Elsie sat in her pathetically run-down second-hand import, parked in front of an almost palatial Tudor home looming above her at the top of a hill of pristine, suspiciously green lawn on the corner of a swank block in the trendy Seattle neighborhood of Capitol Hill.
What the fuck am I doing?
Everything, everything was telling her to leave. To leave and to never answer another phone call from that man again, to forget she had ever met him. It was all wrong. The way he had approached her at the coffee shop. He was too interested. Too smooth. Too too good-looking. His easy charm made her feel her awkwardness all the more painfully. His thirty-two years made her twenty seem ridiculously void of maturity and experience.
And then there had been that thing—what he had done when she had stupidly let him come in at the end of their first date. He had shocked her. Humiliated her. And yet, when he had left, she had not cried. Even the anger and the embarrassment she had felt all through it faded quickly away and, when she went to bed, the whole scene made her incredibly aroused as she played it back in her mind. And then, thinking about it, she had gotten herself off.
But now, parked in front of his enormous house in her crummy car she felt more painfully than ever how wrong it all was. Everything about him—his cocksure manner, his looks, his age, his money—made her feel weak and vulnerable. And, of course, there was the obvious, painful question. What the hell did he want with her, anyway? She wasn’t really pretty. Not that she thought she was ugly, but, hell, she wasn't completely clueless—a guy like that could do way better. She wasn’t all witty and clever like him. She was intelligent—book smart—but she couldn’t banter and jest the way he did. The way she had seen the artist doing with him at the gallery opening he’d taken her to. What did a guy like that want with a girl like her when even far less attractive, homegrown guys at school never gave her a second look?
Part of her didn’t care. A tiny little part of her, the part that usually stayed obediently buried beneath all her good judgment and diligence and cautiousness, wanted whatever twisted adventure might be in store for her at his hands. The night of their first date had been so strange. The dinner and the gallery opening had been so romantic, so far beyond anything she could have expected, she had hardly dared believe it was not a dream. And then, back at her place, she had been really terrified, for a few moments, that the dream was turning into a nightmare. She had thought, just for a few seconds, that he might rape her. But then he had done that other thing, and now she wasn’t sure whether it had been horrible or incredibly erotic.
Looking up the sweep of verdant lawn, up the steps of the vast, columned porch to the heavy double doors she felt queasy with fear. But then again, the danger itself seemed part of his allure. Yes, maybe he was really a little bit dangerous. And, immersed in her tedious little life of study and work, she wanted the romance of a dangerous liaison. She coaxed herself out of the driver’s seat, closed the door, and began her ascent.
Interminable minutes slogged by after she rang the bell before the front door swung indifferently open and Conrad appeared before her. Already nervous, her anxiety was hiking up in pitch moment by moment, aggravated by the wait, by the intimidating proportions of the door, and then by the cold composure of Conrad’s face. She felt a moment of real panic. Had she come on the wrong night? At the wrong time? Had he invited her over as a joke, only so he could cruelly remind her that she was utterly unworthy of his attentions? But then he smiled a warm, if slightly bemused smile and gestured her in.
"So, you decided to go through with it after all."
"With what?"
"With our date this evening."
Two sentences out of his mouth and she was already blushing.
"Of course." She smiled and tried to sound casual, as if there was no implication in his remark.
"You were down there in your car for so long, I imagined you were having second thoughts."
Shit. He’d been watching her.
"No, no. I just didn’t want to be early."
"Ah, I see." It was clear from his tone that he knew she was lying, which was kind of obvious since her indecision in the car had made her over ten minutes late. "Well, in any case, I’m glad you’re here. Why don’t we go outside, into the garden, and have a little wine."
He led her over darkly gleaming hardwood floors through a foyer, through a sitting room, through a dining room toward French double doors.
"Your home is beautiful." She had never been in such a richly, immaculately masculine house before.
"Thank you," he answered simply with his characteristic ease.
The double doors opened onto a large, ornately landscaped garden the likes of which she had only seen represented by glossy photos in magazines and coffee table books. In a secluded corner, under a magnificent flowering tree was a small wrought iron table with two chairs, one of which he pulled out for her. He sat down next to her and filled her glass from a bottle that sat open on the table before them, then filled his own glass.
"Cheers," he said, raising his glass and clinking it lightly against hers.
"Cheers," she mirrored back, still nervous.
She took a sip as he watched her, smiling a small, roguish smile. Jesus, he was so beautiful. Cloudy green eyes and fair skin a lovely contrast to his dark, close-cropped hair. And that mouth. How she ached to be kissed with those soft, full lips.
"So," he said, still not having put his lips to his glass, "I’ve been wondering, since our last date, whether I was right about you."
"Right about what?"
"Was I right," he purred like a panther, "in surmising that you’ve never had a cock inside of you?"
She felt herself blush one of those mortifying blushes that seem to last a lifetime, where the face turns a deep red, ridiculous red. The sort of blush that perpetuates itself interminably as the initial embarrassment continues in the humiliation of its evidence. She tried to coax her breathing back to normal, and set her jittering wine glass down.
"Well, Elsie?"
"Why ask me things like that?"
Her question was confrontational, but her eyes were focused down on the pattern of the wrought iron table and her voice was a wavering whisper.
"Because you’re so pretty when your face flushes all pink like that. And because it arouses you."
Flattery. More humiliation. He was right.
"Now, Elsie, answer my question. Have you ever had a man’s cock inside of you?"
"No."
She had no idea what had made her answer him when what she should have done is stand up and march back through that fucking mansion, get in her car and never see that rude asshole again. He was chuckling softly.
"I’ve no idea how, dear Elsie, but somehow I knew it. I was quite sure."
Finally he took a sip of wine. She was too nervous not to drink and was afraid that if he abstained that would be one more card stacked in his favor. He was gazing at her steadily. Studying her.
"You’re a virgin."
She felt a little twitch in her lip that seemed to give him his answer.
"And you’ve never given head."
She felt herself saying no with a tiny movement of her head, though she had not really meant to answer him.
"Indulge an imprudently curious man, Elsie. Tell me how it is that a delightful girl like yourself makes it to the age of twenty never having experienced physical love."
It was evident that he was enjoying her discomfort. And maybe there wasn’t anything so strange in that. She could see where someone would feel a certain sense of power in Conrad’s position. What was harder to understand was why that scrutinizing, taunting gaze of his, and all of his unforgivable questions, were making her so terribly aroused. Or why she was so eager to ensure that his expression of smug delight did not fade.
"I don’t know."
"Surely you date."
"Not really. I’m not a very social person."
"Well, then, I count myself lucky to have penetrated your force-field of isolation."
He grinned, a little ironically it seemed to her.
"Come," he said, standing and offering her his hand, "let’s go inside."
A wave of panic crashed over her, even as she took his proffered hand, stood, and walked along with him, back into the huge, dark, empty house. She was afraid of what he would do once they were inside. And she was afraid of what she would do. She didn’t know herself when she was with him.
He took her into a sitting room, the polished surface of dark wood gleaming here and there with the light cast by pale lamps and a modest fire that burned more for ambience than warmth on that temperate night.
He did not invite her to sit. He walked her over, before the fire, and there, moved close until she felt his body against hers. She gazed up at him looking down at her and thought he was about to kiss her. Instead she felt his fingers come softly to her thighs, curling against her legs, walking in place, gathering up the fabric of her skirt, up, up, up, until her legs were bare to his hands. Her breath sped. Her arms hung awkwardly at her sides, not knowing what to do with themselves. He just kept gazing down at her, hiking her skirt up higher and higher, then transferring all those gathered folds into one hand. The other came down, between her legs, only slightly parted in the stance she had landed in as she had stopped walking.
She could have backed away. But she didn’t.
His hand, between her legs, played over her panties. Two or three times at parties in high school she had been touched there, after too many rum and cokes, the boys who felt her up reeking of stale beer. This was something entirely different.
"Tell me something, Elsie."
Just the tip of his finger was taunting her aching little clit with the smallest and softest of motions. And that, that few square millimeters of his finger against her body was their only contact.
