Proclivities Xv: a New Role

Proclivities XV: Schoolgirl & Professor

How did it get to be the middle of August already? Of course there was work, but now that now included the belabored vetting process for our new "research" positions. The interviewers were mirthless. So serious. Never a smile. Robotically going through their list of questions. However, during one session, the guy couldn't believe we had no social media presence. Apparently, there was something peculiar about "people your age" not having any accounts on Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, or Xwitter (or at least that's what I called it, that whole X thing being pretentious).

"What can I say? I prefer my interactions with people face to face...or a phone call. Even a video chat. If I want someone to have a picture, I just send it to them."

Perhaps, he interpreted this as some kind of defect; more likely, he was disappointed at the lack of grist for his mill.

Oh, and George assured me that our adult postings couldn't be traced back to us given the proxies he employed. The 'required' cookie is set for autodelete. Besides we've never shown our faces. "No need to volunteer any information about it," he'd said. I wasn't about to argue.

We'd caught another fraud case and solved it. A royal we - not just George and I, but others as well. It fell under Goerge's contract with OTP, which the sweetheart had modified to include me, so my "take" was nothing like the first one. Being raised in a frugal household, I invested ninety percent and the balance, mad money. I'd updated my wardrobe reasonably, so, despite the change in my financial condition, I still couldn't justify designer price tags. Unless it's shoes. Shoes are different.

So was the car. My first new car! In a really pretty red. A fully tricked out Honda Accord Hybrid...no more cold heinie for me on winter mornings...George asked why I didn't get the vibrator option.

I started attending self-defense classes twice per week. Although beating on things was rewarding, a good portion of the time was spent with slow motion instruction, akin to a dance. "If he comes at you like this...you step to the side...turn...and punch his kidney as hard as you can...no, not there...here." Stuff like that. Eventually, we worked up to full speed...I just pulled the punches. Of course, there was the 'be aware of your surroundings' talk and avoiding disadvantageous situations.

Not that we didn't have some leisure time. Most of it was spent aboard the PROCLIVITES LTD on weekends. As a result, my sailing skills have improved dramatically. Mary and Pete even came down one Saturday, so it was fun to show off our teamwork. I did wear a bikini - one of the areas where I'd expanded my wardrobe, now possessing red and black ones - but I kept my shorts on. I didn't mind if my nipples showed underneath, a common shortcoming (?) in women's bathing suits. Mary suffered the same malady in her one-piece, plus shorts as well. However, my pussy is a different matter. Peter would have been disappointed had he known what I was hiding, and, just as surely, Mary would have heartily endorsed my choice. Still, I wondered if she contemplated what George had in his shorts, given her inquiry at the party. The subject never came up for discussion.

Despite these tangential musings, we had a great time. Mary and I had 'normal' conversations. I learned that she was a music teacher at a middle school near their home. We both planned to have kids someday. Although neither of us had any specific plans, her event horizon was definitely closer than mine. Humdrum? Maybe, but it reassured what is important in life. A worthy reminder amongst the insanity.

Our summoning had been succinct - Thursday, August

20th at 10:00 AM. So, here we are, in the reception area of a stereotypical DC government building, sitting on government-issued-ergonomics-be-damned furniture, in our interview-appropriate (boring) attire, waiting to see yet another milk toast bureaucrat. It was all so redundant. Only the venue had changed. Why don't they make up their minds already!

And speaking of minds, mine was elsewhere. True to his word on our first date, as soon as today's meeting was over, George had arranged a long weekend in Baltimore for an Orioles game at Camden Yards. The game was on Saturday, so we'd spend the rest of our time kicking around the Inner Harbor and environs, indulging our affinity for blue claw crabs.

And, yes, that was going to be fun, but what presently occupied my thoughts was his other proposal - tonight, we'd disappear into some role playing that he'd casually mentioned back in July. Fueling my imagination was a previous adventure, and his twisted version of psychoanalysis. My introduction to bondage had been delightfully eye opening. So, yeah, my mind was roaming and no matter how many times I considered variations to our improvisational performance of "Meeting as Strangers" scenario, there was always a common thread - taking a page from my mom's book.

The theme for our current production was set in motion two weeks ago, providing ample time to pick appropriate costumes. We packed them in their own garment bags, secreted from each other, adding to the suspense. At the last minute, George advised me the hotel has a pool. "So pack a bikini. You know, the purple one. It's my favorite." I had my reservations, but it played nicely into misbehaving while out of town. Nonetheless, I tossed in a cover-up. Currently, everything was locked in the car, baking in the August heat, while we shivered in the building's stale, over processed air.

By ten-thirty, my paranoia kicked in and I whispered to George, "Do you think keeping us waiting is a tactic?"

"Probably," he replied in a hushed tone. "Their circus, their monkey. Most likely it will be a lot of the same questions, just asked differently, to see if we're consistent."

"Bastards."

"We can always walk out and forget the whole thing."

"Not on your great-grandmother's corset cover. We've been through too much crap to stop now."

"That's my girl."

His words didn't cure my agitation, but they did lend a much-needed boost to my determination.

Ten minutes later, we were finally called in. Separate interviews this time. As if that would change our answers! As luck would have it, I made a stink about the chicken sandwich that masqueraded as lunch. I'm sure that somewhere in my dossier it says, "Hates mayonnaise."

Mercifully, the interviews concluded around two-thirty. Geroge set the destination in the map program of his phone and we headed for Baltimore. The traffic sucked, but we passed the time comparing notes, the major difference being he was not a known mayo hater.

The traffic was heavy, resulting in the forty-mile trip consuming two hours. We crawled out of D.C., which, per George, was not surprising. Once we'd cleared the beltway, our conversation petered out. George put on some tunes, and I drifted off to sleep, Etta James as my raft.

"Ah," I shrieked, rudely awakened by the car's sudden, brake slamming, stop.

"Sorry about that," George soothed. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just surprised. What happened?"

"A right turn from the left lane. Some people just can't be bothered going around the block."

"How much further?" I asked, rubbing my clavicle. Not that I regretted the seatbelt fulfilling its purpose, but still...at least the strap was between my boobs.

"Just a few minutes. We're almost there."

"Isn't that the National Aquarium?" On the passenger window, my finger traced it's passing.

"Yup. We'll go there tomorrow."

A right turn and a roundabout later, George parked on the semicircular drive at the entrance to the hotel.

"The Four Seasons," I exclaimed. "Are you kidding me?"

"About this, no."

"Really?"

"You remember our bonus from the Marx Brothers case?" George asked, employing the euphemism we'd concocted. "I said I would set part of it aside for an extravagant indulgence. This is it. Actually, the whole weekend is. However, I could see if there's a Motel 6 available if that's what you'd prefer...but then there'd be the matter of the cancellation fee."

"That would be an extravagant fuck-up," I said seriously, but couldn't hide my feelings, switching to high pitched delight. "This is so...it's such a delightful surprise."

"That's not all, either."

"Like?"

"And spoil it?"

"You know me too well...I love you, George Richter."

"And I love you too, Linda Huggins. Now let's get this party started," he concluded, as one of the staff opened my door.

"Welcome to The Four Seasons."

While George checked us in, I went to the ladies' room. I'd been ignorant of the urgency until three steps from the car. Upon my return, George was waiting with a bellman, our luggage on a cart beside them. We exchanged pleasantries as we rode up the elevator, advising him of our plans - at least the Oriole game and tourist attractions.

The bellman opened the door and placed our bags in the room. I was like a kid at Christmas, and, in my opinion, he couldn't leave fast enough. It was a corner suite with floor to ceiling windows facing the harbor and a balcony on one side. The bath was sumptuous. Although their décor had nothing in common, in a way, it was like not leaving home.

"George, this is incredible. I've never stayed anywhere like this," I said with unbridled excitement.

"Neither have I, but you're worth it."

"No, we're worth it," I whispered in his ear as I embraced him tightly. My lips sought his. Oh yeah, still a great kisser.

"So, what's the plan, Stan?" I asked, looking up into those green-brown eyes that had captured me since the moment we'd met.

"I don't know about you, but I want a shower. Gotta wash off the stench of bureaucracy."

"I could help you with that,"

"I was hoping you would...but no hanky-panky. Our dinner reservation is at seven and we'll need the time to get in our...game uni's, as it were."

"How's that going to work? I thought we were going to keep it secret until our meeting at the restaurant."

"While you wait in the bathroom, I'll dress in the room and head up to dinner about twenty minutes early."

"Up?" I asked.

"Yeah, we're eating here. A place called The Bygone. It's on the twenty-ninth floor, overlooking the harbor. Supposedly a roaring twenties theme, very swank. Table for two by a window."

"So fancy!" I mockingly teased.

"Seemed an appropriate locale, just the place for us to be...scandalous. That might be an exaggeration, but you get the idea."

"Perfect. So, let's get you cleaned up."

Before our shower, I'd unpacked hastily. I really didn't care in which drawer I put things. As was his nature, George was more deliberate, secretive perhaps. I didn't give it much mind. I just wanted my toiletries - and to lather up with George, the self-imposed limitations looming as a mixed blessing.

Thus, I'm now isolated - and frustrated - behind a closed bathroom door in a complimentary (ha!) white terry robe, applying my makeup, having taken care of my 'one night only' hairstyle. George's grousing was barely audible, but I did discern, "Fucking tie!"

A light tapping preceded, "I'm off, see you at seven."

"What time is it now?"

"Six-thirty-five. Don't keep me waiting. Be sure to ask for Professor Richter.

"I won't, and I will," I confirmed, my mind swimming. He's early. Even more anxious than I if that were possible.

The extra time was a godsend. I still had to get dressed! Escaping the bathroom, I laid out my clothes on the bed. My pleated Gordon plaid skirt joined a thin weight white round collared blouse, buttoned to my neck. Lace topped bright white ankle socks and glossy patent leather Mary Janes, a navy blazer with a meaningless crest on the chest pocket, and a plain black clutch on a thin strap across my shoulder completed my ensemble. How do I look?

Right, those mirrors in the bath. Oh yes, I thought while pirouetting, the pleats flaring outwards from a few inches above my knees. Wonderfully innocent, contrasting with my face - the black mascara, matched with heavy eyeliner, dusty pink eye shadow and she-devil red lip gloss, which perfectly matched the red ribbons adorning pig tails on either side of my head. Nailed it.

As I made my way out, I checked the time on my phone - good, five minutes to spare. I slipped it into my clutch along with the card key for the room and a thin wallet. Nervously walking to the elevator and relieved to be alone, I exhaled deeply as I pressed UP and buttoned my jacket. The doors opened, revealing a smartly dressed couple. Sixties? Both silver haired, she was in a red cocktail dress, complimenting his dark grey suit and crisp white shirt open at his throat.

"Hi," I said brightly as I entered, smiling to push aside my uneasiness.

"Good evening," he mumbled, their expressions morphing from confusion to condescension. I turned to face the closing doors, wondering what expression they might conjure over my lack of underwear. Reaching towards the button for the nineteenth floor with a hidden smile, I stopped midway. The button was already illuminated with a small adjacent brass placard indicating The Bygone.

"Oh, you're going to the restaurant too," I noted, adding a giggle for their benefit. Uncomfortable (for them anyway) silence entombed us. At least it was only a few floors.

They were more than happy that I demurred to them as we approached the receiving lectern. Behind it, a tuxedoed man smiled warmly, his slicked back hair too purely black to be natural.

Once he'd handed them off to the hostess in a little black dress - well-tailored, but not overly conforming - his attention then turned to me.

"Good evening. May I help you?" he asked, having eyed me head to toe and back again. Any signs of welcome had drained from his face. He was probably running the dress code in his head, fruitlessly seeking a violation. George's earlier reference to scandalous frolicked in my brain.

"Yes, thank you. Um...I'm meeting someone," I replied haltingly. C'mon, Linda! Get in character. You can do this. Thankfully, my brain reengaged. "Professor Richter."

He consulted the tablet tilted upwards on the surface before him, his left index finger briefly scrolling the display.

"Ah, yes. Very well. This way, please," he said flatly.

He turned. No hostess this time...hmm, curiosity getting the better of you? I followed his serpentine path around the carefully arranged yellow ochre velvet banquettes at the center of the room and tables covered in bright white napery, the silverware and glasses reflecting light from clear glass orbs of the chandeliers. About a third of the tables were occupied, primarily by couples, so no one was seated adjacent to another party. Snippets of subdued conversation caught my ears, while wary eyes followed me, and I couldn't escape the feeling of being in a poorly attended parade. Well, fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.

As promised, George was seated at a table next to the windows, rising from his chair as we approached, his attire totally incongruous with the man I'd come to know - sporting a slightly ill-fitting brown tweed jacket, charcoal grey slacks and blue oxford cloth shirt, the part in his hair slightly askew. But the real kicker was the navy and brown striped bow tie, knotted just awkwardly enough to lend an eccentric air. I wondered if he'd practiced his appearance as much as I had mine.

"Good evening, Miss...Huggins...so good to finally meet you," George said haltingly, shaking my hand briefly. But there was no hiding the delight in his eyes.

"Professor Richter, thank you for meeting me on such short notice and, wow, the view from here is spectacular."

"You're most welcome. We all must eat, right? Please..." he replied, motioning towards my chair.

After I'd unbuttoned my jacket, the maître d' seated me and said, "Ah, I see you already have menus and water. May I get you something from the bar?"

"Miss Huggins?" George inquired.

"I'll have a vodka tonic, if that's okay?"

"Of course. I'll have a Beefeater martini, up, very dry. No garnish, thank you."

"Very well, sir. Is Grey Goose acceptable for you, miss?"

"That would be wonderful, thank you," I replied. Once the maître d' left, I added, "Don't look right away, but you see that couple by the window, two tables behind me? The woman's wearing a red dress."

George lifted the menus, handed one to me. "Yeah, I saw them. She was giving me the stink eye when you were seated."

"That's not surprising. I rode up here on the elevator with them. I had the feeling they found my presence upsetting."

"Your quiet confidence probably scares them. Upending their concepts of propriety."

"Well, thank you. I also got a similar reaction from the maître d'. When you invited me here, I checked out the restaurant web site and found they have a dress code. No doubt he was looking for a violation."

"Really?"

"Men are required to wear a jacket. Check. No jeans. Check. No athletic attire. Check. And the Madonna rule...Ladies may not have visible underwear. Double check."

"Madonna rule..." George grinned, halting as he looked up. Momentarily, a young blonde waitress appeared with our drinks. She was about our age, in matching black slacks and collared shirt, the hotel's insignia embroidered in white on the pocket, above it, the nametag read Jillian. She gave me a once over, but George continued without missing a beat, "So, Miss Huggins, what are your qualifications?"

"I presume you mean for my thesis proposal?" I asked, establishing my character.

She stifled a laugh, nearly spilling George's martini, but she recovered nicely. "Sorry," she said, blushing, as she set the drinks before us. "Are you ready to order, or do you need more time with the menus?"

"We'll need more time, thank you," he replied. Making sure the waitress could hear as she slowly departed, he added. "For your master's, yes, and, oh, please order whatever you desire."

We raised our drinks to one another and took a swallow, our smiling eyes locked in conspiracy above our glasses.

A few sips later, George placed his martini back on the table and opened the menu. I followed his lead.

"I don't know about you, Miss Huggins, but I'm famished."

"I'm starving Professor Richter. My lunch was paltry."

"Mmm," he said, taking another sip and contemplating the menu. "Oh! Backfin lump crab cocktail. Sold."

"Sounds yummy, but I'm going with the Old Bay poached shrimp cocktail."

"Nothing wrong with that either. And for the main course...the ribeye."

"That's a bit heavy for me. The Dover sole would be exactly what I need."

"Like I said Miss Huggins, anything your heart desires."

George caught the waitress's eye and in what I found an overly protracted conversation, Jillian recorded our order. My jacket had parted further as ordered and I swear she was trying to ascertain if I was wearing a bra.

"And how are your drinks?" she asked.

"I probably shouldn't..." I responded unconvincingly, shifting slightly, offering the opportunity for Jillian to confirm her suspicion.

"Live a little, Miss Huggins," George countered.

"Okay, sure...why not?"

"Another round then. Thanks."

"Very well, sir," she concluded, the hint of a self-conscious smile rising as she turned and walked away. I wondered if she was wise to our game. Subtlety wasn't in the script.

"So, Miss Huggins, are you aware that the research you will be conducting is experience based? That is, collecting data from subjects directly familiar with the topic."

"Thank you for clarifying," I replied, grateful for the direction. "That's right up my alley, Professor. I'd much rather be out interviewing people than searching the internet or examining dusty volumes in some archive."

"Ha! That's for the lazy. Nothing beats field research."