Anjali's Red Scarf Ch. 08

Later, much later, I asked May why they sprung it on us as a surprise. She told me, as if it was obvious: "Well, Sarah, we found that sometimes if we told people about it in advance, they'd make excuses not to go!"

At Cassie's funeral, I'd been asked to say a few words. I'd stood there at the podium, voice frozen in my throat, until some merciful grown-up had helped me back down.

I'm a perfectionist, and there's little that scares me as badly as the prospect of making a fool of myself in front of an audience of colleagues and bosses. Over the years I'd learned to give technical presentations without choking up—with a lot of preparation, going over the material for hours until I knew exactly what I wanted to say, down to every last 'improvised' joke along the way—and these days I can even do a wedding or funeral speech, if I have a couple of weeks to collect my ideas. But on the spot, unprepared? Hell no.

I wanted out so very badly, but it was too late. They were already calling us to the stage, and Shane was looking my way. So I bowed to my fate and climbed the stairs like some ill-fated highwayman ascending the gallows.

My one small consolation was that they'd decided to call us alphabetically. For once it paid to be a Weber, buying me a little bit of thinking time.

I barely noticed what the others said or sang. I remember Owen picked "Khe Sanh", because he'd woken up to it every morning when he was in uni, and one of the P-K graduates gave a surprisingly competent rendition of "My Heart Will Go On". Lucy, who'd taken this turn of events with better grace than me, belted her way through "Only Happy When It Rains", because "I've lived in Melbourne and London and Melbourne again". But beyond that, I was too preoccupied with trying to find something for myself.

Thirty-five thousand songs is a lot of choice—far too much choice. Most of them I didn't recognise—too old, too new, too obscure, too mainstream—and of those I did, most were nothing special to me. Nothing against Bonjovi, ACDC, Bananarama; they're all talented artists and I'll happily listen to them when they're on. But they're not the songs that speak to me.

There were a few unexpected gems in there. In the right company I would have happily sung along with "Black No. 1" or "Christian Woman", but for all May's assurance, a party with my new colleagues didn't seem like the time or place for ten-minute songs about loving the dead and sexualising nuns. For similar reasons, I reluctantly vetoed "Fucked With An Anchor".

Flicking through, I noticed that at the end of the booklet there were some foreign-language options. Let's try the German, I thought.

The selection there was threadbare. Unsurprisingly, most of my favourites were unrepresented; the only thing newer than the eighties that I recognised was a children's TV song about Schnappi the Little Crocodile. But the list was small enough that I could go through every song, and as I skimmed the oldies—not expecting to find anything—I spotted an old friend I hadn't thought of in ages.

"...and now, Sarah, you're up!"

I wobbled to my feet, walked over to the console, and keyed in my selection. "Hi all, I'm Sarah Weber. I'm one of the managers from OwKeMa"—that still felt weird to say—"and I work in mathematical logistics. Now, this is a song my grandpa loved, he always played it when I was staying at his place, and it makes me think of him. Marlene Dietrich sang this."

One last moment of panic, as I belatedly remembered that there were several different recordings around. But then the accordion started, and it was okay, it was Marlene's version.

"Vor der Kaserne, vor dem großen Tor

Stand eine Laterne und steht sie noch davor..."

It's a soldier's song. After a night out with his lady-love, he's saying good-bye to her under the lantern at the barracks. A wistful good-bye, wondering if they'll see one again, even as their shadows merge into one, and hinting that if he has to he'll rise from the earth like mist to wait for her there.

I'd heard it a hundred times, I knew it by heart, but I didn't even think about the girl's name until I was singing it.

"Wie einst, Lili Marleen,

Wie einst, Lili Marleen."

I looked for Anjali as I sang it, but all I could see was the lights in my eyes and behind them a shimmer of coloured silk.

Then the song died away, and my time at the centre of attention came to a merciful end, and I slipped offstage to find her.

"That was beautiful," said Lucy, following me down the stairs. "I didn't know you could sing like that!"

I made a small embarrassed noise. "You were great. I love Shirley Manson."

"I met her once, at the bar after a show. Little brush with fame."

"Well, it's been great, but I gotta head out soon." Lincoln was over at the bar, schmoozing with some of the other suits, and I wanted to escape before he could revive the topic that I didn't know how to handle. "Lovely meeting you again, Lucy. See you around?"

"Sure! Say, if you do find a games group, let me know? My social life is kind of empty at the moment and I'm trying to make a few new friends."

"Will do!"

Anjali was at the middle of a knot of women who wanted to hear about her dress, another topic she was happy to entertain, so I waited for a quiet moment to butt in.

"Hey, gorgeous. I'm going to head out. Did you want to stay on?"

"No, thanks, I'll walk out with you. Early start tomorrow."

So I walked her to the tram stop. "I'll wait until yours gets here."

We were half-hidden from view by advertising posters on the tram shelter, and there was nobody else around, and the night felt deliciously dark and the lights were marvellously bright, and for a moment I forgot which version of her she was tonight and I kissed her. Only for a moment, as I felt her surprise, and broke off as soon as I remembered.

"Sorry. I forgot." I took a step back.

"It's okay," she said. "Oh, I think that's my tram coming."

* * * * *

I didn't know what to think about Lincoln's request. I assumed it meant he was interested in dating Anjali, but I had no clue what that would mean for our arrangement, and trying to think through the possibilities made me feel an unpleasant kind of squirmy.

But I didn't feel comfortable lying to her about it, even by omission, and I didn't want it eating at me during our own date. So on the Sunday afternoon, after a couple of days of procrastination, I messaged her:

Hey Anjali, just so you know, at the party Lincoln asked if you were single. I wasn't sure what to say so I told him I'd get back to him.

Then I stayed up late, playing computer games, "just one more turn" over and over, telling myself I wasn't waiting up for Anjali's message. It came through at half past midnight.

Thanks for letting me know. He seems nice, but I don't have the time. Could you please tell him thanks, but no thanks?

(It would take me another week to find the nerve to pass that on to Lincoln, but never mind that. He took it with good grace and I never heard anything more from him about it.)

By the way. On Tuesday night. I'd love it if you wore the new dress again.

Your wish is my command.

And also...

Yes?

I took a deep breath. I wasn't really sure whether I wanted this, but I'd asked Anjali to push her limits a little, and I supposed I had to meet her halfway on that.

How do you feel about ticking off something from your list? One of your three for the year. Soft boundaries.

Did you have something in mind?

Another deep breath. I was thinking of switching? You dominate me for the night?

It took some time before she responded. Hmm. I'm not sure if I can do that. Let me think about it a bit?

Okay. No biggie if you decide you're not comfortable with that.

By Monday night, with no further reply, I was just about to send a follow-up "never mind, I can see you're uncomfortable with this one", when she finally got back to me.

I think I have an idea for what we can do.

Oh good! How nervous should I be?

Oh, I'm not telling. But I'll bring dinner.

And, not for the first time, I found myself wondering if I'd bitten off more than I could chew.

* * * * *

This story was posted to Literotica. If you're seeing this notice anywhere else, it means it has been copied without the author's knowledge or permission, and I'd appreciate it if you'd report it. Now, back to the story!

* * * * *

Anjali arrived at six p.m. in her regular clothes. Along with her overnight stuff, she'd brought a garment bag and a large cold bag.

"If you wanted ice, you should've just said. I have plenty in the freezer."

She just smirked at me. "Let's eat first. I stopped by the market at lunchtime."

From the size of the bag, I had expected a feast. Instead she produced an appetising but modestly-proportioned selection of biscuits, cheeses, sun-dried tomatoes, and a tub of smoked mussels.

We ate, and chatted; I stroked her hand, and she held mine. When we'd finished our dinner and cleared away the plates I caught her by the shoulder and leant in to touch my forehead to her hair.

"So, what do you have in mind for me tonight?" I whispered.

"I need a little time to prepare. I'd like you to go up to your room and change into... what you'd wear for your first day at a new job. And then wait. I'll text you when I'm ready."

I went upstairs, and selected my charcoal-grey skirt, and a nice sober blouse, and my good black Oxfords. Then I sat on my bed and waited.

And waited.

Since Anjali was taking her time, I took the opportunity to tidy up my hair and trim my nails. Then I sat again, and waited, and wondered what she had in mind.

I'd never played sub before. Oh, now and then I'd tested toys on myself so I knew just what I was inflicting on my lovers, but when it came to the main attraction I'd always been in charge, or at least an equal. I honestly didn't know how I'd feel being on the receiving end or things—scared, silly, hot?—and that curiosity, I think, was part of why I'd chosen to push that particular threshold tonight.

Buzz.

Miss Lily is ready for you.

* * * * *

She was seated at my dining table, watching me descend the stairs. She'd changed into the peacock dress—that I'd expected—and she'd made up, her eyes shadowed, her lips a deep plum-purple. At first I thought she was missing the scarf, until I realised she'd used it to tie her hair back.

"Good morning. You must be Abigail."

"Yes, um, Miss Lily?"

"And you want to distribute my fashion line. I'm not surprised."

I nodded, unsure how much she wanted me to improvise.

"You're quite right. It would be a splendid opportunity... for you. But I have plenty of other distributors begging me for exclusive arrangements. Come here."

She stood—eye to eye with me, I realised she was wearing heels—and I approached her, my shoes clicking on the tiles.

"Tell me, Abby. What on earth makes you think I'd do business with you?" Her voice was hard, the way I'd heard her mother talk to teenage Anjali when she was angry. "With you, of all people?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't understand."

"You need this, don't you? I've seen your financials, and I heard you've just lost the L'Oreal deal. You need something big to stay afloat, and you have the nerve to ask me?"

"I, uh, I'm not sure what I did, but—"

"Oh, Abby, Abby. At first I thought you were trying to sneak in... but you really don't remember me, do you?"

"Remember you, ma'am?"

"Are you a parrot, girl?"

"No. I don't understand." And I really didn't, but I assumed she knew what she was doing with this. I would just have to go with the flow.

"I want you to understand. Do you know why I started this company?"

"No, Miss Lily."

"Sit down, and I'll tell you—no, not there!" I had reached for a chair, but she slapped my hand away. "There." She pointed to the floor beside her seat, and as I sat down on the tiles she took her seat again, turning it so it was facing me.

"Abby, Abby." She touched my hair, scrunched it between her fingers, used it as a handle to tilt my face up to look at her. "Once upon a time there was a girl named Anjali who went to a birthday party. She was thirteen. There was cake. Black Forest cake. You know what a Black Forest cake is?"

I nodded, as best I could with her gripping my hair. "Chocolate and cherries and whipped cream."

"It was such a delicious cake that after everybody had had a small slice, and she waited for everybody to have firsts because she was a polite young lady, she went back and had seconds. Are you listening?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"One of the other girls at this party, one of Anjali's classmates, thought it was very funny that she took a second slice of cake. She made a big thing of it, teased Anjali until she put her plate down and left it uneaten. She went away and hid herself until her mother came to pick her up."

"Oh. I'm sorry—"

"How can you be sorry when you don't even remember, let alone understand? Be quiet. I'll tell you when I want your input."

I nodded again.

"By Monday Anjali had gotten over it. Then she went into school and one of the girls who hadn't even been at the party told her, 'Your name is silly and weird so we're changing it. From now on, you're called "Cake".' And that's what they called her for weeks and weeks, until they expanded it to 'Chocolate Cake'. Do I need to explain why?"

Her grip in my hair was starting to hurt, but I shook my head. I could take a pretty good guess.

"Eventually they got bored and found somebody else to pick on, and Anjali went back to being 'Anjali'. But she learned her lesson. Do you know what lesson she learned, Abby?"

"No, Miss Lily."

"She learned that teenage girls aren't allowed to enjoy food. It wasn't all Abby's fault, of course. All the books and magazines and TV shows didn't help. Even her brother teased her about being chubby. But whenever she looked at a delicious slice of cake, it was Abby she remembered, telling her 'your name is "Cake" now'."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm really sorry." My bum and my thighs were aching; the floor wasn't a comfortable place to sit.

"Shut up. I'm not done." She tugged at my hair by way of reminder. "So she grew up, dieting and weighing herself every day. It didn't quite turn into a clinical eating disorder. But it was close, and she still spent so much time worrying about something so stupid. Then eventually, after she'd finished high school, she started reading some of the right books and she started to realise just how badly she'd been had. But even after she understood it in her head, it was so hard to break those habits and stop treating food as the enemy."

I'd known that teenage Anjali, of course. I'd tutored her, and even as I tried to understand exactly what my role was in this performance, I ached for her. She'd been a lovely kid, like so many of my friends who'd gone through similar trials.

"And it's still something I have to work on. But it's why I went into fashion, Abby, it's why I founded Miss Lily's. Every woman has the right to look good and feel good about herself. That's my motto. That's what I do here. Now, what do you think I should do with you?"

"I'm really sorry, ma'am. I was just a kid being mean. I didn't understand."

"I don't think you did. I'm sure you got caught up in it too, Abby. You read the same books and magazines I did..."

Knowing what I did of Anjali's childhood reading habits, omnivorous and insatiable, I thought that might be overstating things a little. But I knew what she meant.

"...so I'm going to give you a chance to show me what you've learned since then. Pay attention now."

Letting go of my hair at last, she twisted to one side and picked up the cold bag. There was more in it still. She hoisted it up over my head and laid it on the table. I could hear her unpacking it. Something clanked against my table-top. Then she picked up the contents from the table and held the platter down for me to see. It was a large and very fancy-looking Black Forest cake, fat dark cherries and oodles of cream topped with shavings of chocolate.

"What do you think?"

I didn't know how to answer, and she didn't wait for my reply. She set the platter back on the table, and I could hear the soft tap-tap-tap of a knife against a plastic board as she cut the cake into slices.

"Come in close... closer than that."

I obeyed, scooting in between her feet, close enough in front of her seat that I had to crane my neck uncomfortably to look up at her face. She planted her feet on my thighs, and for a moment I wondered if she was about to dig in with the heels. That would have hurt, and I wasn't sure how I felt about that. But apparently that wasn't what she had in mind.

"Now watch very carefully." Above me, she served herself a wedge of cake on one of my saucers; I supposed she'd purloined that from the kitchen while I was upstairs. Then she began to eat, holding the cake in one hand and the plate underneath it in the other, now darting her tongue across the top to slurp up the cream and chocolate shavings, now biting into the sponge base and the cherries in between. She wasn't noisy about it, but she wasn't silent either, lips smacking as she devoured it. I could smell it, too. Rich and fruity and creamy, and just a hint of alcohol.

Halfway through she paused and looked down at me, lips discoloured with chocolate and smeared cream. The plate had caught most of the crumbs, but there were still a few on her dress. "What do you think, Abby? Am I beautiful?"

"Yes, ma'am. You really are."

"Good girl. For that, you get a little reward." She stuck her fingers into the cake and extricated a cherry, which she offered to me. I began to reach out, but she shook her head.

"No hands."

So I leant forwards and took it between my teeth. As I did, she slipped her fingers into my mouth.

"I want them back clean."

I couldn't bite on the cherry without biting her fingers as well. Instead I had to push it around my mouth with my tongue, crushing it against my teeth, squeezing it until it came apart in smaller pieces and I could swallow, and then my attention returned to her fingertips. I sucked and slurped and licked until every last trace of that bittersweet confection was gone from them... and then, of course, she plunged them right back into what was left of her slice, consuming it chunk by chunk until there was none left, at which point she gave them back to me to clear once more.

When there was nothing left of that slice, she ruffled my hair and smirked at me. "Well, that was good. Do you think I ought to have seconds?"

"Yes, ma'am. If you want to."

"Really? It's not greedy or weak of me?"

"No, ma'am. It's just food."

"I'm glad we agree on this. Here, why don't you clean the plate for me?"

Lily handed me the saucer and I sat between her knees, licking off the crumbs of chocolate sponge and the smears of cream as she started on another slice. Having given me the saucer, this time she had only her hands to catch stray fragments, and so things were getting messier. I felt a couple of crumbs land in my hair—I'd want to wash that afterwards—and a stray dollop of cream glanced off my cheek on the way to the floor.

"Oops. Do take care of that, Abby, there's a good girl."

So I wriggled around and stooped to the floor. Aside from the cake debris, it was cleaner than I remembered leaving it, and I suspected Anjali might have given it a quick once-over while I was dressing. It was just a small fragment of cream, and I stuck out my tongue and lapped it up. Yes, there was a hint of kirsch there.

A soft pressure at the back of my neck. The sole of her shoe. Not forceful, just firm enough to suggest that I was to stay there a little longer. Well, I'd already licked the floor, I might as well do the job properly. So I searched, flicking out my tongue to pick up errant crumbs one by one. After a little while of this, when I'd cleaned up all I could find, the pressure eased off. I took that as my cue to sit up and look to her for further direction.