The Girl with the Man with a Plan
Chapter Four -- Catastrophe
Before I get on with a partial history of everybody's favorite year, I am reminded that, in our story, there is still a need to relate the occurrences of the last ten days of 2019. That should be a pretty easy task. But a lot happened in that short period of time.
It's easy to describe things at work, especially considering that only four or five of those ten days were actually spent in the office. I met twice with the CEO, defining his vision of the sales department. I made only one demand: that "Clause Eighteen" be revoked. It was obviously only put into place to enrich the head-of-department, and it stifled company growth. I was told that was a task that could only be accomplished by the Board of Directors. I, in turn, told him that I would be happy to present my case to the board personally. And further, that if they refused, I'd quit. Of course, I'd probably be singing a different tune if I actually needed the money, but I didn't tell him that.
A team of three men from some department or other helped move us up to the eighth floor. The men were more than happy to do it, if, for no other reason, than just to be around Polly for a couple days.
One of the things I had failed to mention to my new sex slave was that secretaries in our company were paid according to the salary of the man or woman they worked for. In other words, a secretary for a VP was paid much more than a secretary for an account executive or some other manager. I had been the company's most highly-paid sales rep. There were other contractual pay scales involved after that, but I never really gave a shit. What I'm trying to explain here is that Polly's first paycheck represented more money than she had ever possessed in her entire life. I had established a bank account and direct deposit plan for her, and when she was given her first pay slip, she was absolutely flabbergasted.
The first thing she tried to do was give it to me. After all, she argued, slaves shouldn't have any money at all. But I nipped that idea in the bud. She'd just have to figure out what to do with it, I told her flatly. And, of course, she decided to give most of it away. I don't know why I'd never anticipated that. Still, there were a few selfish little indulgences on her part.
On Saturday, December 21st, I answered a knock on the door, and the two porters entered carrying a fresh Christmas tree. Polly followed them, pushing a wheeled cart that was obviously something that belonged to the apartment building. It was loaded with lights, decorations, a tree stand, and other paraphernalia peculiar to the season; and it all made itself at home in the form of a pile of bric-a-brac in the center of our living room. I had never celebrated Christmas. I had never celebrated anything, at all, period.
She, on the other hand, was so excited and so utterly happy that I decided it wasn't worth my while to argue with this insanity; and I went back to my computer desk and left her to her own devices while she set the thing up, strung the lights and decorated it, all the time humming Christmas tunes and oohing and aahing over cute little knickknacks before hanging them up. When it was done, she found some Christmas music on the internet, called me Scrooge until I finally got up, and she danced me around the room, laughing and singing at the top of her lungs.
Monday, she elicited my help in finding a bicycle shop, and she purchased two new lower-end, assembled "cruiser bikes" to have delivered to her niece and nephew the following day. The kids had always wanted bicycles, she explained to me; and she also knew that there were none in store for them again this year, at least from their parents.
But the worst part of the damn holiday was finding a present for me under the tree on Tuesday. At least she had the decency to let me see it on the 24th. One day's notice is better than none, I suppose. We went to the office that day, still moving in and getting to know our major duties; and so, I had time during lunch to make my way to a jewelry store and get something for her, in exchange.
She still wasn't done with me, however, and demanded we swing by a grocery store on the way home, where she purchased a spiral-cut ham, a smoked turkey breast, baking potatoes... she had a whole list! Two hundred bucks worth!
Christmas Day itself was a rather lazy affair, with her doing almost all of the work, and that included the hour-long session in bed that morning. Slow. Sensuous. Erotic. She knew me well by now, and she kept me on the edge of ultimate passion for a long, long time; milking me with her inner muscles, teasing me with her moans and exclamations of passion. I think that her own orgasm was a gift to me; she knew that submitting to it was something I desired of her. It was one of the more satisfying sexual experiences I can remember; and I was reluctant to rise when it was over, even though it was almost ten o'clock.
She had purchased a Mont Blanc fountain pen for me; and while I realized that it was their cheapest model, I knew that she had spent a significant portion of her wealth on it. I hope I expressed my gratitude sufficiently. I, in turn, gave her a pair of diamond earrings. She cried and proclaimed her love. After that day, I never saw her without them... well, not for three months, anyway.
Just like she had at Thanksgiving, she insisted on taking a portion of our meal down to the two porters. She put them in two boxes that she'd acquired with that purpose in mind. And, at our dinner table, she told me that she was working with those two men to plan a New Year's Eve party in the lobby. I thought about it for a moment, and I couldn't really think of any reason to oppose the idea.
But it ballooned, of course, taking on a life of its own. There was no real prior planning involved. It was just going to be a pot-luck, BYOB type of thing. A few flyers went up here and there. But six days later, it was all anybody could talk about.
It was a huge affair, and the entire lobby was packed with singing, dancing, loud people. There were only about fifty of us in all, but it seemed like twice that number. As I do with all parties, I found the darkest corner of the room and tried to pretend I was part of the walls. That worked, for the most part, but Polly always found me and tried to cheer me up; and, wherever Polly went, others followed along.
The worst part of the evening was when someone (if I knew exactly who, I'd probably plot his demise) suggested we form an "organization," and the obvious choice of leader should be everyone's favorite new acquaintance: Polly. I was about to draw the line. No way. Absolutely not. But Polly never even glanced my way. She smiled that disarming smile of hers, thanked them most kindly, and refused. The suggestion died unresolved, and the party went on.
At midnight, twenty-three people kissed my sex slave. I counted them. Twenty-one men and two women. She refused none of them, but kept the smooches brief until she could finally make her way over to me. Ours lasted for a while.
And that was the end of 2019.
