The Secret Life of George Prufroc

As usual, it may help to read the first chapter: The Secret Life of George Prufrock

*

It was a perfect autumn day when George Prufrock and his wife Janet attended Myra Lennon's outdoor potluck supper. As Janet chatted with her friends, George wandered across the flagstone patio and into the living room: a man ignored, virtually invisible. He was the sort that others, especially women, look past without seeing. If they spoke with him, the conversation was forgotten at once.

Ambling into the kitchen with its granite countertops and center island, he saw Della Jenkins making another batch of her mushroom canapés. The woman was in her early forties, a stout hausfrau possessed of lively brown eyes and a magnificent bosom.

"Need some help, Della?" George ventured.

The woman looked up. "What? Oh, it's you, George." She seemed to hardly recognize this man who had lived on her street for decades. "As a matter of fact," she went on, "you could open the oven door so I can put in these canapés to heat up."

George did so, stealing a peek at the generous cleavage revealed by Della's low-cut knit sweater. The woman inserted the tray of appetizers; then, said, "Hand me those dirty dishes and I'll put them in the sink."

He did as he was told. Settling onto a breakfast bar stool, he sat quietly for a moment; then, said, "Anything else?"

"No, you can go now. I just need ... a ..." Della paused as a blush came to her cheeks; she gazed intently at the man, her brown eyes now beginning to glow with a smoldering passion, "... a man like you, George! Oh, kiss me! Just kiss me!"

Chuckling in his baritone voice, George murmured, "I was hoping you'd say that." He rose and put one arm around Della's waist and roughly drew her to him; then, planted a passionate kiss on her lips.

The woman moaned in pleasure, wrapping her arms around him, melding her body into his. She brazenly thrust her tongue into his mouth and let it roam like a snake. Meanwhile George's hands slid down to Della's wide hips that were covered by tight sateen pants. He began to squeeze her soft butt.

"You don't know what it's like, George," she murmured between raw, sensual kisses, "to see you everyday; to ache for someone as manly as you to hold me, to take me!"

"Oh, you are a sexy minx, Della," he whispered as he slid a hand up under the back of her sweater and with a quick motion unsnapped her bra.

Della's huge breasts sagged a bit as she quickly pulled up the sweater and bra and offered her bosom to George. With his lips still locked to hers in a savage kiss, his hands roamed over her breasts, kneading the warm supple flesh there; now gliding over her thick hardening nipples.

"Ah, ah, I'm on fire!" Della gasped. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she pushed George down to her breasts, crying, "Kiss them, George, love them the way I've dreamed so many times!"

George sat on the breakfast bar stool as he pressed his lips deep into the flesh of Della's bosom, savoring the rich perfumed essence of her body. Then, still gently squeezing her breasts, he took a long nipple into his mouth and sucked like an infant. Della, running her hands over his thick wavy hair, sighed in ecstasy, saying, "Mm, yes, this is heaven!"

"Oh my word!" George heard a familiar voice cry. "What in the hell is going on here!"

Still holding Della's nipple in his mouth, George looked over to see his wife Janet standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips. Her mouth agape, she had a look of complete and utter astonishment on her pasty face.

George stood up as Della stepped back. Her eyes flashing with anger, Janet cried, "Della Sue Jenkins, oh you shameless hussy! I always did think you were a man-hungry slut!"

The outcry attracted the other party guests, who now crowded the doorway to see what had happened. When Della noticed that the men's eyes were directed about a foot below her face, she hastily pulled down her bra and sweater to cover her bosom that was still damp with George's kisses.

Her face aflame, Della said defiantly, "I couldn't help it! It just hit me all at once, what a fine sexy hunk George is!" She gestured to the man, who stood there in his wire-rim glasses and worn cardigan sweater; his light brown hair becoming thin and gray; a paunch at his midsection.

"What woman could resist him?" Della cried passionately. "Can't you see that beneath it all he's a sexual tiger? A strong, virile love machine?"

For a few seconds, Janet and the others looked at her in stunned silence. "No, it's only George," they all cried in unison.

"George, you've embarrassed me enough!" hissed Janet, her face dark with fury. "Come, we're leaving at once. And Della, I'll never speak to you again!"

George took a step, then held up his hands as at last he began to realize what was unfolding. "Wait now, wait. Just hold on! You mean, this actually happened? Della and I really were kissing!"

"Oh yes, George," Della sighed. "Your kisses are as sweet as sugar plums."

Glaring again at Della, Janet said to him in a steely voice, "Of course it happened, you nitwit! I saw it with my own eyes. You should both be ashamed of yourselves. Oh, I'll never live this down!"

A bewildered look on his face, George moved toward Janet and the door. He glanced back to Della, who made kissing motions with her lips, whispering, "Call me, hon. Any time."

Still thoroughly mystified, George followed his wife out the front door, past Myra's rose trellis and down the brick walkway to the street. Janet continued to rant nonstop. "George I've never been so humiliated that slithy tove Della must have been drunk to put her arms around you and let you kiss her and good grief to fondle those huge Tumtums of hers George what on earth were you thinking!"

"That's just it, Janet! I was only thinking about what it would be like to kiss her, honest! It never really happened ... did it?"

"Hah! What kind of beamish fool do you take me for! The way that frumious bandersnatch threw herself at you George it makes my blood burble what she sees in you I'll never know!"

Janet's voice, which after a while became a constant monotonous drone, could not distract George from the shock of it all. There could be no question. What had seemed another of his harmless sex fantasies was in fact reality. The faint aroma of Della's perfume lingered on his clothing; he could taste her lipstick on his own lips. It was a complete and inexplicable mystery.

Janet's icy glares the next morning confirmed that he had indeed played kissy-face with Della Jenkins. It truly happened. As baffled as ever, George left the house and went to his office at Prufrock Bookmarks, his own firm which manufactured quality bookmarks featuring great images from literature printed on them.

Unable to afford a permanent secretary, his temp this month was Anita Lovejoy, a pert blonde in her late twenties. Just after his morning coffee, she brought him several letters to sign, each a solicitation for new orders of bookmarks.

George glanced through them as he signed, noticing several typographical errors that the woman had failed to correct. He marked them with a red pen; then, said, "Miss Lovejoy, two of these need to be corrected and printed again. See the errors?"

The woman glanced at them, saying, "Yes sir, anything else?"

"Well, while we're at it," said George, "I'd like for you to ........ bend over my desk so I can spank your soft butt."

Miss Lovejoy's eyebrows arched in surprise. "Oh, have I been bad, Mr. Prufrock?"

"Yes," George smiled, giving her his patented Prufrock smile that would melt the coldest spinster's heart. "Very careless, Miss Lovejoy. And I consider it a boss's duty to remind his secretary to do her work correctly. Bend over, my dear."

Swallowing hard, the woman approached his desk. With a nervous smile, she reluctantly pulled up her A-line skirt and grasped the top of her nude pantyhose. She drew them down to her knees, then bent forward and placed her elbows on George's roll top desk.

Miss Lovejoy looked back at George, saying in a tremulous voice, "Are you going to spank me really hard, Mr. Prufrock?"

"Oh yes, Miss Lovejoy. A man must be firm with his secretary." He pushed her skirt up to her waist, now baring the woman's great round derriere. Her glorious cream-colored mounds seemed to glow in the office light.

"Oh my. Will it sting and turn my bottom a cherry red color, sir?"

"I'm afraid so, you little minx." With that George drew his arm back and gave Miss Lovejoy a sound smack on her right butt cheek. He followed this at once with an equally harsh whack on the left cheek.

"Oh! Aah!" gasped Miss Lovejoy, as she twisted her torso, yet arched her butt forward, awaiting the next smack. "Yes, I really am a naughty girl!" she cried.

For the next few moments the walls of the little office resounded with the sound of George's firm hand spanking Miss Lovejoy's soft butt. Soon her entire bottom was blushing red, heat radiating from it. George ran his hand over her warm flesh, squeezing and massaging her nether cheeks as he said, "Well, dear girl, have we learned our lesson?"

She looked back at him, gasping for breath, her eyes now aflame with passion. "I think so, Mr. Prufrock, but ..."

"Yes?"

"Maybe a few more smacks, just to be sure?"

"If you insist, Miss Lovejoy," he laughed in his rich baritone voice. What followed was another series of thorough whacks covering her butt; some hard, others light and stinging. From time to time came cries of "Oh, don't stop!" from the woman.

Finally George patted her rosy bottom, saying, "Now, shall we have those letters done properly, Miss Lovejoy?"

Breathing hard, her face as red as her butt cheeks, she turned and drew her pantyhose up over her hips. "Yes sir, of course sir." She gave him a warm smile, saying "It's nice to work for someone who knows what a secretary needs now and then. Especially a rugged handsome guy like you, Mr. Prufrock."

George held her shoulders and gave her a quick friendly kiss on her forehead, saying, "The affection is mutual. But remember, any more errors, and you'll be bent over my desk again."

The woman giggled as she picked up the letters, saying, "Oh, now don't tempt me, Mr. Prufrock! When you look at me with those big bedroom eyes, I just want to ..."

"... put some more toner in the copy machine and order another ream of letterhead stationery."

"Uh, yes, do that," George said as Miss Lovejoy gazed at him in her usual detached, businesslike manner. "Just be sure to get those letters in today's mail."

"Of course," she replied as she turned and left his office. George sat down at his desk, pleased that he and Miss Lovejoy were getting along so well. He finished his morning's work and had lunch, soup de jour and mushroom canapés, at a nearby café. After he returned he saw that the woman was working diligently at her computer.

An odd thought crossed his mind. Did I imagine spanking the girl, or actually do it? Yesterday I thought that kissing Della's big boobs was a fantasy, but it really happened. Is it possible that Miss Lovejoy did in fact bend over my desk for a good paddling? My memory of it seems so real. He decided that there was only one way to find out. Thinking, do I dare, George wandered back out to his secretary's desk.

"Yes, Mr. Prufrock?" she smiled as she looked up and brushed her blonde curls from her face.

"Miss Lovejoy," he said hesitantly. "I'm curious. Did I give you a good spanking this morning?"

The woman's jaw dropped; her face went pale. "A spanking! What are you talking about, Mr. Prufrock? Oh, no, never!"

"Are you sure? You said you were a naughty girl and deserved a good paddling."

Miss Lovejoy's blue eyes became as cold as a glacier. "Now listen to me," she said through gritted teeth. "I'd never let any man do that, least of all a little worm like you! So keep your, your stupid male fantasies to yourself!"

The temperature in the room had dropped at least ten degrees, maybe more. Growing more angry by the moment, Miss Lovejoy cried, "Oh, you men!" and flung a bottle of White Out at George. It bounced off his shoulder. He retreated to his office and dared not come out as long as he could hear the faint clickity-click of Miss Lovejoy at her computer.

But it got worse. Just before five in the afternoon, there came a knock on his door. "Yes?" said George nervously.

Miss Lovejoy opened the door part way. She gave him a warm playful smile, saying, "I'm leaving for the day, Mr. Prufrock."

"Th ... That's fine, Miss Lovejoy."

Her eyes twinkled merrily. "Have a nice evening sir. And I'll see you in the morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed," she giggled.

"Thank you. Yes, see you tomorrow."

"I'll try not to be naughty again, sir," she said with an affectionate wink, "but I can't make any promises!"

With that, she closed the door and left. George put his hands to his temples in utter bafflement. What's going on, he asked himself. Did she give me a wink and a smile just now, or did I only imagine it? Am I going crazy? I need help!

The next day, George was granted an emergency session with Dr. Gettis Wellman, the most respected psychologist in the city. Now in his late thirties, Wellman was one of those men who grow more distinguished with age. His dark hair had a dusting of gray along the side. Combined with his sleeveless cashmere sweater and horn-rimmed glasses, he was the very image of a calm, insightful professional.

George sat on one end of his tan microfiber sofa. Dr. Wellman sat nearby in a comfortable padded chair, looking down at the questionnaire in his lap. "Well, George," he said, "you do have an especially vivid imagination. In this standard first-visit survey form, you marked every single item in our checklist of fantasies, and added five more that I'd never heard of."

"I guess I do," said George glumly.

"So, you say that some of your fantasies are upsetting you? Tell me more."

"Well, I'm just like any guy, I suppose. When I see a pretty girl, a stranger or perhaps an attractive neighbor, I begin to fantasize about her. The usual ones, you know. I think about how I'd like to fondle and kiss her breasts, maybe spank her butt. Or ride her like a pony; pound her like a jackhammer. Aren't those the kind of thoughts that every man has when he sees a nice-looking woman?"

"Hmm. Not as a rule, but go on."

"Dr. Wellman," George said in a low voice, as if he were revealing a secret, "the problem is that now I'm having trouble separating fantasy from reality. Things have happened the past two days, and I'm not sure if I imagined them, or if they really occurred."

George related how he had fantasized about Della Jenkins' superb bosom, only to find himself making out with her like a sex-starved teenager. And how he may, or may not, have given his secretary a good spanking.

"I'm just so confused, Doctor," he sighed. "I seem to be losing control of my fantasies."

"I see your concern, George. But first things first. Let's talk about how you got along with your mother." Over the next half hour, Dr. Wellman guided George through a discussion of his experiences with woman, from childhood to the present.

Then, after brushing some dust from his patent leather Italian loafers, the doctor rose and began to pace back and forth in front of his patient. "Well, George," he said, "I think part of the problem is that you have latent hostility issues with women. This is because you've been humiliated and rejected so many times in life by women: your mother, every female teacher you ever had, and the first nine girls you asked for a date. This has happened, what, dozens of times?"

"Oh at least. Maybe hundreds."

"Now, we'll start with a Jungian approach to your analysis. We should perhaps ... "

" ... continue this in a more intimate setting. Say, my condo, tonight at eight?" Now Dr. Wellman was sitting close to George on the sofa, one arm on its back and the other patting his hand. The doctor smiled affectionately at him.

"Huh?" said George.

Moving closer, Dr. Wellman purred, "I'll make some of my special mushroom canapés to go with our wine, George. Ooh, and I have this darling red satin robe I've been dying to wear! We can listen to an Edith Piaf CD for a while, then .. " He paused, now taking George's hand and squeezing it.

With a sly wink Dr. Wellman said, "George, tonight I'll give you a nice massage. You'll feel as relaxed as a patient etherised upon a table. Then, with my analytical tool, I'll probe deep into your ... psyche. What do you say, cowboy? Just the two of us, curled up before a cozy fire?"

Not again, thought George. Is this really happening? Sliding away as far as he could, he said, "Uh, no, Dr. Wellman, that is not it! That is not what I meant, at all." He looked around like a cornered rabbit, then said, "I just remembered I need to get my tires rotated at Wal-mart. I'll talk to you later." He bolted up and hurried to the door.

He glanced back, seeing Dr. Wellman reclined on the sofa. The man made kissing motions with his lips, murmuring, "Call me, hon. Any time."

His eyes wide with confusion, George shut the door and walked past Dr. Wellman's secretary, a distinguished-looking woman with pure white hair, sixty if she was a day. She was wearing an off-shoulder black tube mini-dress, trimmed in lace. Looking at her, he said with some asperity, "You might have mentioned that Dr. Wellman is gay!"

"Gay! What do you mean? He's a happily married man with two mistresses."

George reached for the outer door knob, and then paused. "Two mistresses? How do you know?"

"Because I'm one of them," the lady replied, a tone of womanly pride in her voice. "But my Thursdays are free, sugar buns ..."

Shaking his head, now more bewildered than ever, George practically ran from the building and out into the half-deserted streets, now engulfed in the dim yellow fog.

If one looked closely at the man who sat on a park bench a little while later, they would have seen a most piteous sight. He was middle-aged, balding, and now trembling slightly. His eyes darted left and right, as if he were struggling to hold on to his sanity.

What's happening to me, George thought desperately. Did that little old lady, walking with a cane, wink at me and sway her hips as she went by? Or did I imagine it? And that young brunette leading some kindergarteners on a walk in the park. Did she really smile at me, raise her T-shirt, and flash her breasts?

George sat back on the bench. Just before he closed his eyes, he noticed that the blue sky had begun to turn to a lime green color. Why did I dare disturb the universe, he thought. Is this the end of George Prufrock? It must be. Soon the eternal Footman will hold my coat and snicker.

He sat there in the very depths of despair, his eyes closed, a man battered and defeated by life. Shortly he heard footsteps rapidly approaching. He looked up to see a young woman jogger. She wore a bright blue sweatband on her forehead, above which was a rich mass of dark auburn hair.

As she drew near, George spoke. "Hello, Desiree."

The girl stopped when she saw him. "George Prufrock!" she grinned. "Oh, I was hoping I'd run into you today." She raised her left leg up and held the ankle with her hand, stretching her thigh muscles.

"How are you doing?" the girl asked.

"Oh, just awful, Desiree. I'm so unhappy; at the end of my tether."

"Then it's a good thing I came along," she laughed. With that, she settled into George's lap, placed her arms around his shoulders, and offered him a comforting smile. She snuggled close; now George sensed the heat and aroma of Desiree's body. He savored the rich fragrance of the perspiration that covered her face and the front of her T-shirt. It was pungent, yet with a fresh, tangy, feminine bouquet that he found quite pleasing.