(Please be gentle, I haven't shared any writing in a very long time. Gentle, constructive criticism is appreciated. This is a beginning and I'm undecided whether to continue it.)
Running my hands through my short hair to ring some of the water out of it, I grab my towel from the hook by the curtain. I give my body a cursory pass with the towel before wrapping it around myself, shaking a few more drops from my hair and pushing through the curtain. Mercer is standing at the counter, pulling hairpins from her long blonde hair and letting it fall out if it's neat bun. For a moment, I stare, distracted by the way her hair is falling, piece by piece over her neck and shoulders, mostly because it reminds me of Her and my heart flutters. Mercer catches my eye in the mirror and I quickly smile and nod a greeting, momentarily embarrassed, before heading over to my locker.
I'm still in my head, drifting over memories of last week with Her, as I pull my civies from my locker and begin to dress. The clothes pins and those new hooks under Her desk. My jeans rub over the healing carpet burns on my knees.
"Hey, Lawrence," breaks me out of my reverie.
I look up from pulling my shoe on and smile at my locker neighbor, "Heya, Jensen."
"What are you up to tomorrow? Couple of us are going to Carlie's for lunch, wanna join us?"
"Sorry, Jensen, I can't make it." I shove my towel into my bag and slam my locker door.
"Well, how about bowling Wednesday night?"
"I'm actually pretty tied up til Friday."
Jensen frowns. "Damn, I'm back on graveyard starting Friday. Don't you ever do anything fun on your days off. You're always busy."
I resist the grin that wants to creep over my face. "Oh, don't worry about me. I do just fine." I grab my bag. "See you Friday."
I tuck my wallet and my badge into my back pocket and grab my keys. I slip out of the locker room, returning the greetings of a few other officers and head to my bike. I lift up the seat and toss my bag into the compartment below. I'm already practically buzzing with the excitement of the next three days with Her and I won't even see Her until tomorrow morning.
****
It's 5 am and I am showered, shaved, and hopefully up to standard. I rub my right thigh where the bruise I received for the dirt under my thumb nail last Tuesday just stopped smarting yesterday. I see Her black Mercedes sedan pull into the parking lot of the office building and I stand, hands folded behind my back, feet apart, head bowed. This is usually one of the most difficult tasks. The anticipation is nearly unbearable. I'm trembling. I can't look up to see if She's approaching yet. My earplugs are firmly in place so I can't even hear the click-clack-click of Her heels against the asphalt. It's torture. Finally, finally, I see the toes of those practical, generic black pumps and the edge of Her black leather brief case and I'm so relieved I could cry. Her perfectly manicured fingers pluck the earplugs from my ears, dropping them into the trashcan to my right. She hooks one finger under my chin and lifts it slowly, the ritual of our greeting familiar, practiced, reassuring. Perfect stocking-clad legs, sleek black pencil skirt, exquisitely tailored matching blazer, immaculate white shirt with just a hint of feminine frill at the collar, porcelain white neck, stern, but distinctly female jawline, perfect pink bow lips, slightly upturned but not quite smiling. My eyes stop at Her pert, slightly upturned nose.
"Good morning, Jessica," She says in her clipped professional tone. No one but Her ever calls me Jessica. Even my mother and grandmother call me Jess or Jessie since I was old enough to no longer warrant lectures that began "Jessica Elizabeth Lawrence!"
"Good morning, Ma'am," I reply, careful to pronounce "Mah-am", instead of slurring "Mam", keeping my eyes lowered.
She takes my hand and inspects each nail before doing the same to the other. I hold my breath waiting for Her verdict. "Your cuticles could use some work, but at least they are clean. Good girl. If you continue to behave, I'll call Elena to see to those cuticles sometime this week." I bend and kiss the toe of one slick, polished shoe.
"Thank You, Ma'am."
Without another word, She turns on a dime and heads into the office. I stand, pick up Her briefcase and follow, allowing myself to admire the way the fabric of Her skirt clings to Her hips. Her gate is precise and measured. Her heels click rhythmically on the polished floor of the building's empty lobby. My nerve endings are so alert, I imagine I can feel the echo bouncing off my skin. The sway of her hips is unmistakably womanly but understated, like everything else about Her.
She is silent in the elevator. I keep my eyes lowered but sneak a couple of sideways glances. If She notices, She doesn't reprimand me, which means either She didn't see, or I will receive correction later. I'm not sure which to hope for.
The elevator dings at the top and She steps briskly out without a word or glance at me. I follow with Her briefcase, pulling the key ring from the front pocket, closing my hand around it to prevent jingling as much as possible. When we reach the familiar heavy wooden doors I quickly step past Her to unlock the door and open it for Her. She steps through and continues past a reception desk and down the hall. I slip past Her again to unlock and open her office doors. Once inside, she unbuttons her jacket and sits down in the big armchair behind her huge wooden desk. I pull the door closed, place the keys inside the pocket of the briefcase gently and set the briefcase carefully on the desk, aligned with the edge of the desk, the top facing Her. I can feel Her eyes on me.
The corner office is spacious and beautifully, and expensively, appointed. Few people would ever guess the secrets the huge desk and desk chair and the two leather armchairs facing it, and even the coat rack, hold. Fewer still would suspect the hooks cleverly disguised in the curtain rods, or that the reflective feature of the mirror-glass windows comprising two of the walls and providing a generous view of the city is useful for more than minimizing glaring sunlight. And it would never cross a visitor's mind that the walls are completely soundproof, or that each of the innocuous paintings on the walls hides a compartment behind it, or that the design on the lush carpet was custom created to serve Her darker purposes. The swirls and lines and scrolls of the design culminate in the exact center which is positioned directly between the chairs that face Her desk. I stand on this spot now, eyes never meeting Hers, waiting for her signal. Because my eyes are lowered, the subtle nod is intentionally easy to miss, but I know I would be punished for missing it just the same. I begin removing my clothes, one item at a time, carefully folding them, her gaze practically burning my flesh. The harness I wear around my chest under my clothes is tight, the leather chafing lines into my flesh, making it pink around the straps. Completely naked but for the harness and a slim black leather collar, arms at my sides, feet parted, eyes lowered, I stand before her. She opens a drawer in the desk and nods again, ever so slightly. I pick up the stack of neatly folded clothes and my shoes and walk softly, following the subtle dark red, slightly curved, line in the carpet all the way to the broader red line that borders the carpet. This line I follow carefully toward her desk, past it, to the corner of the carpet, turning to follow yet another line, this one brown, to her side. I kneel, place my clothes in the drawer she's opened. She unbuckles the slim collar I wear and puts it in my hands. I add this to the pile in the drawer and she closes and locks the drawer. She opens the drawer above it and pulls out a larger, thicker collar with D-rings around it and buckles it around my neck.
Running my hands through my short hair to ring some of the water out of it, I grab my towel from the hook by the curtain. I give my body a cursory pass with the towel before wrapping it around myself, shaking a few more drops from my hair and pushing through the curtain. Mercer is standing at the counter, pulling hairpins from her long blonde hair and letting it fall out if it's neat bun. For a moment, I stare, distracted by the way her hair is falling, piece by piece over her neck and shoulders, mostly because it reminds me of Her and my heart flutters. Mercer catches my eye in the mirror and I quickly smile and nod a greeting, momentarily embarrassed, before heading over to my locker.
I'm still in my head, drifting over memories of last week with Her, as I pull my civies from my locker and begin to dress. The clothes pins and those new hooks under Her desk. My jeans rub over the healing carpet burns on my knees.
"Hey, Lawrence," breaks me out of my reverie.
I look up from pulling my shoe on and smile at my locker neighbor, "Heya, Jensen."
"What are you up to tomorrow? Couple of us are going to Carlie's for lunch, wanna join us?"
"Sorry, Jensen, I can't make it." I shove my towel into my bag and slam my locker door.
"Well, how about bowling Wednesday night?"
"I'm actually pretty tied up til Friday."
Jensen frowns. "Damn, I'm back on graveyard starting Friday. Don't you ever do anything fun on your days off. You're always busy."
I resist the grin that wants to creep over my face. "Oh, don't worry about me. I do just fine." I grab my bag. "See you Friday."
I tuck my wallet and my badge into my back pocket and grab my keys. I slip out of the locker room, returning the greetings of a few other officers and head to my bike. I lift up the seat and toss my bag into the compartment below. I'm already practically buzzing with the excitement of the next three days with Her and I won't even see Her until tomorrow morning.
****
It's 5 am and I am showered, shaved, and hopefully up to standard. I rub my right thigh where the bruise I received for the dirt under my thumb nail last Tuesday just stopped smarting yesterday. I see Her black Mercedes sedan pull into the parking lot of the office building and I stand, hands folded behind my back, feet apart, head bowed. This is usually one of the most difficult tasks. The anticipation is nearly unbearable. I'm trembling. I can't look up to see if She's approaching yet. My earplugs are firmly in place so I can't even hear the click-clack-click of Her heels against the asphalt. It's torture. Finally, finally, I see the toes of those practical, generic black pumps and the edge of Her black leather brief case and I'm so relieved I could cry. Her perfectly manicured fingers pluck the earplugs from my ears, dropping them into the trashcan to my right. She hooks one finger under my chin and lifts it slowly, the ritual of our greeting familiar, practiced, reassuring. Perfect stocking-clad legs, sleek black pencil skirt, exquisitely tailored matching blazer, immaculate white shirt with just a hint of feminine frill at the collar, porcelain white neck, stern, but distinctly female jawline, perfect pink bow lips, slightly upturned but not quite smiling. My eyes stop at Her pert, slightly upturned nose.
"Good morning, Jessica," She says in her clipped professional tone. No one but Her ever calls me Jessica. Even my mother and grandmother call me Jess or Jessie since I was old enough to no longer warrant lectures that began "Jessica Elizabeth Lawrence!"
"Good morning, Ma'am," I reply, careful to pronounce "Mah-am", instead of slurring "Mam", keeping my eyes lowered.
She takes my hand and inspects each nail before doing the same to the other. I hold my breath waiting for Her verdict. "Your cuticles could use some work, but at least they are clean. Good girl. If you continue to behave, I'll call Elena to see to those cuticles sometime this week." I bend and kiss the toe of one slick, polished shoe.
"Thank You, Ma'am."
Without another word, She turns on a dime and heads into the office. I stand, pick up Her briefcase and follow, allowing myself to admire the way the fabric of Her skirt clings to Her hips. Her gate is precise and measured. Her heels click rhythmically on the polished floor of the building's empty lobby. My nerve endings are so alert, I imagine I can feel the echo bouncing off my skin. The sway of her hips is unmistakably womanly but understated, like everything else about Her.
She is silent in the elevator. I keep my eyes lowered but sneak a couple of sideways glances. If She notices, She doesn't reprimand me, which means either She didn't see, or I will receive correction later. I'm not sure which to hope for.
The elevator dings at the top and She steps briskly out without a word or glance at me. I follow with Her briefcase, pulling the key ring from the front pocket, closing my hand around it to prevent jingling as much as possible. When we reach the familiar heavy wooden doors I quickly step past Her to unlock the door and open it for Her. She steps through and continues past a reception desk and down the hall. I slip past Her again to unlock and open her office doors. Once inside, she unbuttons her jacket and sits down in the big armchair behind her huge wooden desk. I pull the door closed, place the keys inside the pocket of the briefcase gently and set the briefcase carefully on the desk, aligned with the edge of the desk, the top facing Her. I can feel Her eyes on me.
The corner office is spacious and beautifully, and expensively, appointed. Few people would ever guess the secrets the huge desk and desk chair and the two leather armchairs facing it, and even the coat rack, hold. Fewer still would suspect the hooks cleverly disguised in the curtain rods, or that the reflective feature of the mirror-glass windows comprising two of the walls and providing a generous view of the city is useful for more than minimizing glaring sunlight. And it would never cross a visitor's mind that the walls are completely soundproof, or that each of the innocuous paintings on the walls hides a compartment behind it, or that the design on the lush carpet was custom created to serve Her darker purposes. The swirls and lines and scrolls of the design culminate in the exact center which is positioned directly between the chairs that face Her desk. I stand on this spot now, eyes never meeting Hers, waiting for her signal. Because my eyes are lowered, the subtle nod is intentionally easy to miss, but I know I would be punished for missing it just the same. I begin removing my clothes, one item at a time, carefully folding them, her gaze practically burning my flesh. The harness I wear around my chest under my clothes is tight, the leather chafing lines into my flesh, making it pink around the straps. Completely naked but for the harness and a slim black leather collar, arms at my sides, feet parted, eyes lowered, I stand before her. She opens a drawer in the desk and nods again, ever so slightly. I pick up the stack of neatly folded clothes and my shoes and walk softly, following the subtle dark red, slightly curved, line in the carpet all the way to the broader red line that borders the carpet. This line I follow carefully toward her desk, past it, to the corner of the carpet, turning to follow yet another line, this one brown, to her side. I kneel, place my clothes in the drawer she's opened. She unbuckles the slim collar I wear and puts it in my hands. I add this to the pile in the drawer and she closes and locks the drawer. She opens the drawer above it and pulls out a larger, thicker collar with D-rings around it and buckles it around my neck.
