Little Scandal #02: Maya Ch. 02

The expression is red-letter. Maya had never received a red letter from anyone, for anything. She wasn't sure how it differed to a scarlet letter, but was certain it did. She was pretty sure it wasn't a financial term, unless it had been started by creditors who delighted in collections. Perhaps the vanderVoort family had had something to do with that in times long gone. Or perhaps the moralizing preachers who set the scarlet letters on adulteresses had done it with dour delight. One thing was clear to Maya as she stepped out the door of her father's moderately-sized office complex: It had not been a red-letter day.

In fact, the expression hit her with such vivid clarity as she stepped through the automatic door into the warm mid-May sunlight –It has not been a red-letter day! – that she blurted out a stinging laugh, high-pitched and panicked. It turned a head or two in the busy street, but she paid them no mind and turned her own head toward a tavern. It had been raining much of the afternoon, and now the late afternoon sun shone on the glass and cobblestones alike, glaring at Maya.

The first thing that had occurred semi-clearly to Maya after her mid-morning anal rape had been that her boss's semen was drying on her ass. The second was that her boss's semen was staining her panties. And the third was that the only way to stop both of these demeaning processes was to go to the loo and wash the semen out of her silvery satiny panties. She'd been half-way there when she realised she'd had no way to dry them and her options after washing would have been wearing uncomfortably wet panties that might make a sight on her skirt and not wearing panties at all. The frightful dilemma made her stop cold in the middle of the corridor.

She hadn't even noticed Mister vanderVoort saunter up behind her, so when he'd said, "Lost, Maya?" she'd jumped out of her skin. The subtle smirk on his face when she'd seen it had filled her with such dread and hatred that she'd rushed her way to the bathroom and slammed herself into a stall.

Breathing heavily, she'd willed herself not to cry, not because she didn't want to admit defeat – she was defeated – but because she'd forgotten her purse and didn't want to risk going back and forth to her desk to get the make-up she'd need once her mascara had streaked her face. The thought of meeting anyone, but especially vanderVoort, with a tear-streaked face was too horrible to imagine.

Once she'd calmed herself, she'd raised her skirt over her hips, and lowered her wet panties for a wee. She'd been surprised to see there was no blood in the stain. She'd not bled from the rear in a while, but she'd not hurt with the spasming desperate pain she'd felt when he'd rammed his spiteful cock inside her netherest region. And he had – rammed and delighted in her pain and humiliation. And she'd had to bite back the tears again.

She'd spread her legs for that wee she'd kept meaning to get to, but as her pussy lips had spread with her legs, she'd become aware of another scent. It was the scent of her pussy – the scent of her turned-on pussy. Her cunt had been wet. She'd wanted to cry out, shriek and then weep her way home and tell her father what an awful man he'd employed for years. What an awful man his dear friend was. And her head had swum with all the horrific things her father would say to her for jeopardizing his career and security. She was the worst daughter in the world!

A silent tempest had roiled in Maya's person all day. After lunch, which she'd eaten uncharacteristically alone, she'd begun to feel exhausted sitting at her desk, checking figures for the man who'd raped her. Checking figures for her oblivious father. On more than one occasion, she'd had to pull herself back to the present. Once she'd even lost three minutes. Her eyelids had begun to feel extremely heavy after that.

So, she'd escaped to the coffee room, where she fixed herself some less-than-stellar coffee. Her hand had shaken as she'd poured the cream. And a wave of sensation had crept over her. She felt Geoff Greene's presence, coming up behind her and stealing a whiff of her hair. He'd put his arms around her, and she'd been able to feel the sensation of his hard-on through his trousers, her skirt.

She'd remembered the way he'd held her still while she'd "struggled" to get out of his grasp. All the while, she'd had a smile on her face. He was big – in all respects. And he'd been respectful when he'd learned about Maya's penchant for anal sex. And when she'd remembered anal sex with Geoff, her butt had spasmed and she'd nearly fallen to her knees.

With her coffee creamed, Maya had returned to her desk. The time, she remembered, had been exactly 2:04. Nothing like a painstaking four more hours of fear that Mister vanderVoort would want a re-run of the morning's show.

At about 5:50, she'd gotten an e-mail from Mister vanderVoort. It had said, "You're my personal porno girl. Like a blow-up doll, but with living parts. That's all you are. P.S. Don't delete this message, or any other dirty message I send you."

She'd kept alternately hoping someone would ask, "Maya, are you okay?" and dreading it. By the time the end of the day rolled around, she'd got herself well enough under control that when Mister vanderVoort had come around and thanked her and the rest of the staff for their work that day like a good manager she hadn't bitten his nose off, simply nodded.

"We'll see you bright and early in the morning," he'd said.

She'd even managed a, "Yes, Sir."

Then he'd leaned in and muttered, "Assuming I don't get greedy for you in the interim."

He'd been close to her – too close. She could smell tobacco, whisky, and English Leather. She'd been unsure if he'd grope her wounded ass. But he hadn't. And she'd nodded. And then she'd left, and laughed out loud once she'd been the slightest bit more free.

Now she was headed toward a bar – which bar, she didn't know, but she intended to get as drunk as she could before going home. Manage to appear sober? Tell her parents she'd had a bad day, and no she didn't want to talk about it? Cause suspicion in her father? Start him on the path to finding out? Fuck it!

"Hi, Mom?" she said into her mobile.

"Hi, Maya, sweetie. Is something amiss?"

"Ahm, no. I'm just, I'm meeting up with – ahm – Mark and Alex and Gianna for dinner and drinks tonight. So, don't expect me home."

"It's a bit sudden, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is. I just got a text, and I haven't seen them in forever so – you know—"

"Well, alright pet. I'll put your dinner aside. How was your day?"

Terrible. Awful. Painful. Humiliating. Agonizing. I hope I fall down a man hole!

"Good. Thanks for asking. Gotta go, though, my bus is here."

"Alright, pet. Give my best to Alex, Mark, and Gianna."

"Will do, Mum."

Over the course of her recently finished freshman year at Harvard, Maya had been become very aware of the changes she'd been undergoing. She'd been proud of herself for studying without needing to be prodded; for turning in early when she'd been tired; for using a condom every single time – she'd been perfect at that. This change, though – the ability to lie to her parents – she was not proud of.

Dejected and confused, Maya opened the door to a bar called the Winking Judge. How long she'd been walking, she had no clue. Where exactly she was in the world, after merry old England, she had no clue.

"Just one?" asked the waitress, a horse-faced girl with big teeth. She was skinny, though, and Maya hated her for it.

"Just one. Somewhere secluded if you don't mind?"

"Certainly, Miss."

The horsey waitress led Maya to a corner table. On any day prior, the looks Maya got from patrons of pubs would have delighted her. She was a head-turner, with her girlish round face and her plump tits and long legs. And, of course, she'd dressed to impress because that's the nature of professional womanhood. But with every turn of the head, with every smiling eye – Irish or not – she found herself wishing she'd worn sweat pants and a baggy top instead of the gem-toned purple cleavage top and short skirt she had.

Once seated in a corner facing the wall, Maya ordered a sauvignon blanc. She sat slumped in her chair. That storm felt like a wind across an empty tundra. The aroma of peaches and cinnamon hit her, making her heart flutter. Saw brown breasts and black hair, heard a low moan, tasted skin, felt her lips brush another's.

"Eleza."

"Yeah, that's not my name."

Eleza – or not-Eleza – sat down across from Maya, who wished she were not-Maya.

"Can't say I'm surprised."

The waiter came with Maya's wine, but before he could set it in front of her, Eleza spoke to him.

"Take it away. Drink it yourself, I don't care. That's not what she's drinking tonight."

"It's not?" they both said.

"No. Tonight, we're drinking Sexual Harassments. Does the barkeep know how to make those?"

"I'll – see."

"Oh, here!" Not-Eleza took a pen from her purse and wrote something on her paper napkin. "You like Disaronno? Of course you do. Who doesn't?" She gave the recipe to the waiter who looked sideways at her, but left without saying anything.

Maya looked up at not-Eleza. She was still tall and curvy, even seated. Long arms, fingers, nails. Robust waves in her burnt chestnut hair. Dark, almond-shaped eyes. Sweetly sneering rose lips. Creamy, coffee-coloured cleavage clinging to low-cut silk. If they wrote Fs in red, not-Eleza St. Clair would have been cause for a number of red-letter days. Not including, but nearly including, one of Maya's own. Now two. She supposed. Except that it was not a red-letter day.

"Rough day at work?"

Though she tried to stop it, her lip began to tremble. Her jaw tightened, but her lips curled anyway. All day she had been near bursting, but she hadn't expected this. She began to snort. Her lips cracked apart with the air. Laughter burst from her throat and she couldn't stop it. It wasn't even funny.Rough day at work.Who the fuck did she think she was?Rough day at work!And she just sat there, with that beautiful sneer on her face, smug as a bug in a rug. Maya's young life falling down around her, and not-Eleza St. Clair says,Rough day at work!That cunt!

Maya was practically on the floor now, in paroxysms, snorting and wheezing. She could barely breathe, and in the halting, hiccoughing hysteria the cadence of her laugh began to turn downward. She clasped her hand to her throat and tears started to pour from her eyes.

"There we go," said not-Eleza.

Maya wanted to grit her teeth and punch the woman. She wanted to rant and rave and call Eleza foul names, but the tears drowned her words. Instead she just cried, make-up ruined, like her day. Like her life. That silent storm raged, inside and out. And Eleza – not-Eleza – just sat there, smiling and sneering. She was merciless. That had been what Maya liked about her.

Finally, she took to throwing things at her. The napkin in front of her. The menu the waiter had brought for not-Eleza. She'd opened her purse to find something she wouldn't miss if it broke.

"Stop," said not-Eleza.

"Who are you!" growled Maya.

"Well, since I'm back on the continent, I guess you can call me Lys."

"Leigh?" It was Maya's turn to sneer.

"No. Lys. It's almost gli, if you're speaking Italian. It's French. Means lily."

"Who are you?" begged Maya.

The waitress returned to their table with two low glasses full of ice and alcohol. She gave Maya a rueful look, and turned to leave. But not-Eleza – Lys – stopped her.

"Drink that," she instructed Maya.

Maya looked at her, incredulous.

"Do it."

She rolled her eyes, and downed the shot.

"Like it?"

"Yeah." She shrugged.

"That's what I thought. She'll take three more, I'll take two. And make them doubles."

The waitress nodded, and bit her lip, then said: "Okay. But try to keep it down?"

"Honest Injun."

The waitress left, and Lys turned back to Maya.

"I love being able to say that," she said, then sipped.

"What?"

"Honest Injun. You can't say it anymore in America. Or, well, you can, but you risk being bunched in with all the racist old coots who hate blacks and Muslims. Which is fair, I suppose. Here, though, it's quirky and ethnic."

"You can't do this," said Maya.

"What? Say 'honest injun'?"

"No. You can't just come here after helping my boss blackmail me and expect to be my friend."

Lys thought this over for a second. "Why not?"

"What!"

"Why can't I be your friend?"

Maya hissed: "My boss raped me today because of you!"

"And he's never raped me?"

"He has?"

Lys nodded.

"Then why did you—"

"Because he took pictures."

"Oh."

"Look, if there's one thing I've learned about vanderVoort it's that he's got a very – let's say Grecian – view of women."

The throb in Maya's sphincter reminded her just how Grecian his view of women was. She saw Lys smirk.

"Inferior – physically, mentally, morally. Catfeesh?"

Maya shook her head. "So he treats us like shit. So what?"

"Well Maya, we're not. Are we?"

Maya shook her head no, but she didn't feel it. A new waitress came back with Maya's second drink and her chips.

"Says the woman with the big red dildo."

"No. Pay attention. Do you think vanderVoort could take that up his ass?"

"I don't even want to think about it."

"Okay, but if he can't and you can, doesn't that mean you're physically superior?"

"I – suppose. In a feminine sense." Maya sipped her drink, thoughtfully.

"Do you think he knows that? Has it even crossed his mind?"

"Probably not."

"So, that makes us superior mentally."

"But, morally?"

"Well, I've never raped anyone. You?"

Maya shook her head.

"There you go. He's not a pushover, though. We can take him down, but it won't be easy. Especially not for you."

"Not for me? Why?"

"Because you have to play like nothing's wrong with his plan."

"VanderVoort doesn't know you're here?"

"VanderVoort knows I'm following you. He's got me spying on you If you think I'd lie to you and not him though, you probably shouldn't be at Harvard."

"Fair point."

"Now, come on. Let's drink the shit out of this sexual harassment."