Duty-Bound

Maybe someone can shed some light on this one. I've thought about it a lot, and I'll confess - I just don't seem to get it. Is it the role models little girls grow up with? Is it buried among the subliminal messages young women pick up through pop culture? Is it what they think we want? Is it what we want? Or is it a behavior buried so deeply in their genetic code that even the decades of self-enlightenment can't flush it out? Maybe it's the final forbidden pleasure?

These are questions I pondered as I stared at the email Jack Hammond had left glowing from his computer screen. Samson and Jennings hired some of the brightest, best educated, and best bred women from the country's most prestigious universities; yet, Jack Hammond and all of the Jack Hammonds in our firm never had any trouble finding plenty of young women to seduce, abuse and eventually crush. The downtown watering holes crackled with tales of conquest and abuse. If one were to accept the stories told after hours, one would believe that the lounges and supply rooms at Samson and Jennings were strewn with the naked bodies of women who'd been fucked, fucked again, and discarded.

Sapphire rocks. HM

This was the simple, yet cryptic message on Hammond's computer screen. It was a response to Hammond's original and equally cryptic note - Mark neat. Jack

I figured it to be just another of Hammond's endless sexual games. It was just a question of upon which of the new and unsuspecting female staffers was Jack about to pounce. And was it just Hammond's style to leave the message for all to see while he hurried across the street to boast at Bartleby's about his fresh prey. I closed the program and left.

My final task of each day was to trundle the dozens of boxes of sensitive documents belonging to the rich, famous, and powerful Samson and Jennings clients into the 10th floor safe. Truthfully, it was I job I enjoyed - even looked forward to. The 10th floor was occupied with some of Samson and Jenning's most desirable female staff, most of whom where as hopelessly flirtatious as I. I am a University of Michigan business school grad, fairly handsome once I grew into my 6'2" frame, most of which happened during my stint in the Gulf War. I think the women of the 10th recognized the irony that I, the strapping college educated Marine arrived each day at 4:15 to empty their trash cans and perform the menial tasks they couldn't be bothered with. My serfdom emboldened them. I must admit, I enjoyed my role.

"So Phillip, how will we know who you are tomorrow night," Heather, a project assistant with an adorable southern accent, asked.

"How bout I find you, Heather. But are you sure you would want to be seen with me?"

A couple of the girl's giggled. This excited me, as I knew it meant that they'd collectively discussed the possibility.

It was Friday afternoon and the office was electric with the anticipation of Saturday's soirée. Samson and Jennings was famous not only for its precision and skill as one the nation's top accounting firms but also for its no -holds-barred parties. I learned quickly that the staid and formal accountant's façade was just that. My colleagues were as quickly given to reckless hedonism as the Marines I'd spent leave with or the athletes I'd shared locker rooms with at the U of M. Saturday's party was a masquerade, so I knew that the combination of alcohol and anonymity would unleash a sexual explosiveness that even the stodgiest bean counter couldn't resist.

"I don't know Philip," Heather said boldly. "We were kind of wondering how you'd feel to be seen with all of us?"

I shook my head and smiled as if to say, "You naughty, naughty girls," but all I could think as I watched the women playfully share in their private joke was what a thrill it would be to spend a single wild evening in the soft lap of this delicious harem. The possibilities thrilled me, and I exited to conceal my pleasure. Just as I lost myself in images of the soft warmth of female flesh luxuriating over the lush carpeted floor of a penthouse suite the air of which was perfumed with the sweet smell of sexual desire, I drove that cart of file boxes right over the delicate, yet potent, foot of Ms. Merrill.

"Goddammit! Watch where you're going, for chrissake!" Ms. Merrill dropped a stack of papers as she braced herself against the wall with one hand and reached for her foot with the other.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't see..."

"You sure didn't! Pay attention next time!" Ms. Merrill scolded between clenched teeth. She let the shoe fall from her foot and began massaging it with her free hand.

I had collected all of scattered papers, put them back into the file and offered them to Ms. Merrill when I noticed the tiny cut just above her ankle. I dashed into the men's room and emerged only seconds later with a dampened cloth. I went to dab the blood when she snatched the cloth from me.

"I can do it, for chrissake. Why don't you do what it is you're being paid to do. Whatever that is."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. You're right I wasn't paying attention. I apologize"

Ms. Merrill waved me away at the same moment some of the ladies, led by Heather, arrived to attend to her.

Ms. Merrill was on the top rungs of Samson and Jennings hierarchical ladder. I had barely gotten a foot on the lowest rung, and an accident like the one I had just caused could keep both feet on the ground floor for some time to come. Ms. Merrill was an executive with a dangerous reputation. When I'd first heard the stories of devastation she left in the wake of her meteoric rise to the top, I couldn't believe it. First of all, she didn't look the part. Ms. Merrill was one of the most striking women I'd ever seen. Tall, red hair, with the strong confident gait of a long distance runner. She wasn't thin, but very athletic, as anyone who had ever seen her leave one of the downtown gyms after a Pilate's class would quickly attest. She had the type of beauty that left men defenseless. What reason would she have to be shrewd and ruthless? Those tactics were the refuge of the less attractive. But the anecdotal evidence was too strong. The mid-level executive positions at Samson and Jennings were filled with men who had challenged Ms. Merrill or dared to cross her. As far as I knew Ms. Merrill was friends with no one and feared by all.

Friday afternoon's catastrophe quelled my enthusiasm for Saturday night's bacchanalia. But I'd made promises to attend and eventually humiliation succumbed to loyalty. I hadn't picked out a mask, so after lingering with several cups of coffee and the entire New York Times, I threw on some clothes and headed off to a small costume shop I knew of in the Village. Apparently, I wasn't the only one to wait until the last minute. In the shop I ran into half a dozen people from the firm browsing through the hundreds of masks. One of these familiar faces was that of Heather, the sultry southern vixen from the 10th floor.

"My my. It's a public Phillip sighting," Heather said, loud enough for others to hear. "We were wondering if you ever got out on the weekends."

"Oh yeah, I crawl out of my hole every now and then," I answered smiling. What Heather wore was colorful, clearly intended to draw attention to herself. Unlike the drab blacks and grey required by Samson and Jennings, Heather's outfit reflected her sense of energy and adventure. I couldn't help but notice that it was also inviting and just a little naughty without being slutty and cheap. She looked at me and held a silk mask to her face. "What do you think of this one, Phillip?"

I shrugged with indecision.

"Well since you seem to the resident mask expert, how about you pick one out for me."

I laughed and accepted the task. As I looked over the hundreds of choices, I asked, "What'll you be wearing?"

"Oh no, now that's a surprise young man. You'll have to figure that one out tonight. You'll know me by my mask. Pick one you like, Phillip."

Among the motley staring back at me, one did attract me. It was a deep midnight blue. I picked it up and the tiny sequins and flecks of glitter sparkled back at me. It's eyes were cut differently that the rest. They were more cat-like - plotting, prowling.

"This is the one," I said.

Heather took it from me and held it in the light. She smiled and without looking at me asked, "What do you like about it, Phillip?"

"It reminds me of the night, and I'm very curious about Heather's night. The part that lives while the rest of the world sleeps." I knew I'd run the risk of going a bit overboard, but what I said I actually believed.

She looked at me, still smiling, but looking deep into me, as curious about the Phillip that I kept hidden from the world as I was about her. "That's nice. I'll see you tonight, Phillip." A notable emphasis on "night".

My encounter with Heather tempted and tantalized me the rest of the day and I found it difficult to do much else other than imagine what might be. To burn off sexual tension I went for a long run through Central Park, but even then I looked for her in among the people enjoying the crisp autumn afternoon. I even left the park and jogged down Fifth Avenue and past the Samson and Jennings building in Midtown with the irrational hope that I might find Heather leaving the building. Once I returned to my apartment I went right to the shower to not only wash away the sweat and relieve my muscles from the strain of an eight-mile run but to also relieve the pent up sexual anticipation that was driving me crazy. Under the warm water I soaped my body. I felt the soft glycerin run over my member and down the insides of my thighs. I closed my eyes and imagined Heather. I undressed her as she watched me. She wore only the mask, watching me with those cat eyes. I felt the purr in her tummy as knelt to kiss it. I could feel my cock grow heavy and thick. At the moment I imagined taking Heather in my mouth, I began to rub the bar of soap over my stiffening cock. I could hear her soft moans in the water that poured over my face, and I stroked as I listened to the pleasure in her voice. This scene had been brewing in my subconscious all afternoon and it suddenly exploded to frenzied, ravenous lovemaking. I felt the warmth of orgasm start to spread through my loins. My hand stroked the full length of my soapy cock and I let forth load groans of desire, a primal expression of my lust that made my throat raw. I finally exploded in long ropes. Spent and relaxed, I leaned my head against the shower wall and let the hot water run over me.

At 8:00 PM I looked at myself one last time in the mirror. I picked my mask from the kitchen table. I hadn't given the selection of my mask nearly as much care as I'd given Heather's. I tucked it in my pocket and went to the street to hail a cab.

I arrived at the hotel at 8:20. The party had started at 8:00 but I knew that most of the guests wouldn't arrive until closer to 9:00. Most of who was inside would be enthusiastic new hires like myself, showing up not too early as to appear eager and not too late as to appear blasé. As I stepped to the sidewalk, I saw Jack Hammond helping a young raven-haired beauty into a cab a few feet ahead of me. Jack was wasting no time tonight. Apparently he and Sapphire Rocks and made their connection. I pitied the poor girl. A Princeton grad, I recalled from a brief conversation I'd once had with her. A month or so from now, after Jack has tired of her and is ready to move on to something new, she'll miss some work. Her parents will worry because she doesn't call. She'll try to rebound by bar hopping and fucking men of all manner of race and social status, either to prove to herself that she's desirable or to punish herself for not being good enough. Maybe that's a little to psychoanalytic, but that's how I figured these things played themselves out.

I entered the hotel and found the banquet room on my own. I plucked the mask from my jacket pocket, drew it down over my face, took a deep breath and entered. It was a large room, elegantly decorated. I studied complicated flower arrangement on one of tables. A finished drink was left on the linen. I picked up the glass and felt the solidness of fine crystal. Again, no expense would be spared. Spending money frivolously was Samson and Jennings single vice, and its employees loved the company for it. I looked about. The room looked empty as small groups of people stood in nervous little clutches, talking about nothing and waiting for something to happen.

I grabbed a scotch from the bar and drifted around the room. I could feel people watching me, wondering if I was going to reveal my identity, but for the moment I chose to enjoy my anonymity. A steady stream of guests was entering. I kept a constant watch for Heather with her midnight mask. I wondered if she were as anxious for the possibilities of the night as I was. All of the women looked terrific. These, for the most part, were women who could afford to look good. Most belonged to gyms. Had connections to some of the city's best plastic surgeons. Many of these trophy wives needed to stay attractive for their husbands and stay the forbidden object of desire for other men. Strangely, I found that achieving the latter typically insured the former.

By 9:30 the room was full. The band got louder and the laughter got raunchier. I still hadn't found Heather. I bided my time by making eye contact with other women. It was a game I played. I was particularly fond of wives that clung to the edges of a group of men who talked about this deal and that, about investments and football. I excused myself as passed in front of them. In the act of doing so I captured their glances. I politely touched their bare arms and looked into their bored eyes. In that instant I tried to communicate with my eyes and my fingertips that another world waited for them, beckoned to them. All they had to do was follow. I could feel their eyes at my back as I disappeared into the crowd. I represented something prematurely lost and then I was gone.

Ready for my third scotch I weaved my way to the bar. At the other end was Heather, with her midnight mask. Her dress was black and clung to her shape. I imagined my hand tracing over the soft curve of her waist and hips. She furthered her disguise with a slightly campy black wig that just wisked the the nape of her long neck. It was an effective touch, but then I am always fascinated by and attracted to the little signs of "another self." Heather glanced casually around the crowded banquet all. I wondered if she were looking for me. As she looked in my direction I nodded. I would have waved, but at the last instant such a gesture seemed a little sophomoric; after all, tonight I was engaged in a sophisticated game of seduction. She nodded back, or at least she seemed to, then continued to look around the room. There was no desperation in her gaze. It was full of confidence and patience, just like a big cat on the Serengeti. Then it dawned on me. There was no way she would know who I am. She did not know what color mask I wore or anything else about how I would dress for the night. This added a new dimension to the game. Revealing myself would be a vital part of the seduction.

The bartender set the drink in front of her. Sapphire Bombay on the rocks. Was Heather supposed to be Jack Hammond's tonight? Had the lush slipped off with another girl for a quick bang, and did he plan to return to capture his real prize? Was Heather the HM of the email? I had to confess I didn't know her last name. Did it start with an M. I tried to conjure up memos I'd seen around the office, but it was no use. Besides I was wasting valuable time. Hammond could walk into the room at any moment, zipping his fly and ready for round two. I walked around the bar and squeezed into a space as close to Heather as I could manage. I got the bartender's attention and said in a voice that I hand to consciously control, for at this point I feared it would quaver with adolescent lust, "Marker Mark." The bartender didn't move. He was waiting for something. "Neat," I finished. In an instant I caught Heather looking in my direction. I saw her in my periphery. I could see the sparkling sequins and glitter. When the drink was set before me, I picked it up and slowly turned to face her. She lifted the glass of Sapphire to her lips without ever taking her eyes off me. Her stare was intense. Her slender fingers curled sensuously around the glass. I grew instantly hard. I looked down into my glass to re-gather myself, but when I looked up again, Heather was gone.

I spun around; she had disappeared just as I had disappeared from the vision of the women whom I had teased. Now I felt the emptiness and the panic of a lost opportunity. I left the bar to search the room. I squeezed past women and couldn't avoid pressing my firmness against them. Some didn't notice, others jerked away, some pressed back. The alcohol and perfume and the crush of flesh was dizzying and I eventually decided to go out to the street for air before continuing my search.

The cool October air and the familiar sound of the streets helped me get my bearing. As I watched the life on the street, I questioned my sudden obsession with this one woman. I had nearly come to the conclusion that my best plan was to quit this exciting, but exhausting, game of sexual pursuit. I wondered if watching me give chase was all that Heather wanted of me. It would make a great Monday morning story to share with her cohorts. Maybe the best thing was to head back to the Village. I could stop by a familiar tavern on the way home. Saturday night was a great time to hook up with beautiful and interesting women.

"Mr. Cates?" a limo driver said. "Are you Mr. Phillip Cates?" He was reading from a card.

"Yeah, that's me. What's up?"

"I've been asked to deliver you, Mr. Cates. This way please."

He led me to a black limo parked at the curb outside the hotel. I followed, though I wasn't sure I should.

"So what's this all about?" I asked. "What do you mean 'deliver me'?

The driver opened the door and waited for me to get in. I shook my head and took a couple steps back.

"Listen, Mr. Cates. My client hires me for these projects all of the time. I've never heard one of them complain. Trust me, you'd be a fool to turn down this offer."

"No, sorry, my friend. This all sounds a little too weird. I don't know who your client is, but I was taught at a young age not to take candy from strangers. Thanks for the thought, though."

"Well, I can't force you, sir, but with respect to your mother, you've never had candy quite like this. Here, take this." The driver offered me the tiny card from which he'd been reading earlier. It bore the Samson and Jennings logo. The card was filled with a handwritten message. "Deliver Mr. Phillip Cates to 239 W 98th St. HM

I couldn't contain my delight. This simple message reinvigorated my interest and reignited my libido. I hopped into the back of the eager to pay a visit to HM.

The limo was well stocked. An impressive collection of top shelf liquors. I helped myself to some scotch, hoping to restore the edge to my buzz - thus my bravery. I noticed two small silver trays on the seat next to me. On one tray were two joints. I hadn't been high since my homecoming from the Mideast. I tucked it in my pocket for future use. On the other tray was a gold key. Engraved on the ebony key tag was 1215. I studied it as if I possessed the key to Magic Kingdom.

"Wait right here, Mr. Cates," the driver said parking at the curb in front of some luxurious West Side condos. He exited and approached the doorman with a familiar smile. They spoke for a moment before the driver returned and opened my door. "All set, Mr. Cates. The elevator is in the lobby. You have the key, I assume."

I dangled the gold key in front of me as I reached for my wallet.