, much to her annoyance, Polly--right from the start. And that was a character trait which he could and would, if at all possible, exploit--subtly encouraging, peeling its layers back slowly, like an onion skin, revealing her sub-conscious desires to her very own self, slowly one sheet at a time. It certainly helped his efforts that, despite her proclaimed dislike of him, Maurice, as Martin's good friend, was very often over at Martin's for evenings and dinners. And it was there that Maurice began his gentle molding of Pauline--his shaping of her--her unnoticeable indoctrination; brainwashing--mental re-programming that was so subtle, at first, as to be imperceptible.
Maurice had moved very, very slowly; extremely patiently, looking forward at the bigger picture--success being a long way away, he saw the whole thing as a game--a challenge. Over the course of more than a year, he had consistently progressed--incrementally, making infinitesimal gains, until one evening, after yet another dinner at Martin's, as Martin, busied himself in the kitchen, as he always did, Maurice moved a chair before him, facing him directly, and beckoned Pauline to sit and chat.
As she warily sat, the skirt she was wearing rode up slightly. As she made a futile attempt to pull it down, Maurice smiled indulgently, and patted her on her bare knees. "Well, then Pauline--Polly; you don't mind if I call you Polly, do you?"
"Yes, I do," Pauline thought; but how could she say that without seeming rude and petty, so she simply shrugged.
Maurice went on--softly, conspiratorially, without giving her a chance to reply. "How are you doing? How's it going? Have you two set a date, yet? How's work?" Here he paused, looking enquiringly at her for a moment, before continuing. "Yes, tell me about work. Where do you work? What about your colleagues; who, among them, is interesting--and why?"
"I work in the accounts department of City Savings Credit Union, at their main office, downtown. But you surely know all that. I spend most of my time in the chaos of the customer service phone floor."
"Tell me about who you work with--and why they're worth mentioning."
For some reason Pauline felt compelled to engage. "Well, my colleagues on the floor are mostly women; a few gays--male and female; and, of course, a couple of guys who think they're the cock-of-the-walk, overseeing their harem."
"In what way?"
"Undercurrents. Soft hits--gotta be careful, in this day and age--sexual harassment and all."
"Are they ever successful?"
"I don't know for sure but I expect they score from time to time."
"Ever scored with you?"
"No! Not a chance!" Maurice just smiled at Pauline's vehement denial.
"But really, the place is pretty well the standard mix: a few Nazis, a few shepherds, and a bunch of sheep."
"Who sleeps with whom?"
