She Was Number 3 On List

If you really want to know, my name just came up. He's a busy man and he has a lot of things on his to-do list. I still don't understand everything he does—maybe I never will—but I know that he moves money around all day, hires and fires employees, carves blocks of wood for fun, runs on the beach, and plays in poker tournaments to relax. And he collects girls if they come up on the list. I was right after the entry that said, 'Wash the car' and before 'Pick up the laundry' and 'Go to the gym.' It just said, 'Jane.' I was on the to-do list of a man I had never met and had never even seen.

From the beginning, from the very first days I was on my own, there were always the fantasies. Like I could hardly get through a day without strong feelings pulling at my flesh and making me drift away, if only for a minute. I don't think a young woman goes into the world without these stray flare-ups of passion. At least I didn't.

It is the usual things, kind of trite really. Like when I'm alone in my bed, I might fall into a scene out of a cheap romance where a pirate somehow shows up on my doorstep and he is oozing the raw sexual energy of a man who is used to taking what he wants. So I close my eyes and offer myself to him, give myself to those strong arms and that cocky swashbuckling smile. But after I get a little sweaty and coo my way to a climax, I float safely back to my bed before Blackbeard, or whomever I named him that day, tresses me up and throws me over his shoulder to take me back to his ship for daily defilement. That would be too much, don't you think? Like it's better if I can send the pirate back to his ship so I can clean up and get myself all cute for work. And no one would ever have to know about these visits.

This need turned out to be a powerful force in my life and there were times the pirate needed help. So other visits materialized out of chance encounters on the street. These people weren't pirates or bandits or Rhett Butler types—my heart couldn't take that every day—but they were just regular people with some shared traits. I might see them across the pumps, putting gas into an Escalade; or they might be in front of me buying a couple filets at the fish market, or most often, I would run into them while I was going to or from the place I worked, in the Financial District. And even though these guys oozed money like my pirates oozed sex, it wasn't about that. I didn't want them to buy me things or provide for me or marry me or even love me. No, it wasn't about that at all. I wanted them on top of me, wanted their hungry mouths between my legs, wanted their fingers and hands and arms and legs and cock squirming all over my body like an out-of-control octopus.

It takes way too much time and energy to charm yourself to riches, and I wasn't after that. I just needed someone who would have me now, take me now, and then just disappear in the blink of an eye or the last gasp of an orgasm. It wasn't the money that attracted me to these kinds of men, but it was their powerful, strong, self-assured strides of confidence. That's what would make my heart pound. When this feeling washed over me, I would just pick out one of these gray-suited men power-walking toward me and I would fixate on his eyes until he was forced to notice me. And as he passed me by, there would always be that surprised look of why's-that-girl-staring-at-me? The poor guy just didn't know. He never knew what I was going to do to him at the end of the day. After plucking my next conquest off the street, work would go by in a blur and before I knew it, I was at home on the couch, bathed in sweat and struggling to smooth the wrinkles out of my dress.

That was my world. The thing to remember about it was that it was a good life. It really was. I had my choice of men, from the power guys on the street to the wild-eyed desperados I would conjure up in the soft light of my bedroom that was transfigured into an exotic boudoir. And it was safe and it was all about me, I was in control. What girl doesn't want that?

Beauty and cuteness have always been my curse. When I got out of college, and was truly on my own, it got even worse. I couldn't help it, a little smile, a little flash of my blue eyes and any door would open, any little jam would usually end in some laughter with a pat and a hug. And men would come to me. Even with all of my thoughts and energy mentally telling them, pleading with them, to go away, to just leave me alone, they would still come to me. Guys would trip over tables to pull out my chairs; they would bump into each other like the Three Stooges, to open doors for me. And that's the way I began to see them, as the Three Stooges. They were Larry, Moe or Curly, and I thought they were all stupid. I began to wear man shirts and pant suits but I had way too much of a figure to desexualize myself this way. It just didn't work. So I went back to the cute outfits I was comfortable with and I made myself off limits to anyone but the men I would reel in through my mind. It was a good world.

That was the kind of world I lived in until everything changed. It happened when I was on the way to work, at least that's the part I was allowed to remember, that's the part I was present for, but I don't know anything about how it really began. It started off like a typical day: I was on the way into work and it was the day my bra strap was twisted so I stopped to adjust it, and the spectacle became entertainment for some guy who stopped to stare at my tits jiggling around. Guys have no shame. Like it was so obvious, he was practically drooling right there on the sidewalk. And I fiercely stared back at him like, "Do you mind?" It wasn't a big deal, but it's funny how you remember little details when something bigger is about to happen. When the perv moved on to find other sidewalk thrills, I pulled out my heels to change out of my tennis shoes, and I was unceremoniously hopping on the sidewalk when a car pulled up to the curb.

A tall man in a long black waistcoat got out but I didn't pay him any mind. I was still hopping on one leg to get my shoes pulled on and I was already in work mode, long past trolling for a date to keep on ice until I was back home in bed. And so I barely noticed the man after I straightened up with my heels on. His air was quizzical, almost wistful, like he was looking for something. But it wasn't going to be me. Not today. I had already given one free show and I wasn't up for an encore, and besides, I had to get to work.

He scanned the sidewalk that was crowded with men in gray and black suits and women in heels and skirts. In three or four tentative strides, he weaved through the crowd from one side of the walk to the other and I thought he was going to go into my building. But he came up short, "Get in the car."

I heard what he said, it was clear and unmistakable, but I ignored him at first, feeling sure that he was talking to someone else. And out of habit or instinct, I involuntarily turned my head to see who he was talking to when he said, "Right over there, get in the car."

The voice was so close, like it was right in my ear. Mistaken identity? I hustled to move away from the crowd and through the revolving doors into the office building, but before I could break away, he spoke again, and this time his voice froze me in my tracks. "Jane. Get in the car. Don't make me ask you again. Not here."

Jane? Do I know this man? This couldn't be a random abduction because it is a sunny morning in the middle of the busiest part of the city, and this guy apparently knows me, at least he knows my name. Even my fantasy pirates don't know me that well. I sometimes give them names—both the pirates and the suits—and they'll always do their business without ever knowing who I am. That's the way I like it. But this guy? He knew me, at least it seemed like he did, and he was acting impatient, acting like I'm was an impetuous girl that was late for an appointment with him. We were just a few feet from my building and I wanted to run, but I had to take at least one look at this man to see if it would jar my memory, to see if it really was someone I should know and who had some sort of business with me.

When I turned my head, I found his eyes and I wished that I hadn't done that. They were hard earnest eyes not at all like the aimless syrupy look that had been staring at my tits. These eyes had purpose and they were growing impatient. And there was something else. The weird thing about the whole encounter—playing back the scene with the car pulling up to the curb and me hopping into my heels and the moment I heard my name—is that I started to have that tingly, burning feeling I recognized so well. It was like one of the pirates had somehow busted out of the house and stripped me naked right there on the sidewalk, with everyone in the Financial District going to work. And it was like he bound my legs so I couldn't run; he stuffed a scarf in my mouth so I couldn't speak. I was standing frozen like that, waiting silently for instructions because I knew the pirate was in control. All I heard was, "Are you going to get in the car or what?"

The car smelled like leather, smelled like money, and I hated this guy for his arrogance, for his rudeness, for his transparent mysteriousness, and if that wasn't enough, I hated him for making me late for work. And besides all of that, I was smoldering inside because I am always the one to choose the time and place of my encounters, and this definitely was nothing that I had planned. When I finally caught my breath and gathered up my nerve to confront the driver to find out just who he was, why he had taken me and where we were going, he held up his hand as soon as I opened my mouth. I wanted to scream. The son-of-a-bitch grabs me off the street—alright maybe he didn't actually grab me but it felt like it—and then shuts me up with a dismissive gesture like I'm a stupid little girl.

I slumped over toward the door, looking out the window, trying vaguely to figure out where we were going. Cars. Trees. More cars. People going to work. It was no use so I looked at the man calmly driving me away, like this is something he does everyday, and I tried to figure him out. I'm not really stupid, you know. I learned how to use my charms well and I've lived my life by keeping people at a distance, keeping myself in control of situations, keeping myself on a well-grounded path. So this shouldn't be any different, should it?

I studied my captor and realized that at least I was trapped in a car with a decent looking man, but before I had finished sizing him up, that tingling, burning, aching feeling crept over my body with a sudden realization. The guy was driving along without a care in the world. It was like he hadn't just snatched a beautiful girl off the street and thrown her in his car; it was like he didn't care if I would scream or try to get out or pull a can of mace out of my purse. He knew I was going to get in the car when he told me to. He knew I wasn't going to scream. That's why he was so calm. He just knew. This man was that confident.

At some point, we made an interim stop, and I thought we had reached our destination. He said, "Don't go anywhere," and he ran into a shop with a bag. It was the dry cleaners. He was dropping off his laundry and he was back in the driver's seat before I could come out of my stupor long enough to put together any realistic plans for escape. Or maybe I hesitated because expectations were reluctantly welling up inside me, and there would have been a tiny kernel of disappointment if I had just run away. As much as I wanted to leave, to terminate the situation, I was a captive of my desires almost as much as I was a prisoner of the man in the dry cleaners. I felt queasy feeling this way, but I wanted to know what was going to happen next. He was too organized to do anything at random. I knew we were going somewhere, and curiosity was already intertwined with my feelings of fear and excitement.

The car finally stopped for good. We were out in the country in the driveway of a nice but boxy house that was on a lot surrounded by tall trees. There were big wooden sculptures along the sidewalk, leading up to the house. It was apparently where we were going, so he turned his attention towards me.

He said, "Now what was it you were saying?"

He asked this question like he was continuing the aborted conversation we were having an hour ago, when he shut me up with his hand. It was like he had turned me off and now he was turning me back on, now he was ready to hear what I had to say. But the words didn't come easily even though I had been waiting so long to question him, to yell at him, to make him understand that I wasn't just any girl on the street, that I was smart, that I was capable and that I would be missed. But the words stuck in my throat, because as before, I realized that he knew all of that. I finally started to ask a question that began with "What..." And he immediately cut me off.

"Your name just came up."

"What the hell are you talking about? Damn you. Damn you. What do you mean my name just came up?"

Maybe it was a risk yelling in his face like that because he was holding all the cards, but it didn't seem to faze him one way or the other. He just picked up his DayBook from the seat and flipped it open to show me. There it was: 1. File reports. 2. Take car to wash. 3. Jane. 4. Pick up laundry; 5. Go to the gym. I really was in this guy's book and now there was even more fear. A stalker? What else did he know? What was he going to do with me? Was he going to rape me? Kill me?

He put the book down and said, "Listen. I've got a lot of things to do and raping you is not high on my list." This was getting too weird. He was in my head mining my thoughts at the very moment I was having them. He continued, "You know that, don't you Jane? However, I do appreciate some gratitude and obedience will always be rewarded. Now we haven't got much time because you know I've got to get to the gym and I have some things to do this evening, so let's get inside."

I was number three. The gym was number five. He was keeping to his schedule. Whatever traumatic experience I may have just had in my life, to him this whole thing was on a par with picking up the laundry and going to the gym, and it was three behind filing his stupid reports. I was crestfallen. At the door, he told me it was open and to go on in. He wasn't about to get the door for number three on his to-do list.

The inside of his place didn't match the outside. It was clean and nicely decorated, but my heart sunk when he led me to a great room that had high ceilings with beams that had hooks in them. He led me to the center of the floor and motioned for where I was to stand and then he dropped a pair of handcuffs on the coffee table before seating himself on the couch. I was uncomfortable and scared while he was so casual, just like he had been when he was driving the car. I stood there in that big room with all of the artwork and the brass rails and the ornate gold trim, and I felt so small, like I was just another decoration, a bauble he had acquired like one of the oriental vases or the paintings on the wall.

I squirmed and fidgeted and tottered on my heels, and when I stole a glance at the guy who I was on display for, he wasn't even looking at me. He had leaned his head back on the couch and his eyes were closed. This man, whose name I didn't even know, was relaxing after a long day, completely comfortable with my anxiety. And the longer I stood there waiting, the more I wanted him. It repulsed me. Those feelings were washing over me in waves while I struggled to remember that I should be afraid, that I should run away, that I should try to regain control. But it was a losing battle. I didn't want any of that anymore. I only wanted him. I gave into my feelings about the time when both sides of my warring emotional factions came to an agreement, and I started to undress. There was a raging fire in my head and my heart that wanted to give myself to this man while the other side reasoned that I might as well give him what he wants to get it over with so I can get away. Either way, I was going to be swept into his vortex. So my heels made clicking noises as I started to unbutton my blouse and his eyes snapped open.

He said, "No Jane. Stop."

I stopped what I was doing and my blood ran cold in the confusion and shame of his rebuke. Doesn't he want me naked? What does he want? I was in one of my cutest outfits. It was a flimsy little red skirt with black trim, a loose clingy silk top that easily showed off my breasts at every move, and to complete the outfit, I was wearing white stockings with the red heels. The boys at work would have liked this one. I loved getting my co-workers all fired up before going home to my pirate, and leaving them longing. That's the way it used to happen at work, but that seemed like such a long time ago, like a distant time that was already fading away from the life of a girl I didn't know very well anymore. Back then, I could charm the pants off everyone from the moronic bottom-feeding droolers to the suave arrogant men who thought they were too smart for cute little girls like me. I knew the game so well, but it just wasn't working for the man on the couch who had gone through the trouble of putting me on his stupid list, of bringing me here, of standing me up and making me all confused in the middle of his living room. It just didn't work for this man.

"You like being in control, don't you Jane?"

I felt flushed. It was inquisition time as the first meaningful thing he had said to me all day sliced through my confusion and clawed at my body. My heart was racing: Just beat me, rape me, and take me. It didn't matter anymore. I didn't have to be naked. I didn't have to be on my knees. I didn't have to spread for him. I couldn't have been any more disheveled if my clothes were ripped to shreds and he was on top of me, panting his hot breath into my ear.

"Control? Yeah, I guess so. Everybody does, you know."

"No. We're not talking about everybody, are we Jane? Everybody isn't in this room. I asked about you."

His eyes were now focused on me, and his whole body leaned into those eyes. Just a minute ago, I was wishing he would look at me, pay attention to me, and now I only wished he would stop. And I knew why he kept me from getting undressed. This man could see right through me. Just like the feelings I had when I first saw him on the street, I was already naked before him. He was using me, grasping me, holding me, caressing me with his eyes and with everything he knew about me. I sighed as softly as I could so he wouldn't know the passion that was welling up in my heart, but I already knew that nothing could fool him.

"Don't you understand Jane, don't you realize," he started again, "That you have called to me so many times, and that you have waited for me to come and get you for practically every day of your life. Why do you think you got into a stranger's car? You know better Jane. How did you get on my to-do list? You know Jane, don't you?"

I was hanging my head while he spoke and trying not to feel or understand what he was telling me even if I knew that every word was true. By the time he was finished, I looked up and his lips were only inches from my face and I wanted to explode around him. Take me. Take me. Use me. He could put the cuffs on me and I would wait for him. He could flip me over and spank away all of my false claims on control. He could fuck me on his time, and on his terms.

I was sobbing and I went to ask him something, I wanted to voice what I was feeling inside, to ask him to take all of me, and he held a finger up to his lips, taking about a half step back. He pointed at my skirt and then at the floor and I shimmied out of it in a fluid motion. I went for my blouse and he held up his hand, but this time I didn't protest under my breath but obeyed his silent command. It was easy. He pointed at my panties and they were gone. He stepped behind me and wrapped his arms all the way around my body and cupped my breasts and pulled me in tight to let me savor the moment that I was his. And then he pulled the blouse off, and spent a long moment looking at me in just my bra and stockings and heels. And maybe for the first time today or the first time in my life, I didn't feel naked and exposed, but I felt alive. I felt so alive when I gave myself to him and let him take me.