That day, a Friday in June, is emblazoned on my memory as though it were yesterday.
Quite what it was about Angie that made my skin tingle like a teenager's in love I could not say. I wondered later. Maybe there had been a sign. Maybe the source of that fatal attraction was something deep within me that recognized, even though it could not know, that she was different. All I knew at the time was that she turned my head every time her slim, almost boyish figure with its long slender legs and swan-like neck appeared in my field of view.
I tried, God knows. I knew the golden rule. 'Never in the office'. You could not win. Especially when the object of your desire is three levels below you in office seniority, and ten years your junior. Was this the onset of a mid-life crisis? Surely not yet? Mid thirties? Maybe a yearning of the animal in me that a miserable, failed marriage entered into at a too early age had not even stirred from slumber? Whatever it was, it was crazy.
I tried to put it out of my mind. I failed. My work suffered. This was noticed.
"Not like you, Ron," Pat, my manager, said, scowling, as she pored over the set of accounts I had just turned in for approval: accounts I had managed to mangle so badly even the most cursory glance could spot the errors.
I mumbled apologies. A bad day.
Pat was understanding.
"Everyone has one of those, Ron, from time to time," she said, handing back the file across her desk for me to correct. "Tomorrow will be fine."
But I knew it wouldn't be. I was smitten, caught. And helpless. I could not free my mind of her, and I could not make a move. Hell, the last thing I needed on my undistinguished record was an accusation of sexual harassment. It does not take much, these days. Condemned to ogle surreptitiously, to yearn, work became torture and off-work was no better. I had to break free. Quit? It seemed my only escape. In retrospect, it was my only escape.
I was about to hand in my resignation, I swear, when it happened. It was 5pm and the office was clearing. As always, I had a backlog. Rarely could I leave much before 7. I sensed her approach. I had been waiting for it, the last glance of the week at those elegant shoulders and trim ankles as she passed by on her way to the door.
Looking without appearing to look is as frustrating as it is distracting. So it was only after she had rounded the corner and was gone that I noticed the slip of paper that had appeared on my desk
A phone number. And beneath it, in neat handwriting 'If you dare'.
It seemed my heart would pound its way out of its moorings. So she had noticed. Of course she had noticed. How could she not. Probably everyone in the office had noticed. What did she mean 'If you dare'?
Of course, I called the number and set in motion events that would change my life for ever.
The address was in the hills above Pasadena in a secluded, upmarket neighborhood. The house was hidden. The curved driveway led from the road, disappearing mysteriously behind a tall hedge. From the road, nothing of the house or grounds could be seen. Not an address I would have associated with a humble office worker in a law firm. But the street was right, the number on the gate post was right. This must be the place. Of course, I was far too early so I drove around the block and parked by the roadside. My heart was still pounding and I found I was trembling.
"If you dare," she had said, after giving me the address. Her tone was even. Did I imagine an ominous tinge?
"Er - may I ask what you mean, Angie?" I had stammered in response.
"If you are afraid, do not come," she had replied, mysteriously.
Then the line went dead.
Fifteen minutes is a long time to wait in a car parked by the side of the road. Why did I feel so conspicuous, guilty? Why was I as nervous as a school kid on his first date? Was it six months in the wilderness, three dates, three total busts?
Thankfully I started up my Morgan, a collectors item, handbuilt in England, the only object of value that remained to me after the divorce, and only this because Meredith, my ex, hated it even more than she had come to hate me. I revved the engine, gaining courage from its throaty roar. Rounding the block I steered into the gravel driveway and reversed against the hedge into a slot between a blood red Cobra and a Toyota Celica.
On the stroke of nine, I pressed the buzzer. The door opened instantly, to reveal - an empty entrance hall. I hesitated. There was no sound. A small voice in my head told me to back off, to retreat to my Morgan and to run away. I disobeyed. Stepping forward, I crossed the threshold and entered the hall. The door closed soundlessly behind me. I whirled around.
It took my eye a long instant to recognize she was stark naked. Every man's fantasy, is it not -- the door opens and behind it is a totally nude woman. And not just any woman. Unwittingly, my errant eye scanned from the pink of her toenails, sunk into the pile of the carpet, up along slender limbs, to the cleft of her pubis, a hint of pink labial lips, up to linger on pert, pear-shaped breasts with nipples standing proudly erect, to that long elegant neck topped by the angelic face and short cropped hair I knew so well, the head that had so turned mine.
In every man's fantasy, the result is instant arousal. On the ground, though, as it were, the reality that evening was utter confusion. I am not sure my jaw actually dropped, but it felt like it had. I stood transfixed, unable to move or utter a sound.
Our eyes were joined now, hers quizzical, mine betraying my incomprehension.
"House rules, Ron," she said simply, standing quite still, her arms hanging limply at her sides.
I understood. 'If you dare' came to mind. Wordlessly, I began to unbutton my shirt, my eyes feeding on the peerless figure as though it were an apparition. A slight inclination of her head answered my unasked question. I draped my shirt over a chair in the corner. My slacks and boxers followed. Thank God for those hours in the training room, working off my frustrations on the machines. No golden beach boy, but not bad. No reason to be ashamed.
She had not moved as I undressed, but now, as I stood before her, she stepped towards me. Keeping eye contact, she ran a hand through the hair on my chest. I felt the touch of her breast on my upper arm.
"I knew you'd come," she said. As her eyes looked up into mine her hand had moved slowly down. Slim fingers with elegantly painted nails grazed my cock and balls, teasing. I moved as though to kiss her, but she recoiled just enough to say 'Not yet'.
"Stroke my back," she said.
Her skin felt like satin. I stroked as gently as I knew how. She nuzzled closer, her breast pressed into my chest, her left arm curled around my back, pressing me to her. The teasing continued. Life began to stir. Gently she massaged my shaft with her fingers, moving from base to tip, base to tip.
