This is about sex and power.
The events took place five years ago, but still ripple through my life.
::
I had been working at the investment bank for three months in a pool of new hires that do much of the financial and legal dog work, while waiting to be assigned actual positions in the various departments. It was stressful; you worried about your performance, your fellow "kids in the pool" getting ahead of you or, worst of all, being deemed "unsuitable" and dismissed unceremoniously.
The job demands an A-type response to the daily grind. It's schizophrenic and a non-stop pressure cooker: a "work hard, play hard" environment that embraces "survival-of -the-fittest" as its unwritten "Mission Statement".
Each morning I donned my corporate uniform: white blouse, pencil skirt and heels and then my psychic armour of efficient professionalism and constrained ambition. My co-workers would be surprised if they learned that in my personal life I am much softer. I self identify as sexually submissive. In reality, I love going home, locking the apartment door, dropping the pretense and letting someone else take the reins. Alas, I had left my love life behind in Montreal when I took this job. Behind that apartment door there was no one else to take the reins.
::
An older executive, Armand St. Pierre, recognized my corporate act for what it was on first meeting and effortlessly took me. Took me in every sense of the word. Mind, body then soul. (He later told me he could smell my need). He was a high-functioning psychopath. I was prey.
I had been dragged along to a meeting in the tower facing ours with a client and a wrinkled lawyer from Mergers and Acquisitions. It was dull stuff - mostly posturing from the client brokerage, which Armand politely brushed away without sounding dismissive. Mission accomplished, everyone departed and he and I descended to the lobby.
He suggested we go to lunch and I went. It was pleasant enough; a nice restaurant off the lobby of the Hotel Metropolitan. I don't remember what we ate. He was witty; I laughed. He pontificated on life, fine wine, money and power; I nodded. He offered mentoring advice; which I absorbed sagely. Mostly though, I remember he treated me like an adult, which was refreshing after several months of being the "intern" from the pool. I don't recall him flirting overtly but there was an mist of latent sexuality that hung over our table. Maybe it was an air of constrained power that manifested as sex. He was certainly exuding it in spades: power suit, expensive shoes, immaculate shirt and a conversation where deals and mergers were laid out in a framework of the "hunt". The rather dull white cotton panties I had chosen without much thought that morning were damp. Certainly not power panties!
After he settled the bill, he stood to pull out my chair and said, "Come".
I went.
We crossed the lobby to the concierge who simply said, "Room 1206, sir", handed him a room card and accepted a folded banknote. Armand passed the card to me and said, "Come along, Jessica. We don't have all day."
We turned and headed to the elevators. I was totally perplexed at what was happening. Surely he didn't think that lunch included a trip up twelve floors to a bedroom with a man I barely knew. What was going on? There had to be another explanation. Another meeting perhaps? Of course some rational corner of my mind must have known what was up, but a lifetime of being admonished to respect authority and never cause a scene conspired to keep my tongue frozen.
The elevator stopped and he exited. I considered letting the doors close and descending back to the lobby but that seemed a bit over the top and highly likely to annoy. I still had the room key in my hand. He stopped in front of a door and turned to see what was keeping me. He frowned.
"Will you please hurry up and open the damned door?"
I did as I was told. He let me enter first then followed behind. The door closed with a click, then he threw the deadbolt. With a pat on my bottom he ushered me into the room. I was standing in front of a desk with a mirror behind it.
I opened my mouth to speak but he put a finger to my lips and said, "When the door closes, Jessica, you become mine. This is what you really want. Just follow my lead and enjoy the freedom of indecision."
In a normal seduction I suppose the same sort of thing happens. Each step of the way seems harmless enough until you find yourself at a point where you cannot stop without looking foolish or frightened. I have never slept with somebody on a first date and rarely before a several weeks of the courtship dance. This was just moving at the speed of light. A month long seduction compressed into the time it takes an elevator to rise twelve floors.
He no doubt saw capitulation in my eyes and began to undress me. I kept my eyes staring down at my shoes. He unbuttoned my blouse, opened the front and pushed it over my shoulders. It bunched at my wrists and I started to pull the cuffs over my wrists.
"Leave them there", he said. My arms were effectively pinned at my sides.
He pulled my bra straps over my shoulder and popped my breasts free leaving the bra where it was. He gave each nipple a quick pinch and they immediately hardened up and stood proud - traitors to my indecision.
He went behind me to unzip my skirt, which slid with a swish to puddle around my ankles. Then my panties followed, entangling my ankles in cotton manacles.
