8
Lynn
When I entered on my calendar the flight to San Diego to meet with the CEO of a biotech company started by former researchers at the Salk Institute, the phone call I both dreaded and anticipated came within a few hours. And when I flew into San Diego on a beautiful January day that denied the possibility of Boston's winter, Jefferson was there to meet me.
He was wearing tan slacks and a coffee colored short sleeved silk shirt that drew tight across his broad shoulders as he took my carryon bag and computer case.
"It is good to see you," he smiled.
Automatically I started to say, "And you," before I remembered the true nature of the situation and turned it into "Thank you." But I was very aware of his body as we walked through the terminal. And of my own. Beneath skirt, pantyhose and panties, my shaved pussy felt extremely vulnerable.
I am a southern girl, raised in a suburb of Charlotte, who had the usual white southern girl's fears and fantasies about black men. Jefferson was my first. I found myself picturing his huge black cock. My shock when I first saw it. My disbelief even now that it fit inside me. And remembering how it felt, how full I felt, how hard it made me come.
"Here we are," he said, unlocking the trunk of an immaculate white vintage Rolls Royce. "I expect you'll be needing the computer, but not the other bag for your meeting?"
He made it into a question, and I nodded assent.
After holding the rear door for me, he walked around and removed a piece of paper from the windshield that had permitted the Rolls to be left in what was posted as a loading zone, before climbing into the car himself.
"Brad said I am at your disposal for the day," he grinned back at me, "before driving you home, where the situation will be reversed. He suggested I mention that. Am I correct you want to go directly to Verigen?"
"Yes."
"Traffic is easy here compared to LA. It's up Torrey Canyon. Plenty of time to make your 10:00 a.m. meeting."
Of course I have been in expensive cars and limousines, but they paled beside the elegance of the Rolls. I sank back into leather upholstery surrounded by perfectly finished and matched grain wood. A slim crystal bud vase with a single red rose stood on a niche beside me.
"You call him Brad," I finally said, as we made our way north. "What does he call you?"
"Jefferson."
"Not Jeff."
"No one has ever called me Jeff." Then he added,"At least not for long."
"The boss is casual; the employee is formal."
"He doesn't make me feel like an employee. He knows I can walk anytime I want and stay only because I want. He appreciates that. We are not friends. He doesn't have anyone who could be called a friend. But he is the most intelligent man I have ever met. He can't help what his body is. Neither can I. Or, for that matter, you. I turned mine into some money as an athlete. I don't know what you have done with your beauty. I would guess played it down. But I would also guess it has helped you some even if you didn't want it to. He has overcome his."
In the front of Verigen's new offices, he gave me a card with his cell phone number. "I can come back at any preset time, or you can call. I'll be in La Jolla, about fifteen minutes drive."
"I'll call."
I was distracted, not at my best, with the Verigen people, and had to apologize and have several points repeated that I should have and normally would have absorbed the first time. Unexpectedly I found myself impatient for the meeting to be over. 'You're losing it, Lynn,' I told myself. Finally, after the obligatory lunch, I had enough information to make investment decisions, and business concluded, I telephoned Jefferson.
About ten miles up Interstate 5, Jefferson adjusted the rear view mirror. Our reflected eyes met.
"He wants you to take off whatever you have beneath your dress. And for that matter so do I. He always wants you naked beneath the outer layer of clothes in his presence. That is, assuming there is an outer layer."
"Here? In the car?"
"Where else? No one can see through the tinted windows back there. And it would not matter if they could."
"And if I refuse."
"You won't. You don't even want to."
My dress zipped in the back and was awkward to undo even in that spacious back seat. I found him appraising my breasts in the mirror. "Do you like what you see?"
""Oh, yes. I just wanted to see if they were as good as I remembered. You have great tits."
I pulled the dress back up. My bare feet were difficult to fit back into my shoes, so I didn't bother.
When he observed that I was finished, he said, "Behind the right door in the cabinet ahead of you, you will find some objects. Put them on."
The varnished teak door opened as smoothly as a bank vault. I remember thinking so at the time, before I even knew of the other bank vault door. Five pieces of black leather, cuffs for my ankles and wrists and a two inch wide collar, and a chain leash, such as Winston had sometimes put on me.
"Now? We are more than an hour away."
"Yes. He wants you to have time to think as you are being delivered."
At first the leather was cool against the skin of my wrists and ankles and throat, then it began to feel warm. The leash was not heavy, but I felt its weight. I looked out at passing cars and trucks. I doubted they could see me, but I felt exposed, like a pursued animal breaking cover, trapped in the open.
"Behind the door to the left is a bar with a small refrigerator. A bottle of Chablis is chilled. You'll see the corkscrew and glasses."
"So I'm permitted to drink tonight." I tried to sound sarcastic, but he ignored my tone and responded evenly, "Within reason."
I opened and poured the wine.
While I sipped, I looked down at my legs. I always feel so white in California, not just in contrast to Jefferson, but to everyone who is tanned as Winston was when I met him. He's faded now, I thought. And then I thought of the possible interpretations of that and felt sorry for him, trapped in Boston. And then I realized this was the first time I had thought of him that day. Brad and Jefferson and the forthcoming night were filling my mind to the exclusion of everything else.
Black leather cuffs. White skin. Bright red toenails. 'Trashy feet,' my mother would say. I wouldn't have painted them myself if Brad hadn't insisted, but I had to admit I rather liked them.
A few glasses of wine later, after stopping at a security gate and driving up a long curving private road, passing Jefferson's house half hidden in trees off to one side, we came into a clearing and stopped in front of a sprawling house that looked like something designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, all stone and wood and glass. I struggled to put on my shoes, then gave up and, playing the slave girl, stepped from the Rolls Royce and walked barefoot to where Brad was standing at the open front doors.
"Very good," he said, eying me appreciatively.
We passed through a huge living room, quite austerely decorated and furnished, mostly in white, gray, and black, but with a few dramatic splashes of color: a red chair; an indigo vase; and paintings on the the wall.
"Max Beckman," Brad said. "My favorite of the German Expressionists. He fell dead on the corner in front of my place on Central Park West, a few blocks north of where the lessor but more famous artist, Mr. Lennon, was shot."
I started to ask, then why the hotel room if you have a place there?, but realized.
"Let's go through and have a drink by the pool, while Maria finishes preparing dinner."
Openness rather than privacy was the design principle of the house and off to the left I saw a woman doing something at a table in an area, not a room, that was the kitchen.
Blue haze obscured the lower slopes of the peninsula and the ocean a few miles ahead and a thousand feet below us. For Los Angeles the place felt remarkably serene and isolated. Only two or three roofs were scattered among the trees below.
The woman, Maria, came out and smilingly placed a plate of hors d'oeuvres on a glass table. She was fiftyish, wearing a loose floral print dress and low heeled shoes. She did not seem to find my cuffs and collar unusual.
Neither Brad nor Jefferson touched me or said anything or treated me in any way other than the way any two men would treat a woman in a normal social setting while we sat in the gathering twilight by the pool and while we ate dinner. Their eyes did linger on my legs and feet, on my loose breasts moving beneath my dress, on my hands and my mouth. That was it: nothing had actually happened, except that I was wearing some leather and running around barefoot, yet it was all about sex. And had been for hours. Every cell in my body was waiting, anticipating. And, half guiltily, I knew I was wet.
Maria had just cleared away the dishes, when Brad abruptly ended my banalities about the excellence of the food by saying, "Climb up on the table."
I turned toward where Maria was cleaning up, "But.."
"Climb up on the table."
The black lacquered dining table was capable of seating about twenty. The three of us were clustered at one end, Brad at the very end, Jefferson and I across from one another. Pushing back my chair. "How do you want me?"
"On your back, head toward me."
The wood was hard on my knees. I lay down. It was strange looking upside down at Brad's face, which was coming closer. As his hands pushed my dress down, I felt Jefferson's hands pushing my dress up. Involuntarily my eyes closed and I moaned when, after being made to wait so long, simultaneously both my nipples were squeezed and fingers slid into my cunt.
"Will you be wanting dessert?"
