Red Ribbons and Scripture

"Red Ribbons and Scripture, a Romance is a story of a widow of unfailing Christian faith who discovers her submissive sexuality with an honest and blunt man who questions his faith in God until he met her.

Red Ribbons and Scripture

By Beagle9690

September 2021

A brief history; I grew up an Army brat, moving from place to place, and often lived in crappy government housing or cramped apartments. Moving from place to place was hard for making friends. I did excel in school, though. When I graduated high school, I left to be on my own clear across the country to the East Coast with a full scholarship.

I was an emancipated seventeen, soon to be eighteen in two days, attending college as an English Major and working part-time as a waitress in an upscale three-star restaurant to have spending money. I adored my adopted community, seasons change, and the proximity to Lake Ontario, Lake Erie, the Finger Lakes, and Niagara Falls. And I planned to live here after I graduated and put down roots.

I married a man who was fifteen years my senior. I met him at the Albright Knox Art Museum during the Picasso Exhibit. I always found young men my age to be shallow or immature. John was worldly and sophisticated, a Professor of Literature at a prestigious private university, not the State School University I attended.

After we married, John oversaw our finances. I was comfortable with this arrangement because I had a generous monthly allowance, and I drove a new leased luxury sedan every three years.

I enjoyed being the hostess, entertaining at our home with my friends from church or his colleges and their wives. I had financial stability and a house of my own, and that is important. My house and marriage were my earthly sanctuaries.

Life was good, so I volunteered to divide my time for charity and help at my Church. Eventually, I was a Board Member of a respected charitable organization working closely with a Children's Cancer Hospital-make a wish foundation.

John was an avid golfer and not good at it. He didn't walk the course but instead drove around in a golf cart. Eventually, he watched golf tournaments on television at his private Country club with his buddies over drinks as he got closer to retiring.

I saw less and less of him, as they say-no marriage is perfect.

I was a virgin when I married. Our sex life was tepid at best on the first night and never got better, but I had nothing to compare then. No oral sex, it disgusted him; giving or receiving--no imaginative foreplay-before, or cuddling after.

In our last five years, sexual intimacy was barely existent, if you could call it that.

We attended Church together and church functions; he went through the motions, tolerating it for appearance's sake, and we slept in separate bedrooms.

As a staunch Christian woman embracing marriage as a sacrament, I had no option other than to pleasure myself in a hot bath with scented candles or relaxing in my bed under luxurious hi-thread count linen sheets with my sexual fantasies and imaginary lovers.

Sadly, my husband, John, died soon after he retired. However, throughout our marriage, he assured me of my financial security should he pass first.

I discovered during probate my husband, John, lied. He forged my signature to allow him to receive his full retirement; instead of taking less, seventy-five percent for his pension to go to me after he died. He had a secret Post Office Box. He took out a second mortgage, again forging my signature. I also discovered our once substantial stock portfolios and mutual funds were depleted and minimal. At some point, John decided he was more intelligent than our fiduciary, fired him, and then made reckless financial decisions.

At first, I couldn't believe what was happening to me and how he lied and betrayed me. I was devastated when my home went up for public auction due to unpaid taxes that I couldn't afford to pay. I was ashamed and scandalized and resigned in shame from the board of directors.

I cried on and off for weeks; I prayed, and then I was numb as reality set in. I was able to get a waitress job and liquidated my remaining mutual funds/stocks. I took most of my jewelry to Mr. Goldberg to sell on consignment in his small jewelry store, including my diamond engagement and wedding band. I had no use for the ornate jewelry box, and I brought that there too.

The next day, shortly before my shift began at the restaurant, and when I went to put it on, I realized I made a terrible mistake; I was sure I left it on my dresser. Only God knows how it got in my jewelry box; it was a gift from my mother and father, and the rest of those expensive gold and diamond bobbles and bling my husband bought meant nothing to me. I didn't want to upset her, and she was getting forgetful, the poor dear, so I never told my mother it was gone.

When I telephoned Mr. Goldberg, it was too late; his clerk sold it immediately for cash. He felt terrible and, after, refused to take the fifteen percent consignment after everything sold. Perhaps the loss was part of God's divine plan for me; I said a short prayer for its return and then tackled my next problem.

I had the name and address of the man who purchased my home for taxes and satisfied the lien from the bank. So I made an appointment to meet with him several months after the tax auction with a looming deadline.

I spent a week mentally preparing for the meeting. I hoped Mr. Cain would allow me more time to stay there. I hoped he would possibly let me rent it from him. Again, I prayed for a miracle.

I hoped to persuade Mr. Cain and leave a good impression, and I succeeded. It was hot that day with high humidity, so I put my hair up in a simple, classic bun, pretty but modest. I wore my red floral print summer dress with short ruffle sleeves. It was a cross v-neck- button front with a high waistband and a low ruffle hemline well below my knees.

As luck wasn't mine, ASSETS COMPLIANCE RECOVERY, INC sent a flatbed to seize my leased Mercedes before meeting with Mr. Cain. So I called UBER to drive me there that Friday morning in August.

His home is a Federalist-style red brick house with a slate roof surrounded by mature, stately red maple and oak trees. I hesitated before ringing the doorbell. What if he wouldn't listen or laugh at me? Was I wasting my time?

I rang the doorbell, said a small prayer, and Mr. Cain let me in soon after. The temperature in the house was cool and pleasant after being outside in the oppressive heat. There was soft Jazz music playing in the background.

He had on tan chinos and a white button-down long sleeve shirt. "You are punctual, Mrs. Foster, excellent. I'm Lucas Cain," he said, taking my arm and leading me into his kitchen. The room's centerpiece was a massive antique solid maple trestle table with a scratched and stained well-worn top. There were several newspapers, including The Wall Street Journal, and a mug of coffee. One of the pages folded to the partially completed crossword puzzle. I also noticed he was using a sterling silver Montblanc pen fountain pen rather than a pencil. I saw his printing was neat and precise.

"Please have a seat, Mrs. Foster," he offered pleasantly, pulling out a chair for me, and I sat down. Let's get down to business," he said bluntly, "I legally purchased your property for unpaid taxes after I settled with your bank?" "Yes, that is correct," I agreed. "You have less than a week to vacate the premises per court order, or the Sheriff will forcibly remove you," he stated. "Yes," I answered, "Good, we can agree on that as well. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Yes, please," I answered, "with one sugar and a splash of cream," thinking everything was going well so far. Mr. Cain got up and made us a fresh pot. As he moved about his kitchen, I noticed his agile and fluid movements, much like a mountain lion with long corded compact spring steel muscles. At six feet three inches tall, and I'd estimate, one-hundred seventy pounds of trim and solid manliness. I wondered how old he was.

Mr. Cain brought me a mug of coffee, along with a small plate of "Biscotti Regina" Italian sesame seed cookies," Gina's favorite and mine," he said and sat down. "You are an attractive woman, Mrs. Foster; however, I'm curious. Tell me exactly why you are here?" he then studied me with his piercing green eyes. "I don't know where to start, Mr. Cain. Being here is very difficult for me."

"I understand, Mrs. Foster. I did some checking," he advised me, taking a sip of coffee, "I have useful people on my payroll. You're a fine and upstanding church-going woman. But, regrettably, your commendable charitable work and waitress job barely pay the bills or allow you to keep the house, let alone afford the security deposit, first months rent, last months rent, and so on."

"Are you a Christian, Mr. Cain?" "Baptised one, yes, and now I'm a doubting agnostic, even Jesus's disciples had their doubts about faith," He admitted. "I can't prove or disprove the existence of God, although I'm open to the possibility if I could see a sign or small miracle. Nonetheless, I may have a solution to your problems."

"What kind of solution?" I asked, encouraged by this turn of events, as he boldly studied me with his intense green eyes, making me self-conscious.

"I purchased the property to sell for a substantial profit for a price you can't afford given your circumstances. I buy and sell property; restore and flip houses.

I was leaning for sale until you contacted me. If you agree to my proposal, I'll waive the security deposit, and other, you may live there rent-free with certain non-negotiable conditions."

"That's very generous, but I still don't understand, Mr. Cain. What kind of

conditions?" He raised the stakes with an offer that was impossible to ignore. I was desperate to stay in my home; Mr. Cain offered one on a silver platter, and that was not all.

"I will add you to my payroll as my Secretary. It will be legal and above board, including W-2's and all applicable withholdings. You'll have medical insurance. You will be salaried at $3000.00 a month. You will be my girl Friday in every sense of the meaning and be available as needed."

"What do you mean by available as needed," I asked, trying to keep my composure as wild thoughts and possible scenarios raced through my mind.

"Don't be obtuse or cute with me; it's a fair offer, and you were, after all, married for twenty years?" I felt my face flush and turn warm at the implication. "You also concluded a respectful period of mourning."

"But, I didn't expect; I mean, I'm not sure I'm ready to...." I didn't finish my sentence, taken aback and unsure what to say.

Mr. Cain stood up and removed a bundle of twenty-dollar bills secured with a paper currency band under the Wall Street Journal. "This is one thousand cash." You may have it now, and we part ways; consider it a goodwill gesture to defray your moving expenses, or you can finish this job interview to find out if you're ready to be available as needed. In both instances, you may have the money." I didn't answer and looked into my mug as if my coffee contained the answer.

"Let's find out if you're ready, Mrs. Foster." I swallowed and nodded my head. Listen carefully, remove your sandals, and then stand up and face me." He commanded in a quiet tone that demanded prompt obedience, and when I did, "Excellent," he praised.

"Take the hairpins out of your bun, and leave it in a ponytail." When I put the hairpins on the table, Mr. Cain took my ponytail in his hand to feel its weight and the silky thickness of it, something I always enjoy doing, including when I pleasure myself.

My light honey blond hair is thick and full. It is blunt cut straight across the bottom and falls to my waist. I have no bangs or layers.

"Take it down entirely, Mrs. Foster, and shake your head," he ordered; I shook my head, letting my luxurious tresses flow over my back and shoulders, some covering my breasts. "Do you want to leave?" he asked, "The money will still be yours, and the house sold," and I shook my head for no.

He reached forward and pushed my hair back away from my breasts and over my shoulders. "How old are you, Mrs. Foster?" "Forty," I answered truthfully, guessing he already knew.

Mr. Cain got behind me and finger-combed my hair. I felt his calluses when he lightly touched my cheeks and the side of my neck to gather it into a ponytail.

"What are your measurements?" He asked, continuing to play with my long hair, which I considered my best feature, and personal vanity.

"I'm five-foot-six inches tall, and I weigh one-hundred ten," I answered. Mr. Cain put his hands on my shoulders and gently turned me to face him. He slid his hands to my waist and down to my hips, holding me in place while looking into my eyes, "I estimate your figure is a pleasing twenty-six bust, twenty-six waist, and thirty-six hips."

I am not bragging, but I have a nice figure; my power walking and aerobic exercises help me maintain, and his guess was on the mark. I nodded in agreement and closed my eyes, wishing the interview was over.

"Open your eyes and look at me," he demanded, in his quiet and somewhat menacing manner, "Good, you have beautiful blue eyes: take your dress off and do it slowly." He took a few steps back, folded his arms across his chest, and leaned against the table. Mr. Cain's eyes were stern and resolute. I turned my back to him and started to unbutton my front to open my dress.

"Don't turn away from me," he admonished fiercely. I turned to face him, and I was a bit intimidated but determined to see this through, and I continued unbuttoning my dress to reveal my favorite red lace silk bra and matching panties. Because of the hot weather, I was not wearing pantyhose.

Revealing," he commented, "I approve, now lean forward and shake your head, so your hair partially covers your face," I did, and he remarked, "You look tantalizing, Mrs. Foster, take your dress off and drop it on the floor. "Excellent, Mrs. Foster; I like what I see."

He then grasped both of my wrists and looked into my eyes. Next, he raised my arms above my head and told me to hold them in that position, "Keep looking into my eyes, Mrs. Foster."

He unclasped the front hooks of my bra and then fondled my breasts, paying particular attention to my sensitive nipples, getting them hard and erect in my arousal. I couldn't believe what was happening to me, "Do you want to part ways, Mrs. Foster?" and I shook my head for no.

My arms were getting tired, I started to lower them, and he noticed. "Don't drop your hands to your side. Instead, put them behind your head and lift your hair to expose your neck to me," "Excellent," he praised, placing his strong arms around my waist, and he put his face next to mine. I could smell his cologne, "You're alluring and sexy, pretty Lady."

Holding me in place, Mr. Cain then placed one of his large calloused hands over my mound. One finger slid smoothly down my vaginal slit, and he pressed firmly against my clitoris through the fabric.

I squirmed and tried to move away, but he effortlessly held me with one arm. "Your body betrays you, don't fight it, surrender to me. I can smell the musky and sweet juices of your arousal. Don't lie to yourself; you want this, Mrs. Foster?"

He then stepped back and said, "You are a delicious delight to my eyes and senses. Your creamy skin is flawless and not marred or defaced with tattoos or piercings, including your ears. You are almost there. Use your imagination; what am I thinking?"

My bra was falling off my arms, so I took it off and dropped it on my dress. Then, bending forward, I slowly slid my panties to my ankles, my hair falling forward, covering my face.

Standing, I tossed my panties away with a flourish. I slightly arched my back and pushed my breasts forward; I turned my head and shoulders from side to side, my hair partially covering my face and teasing my breasts. I looked into his eyes, pursed my lips as if blowing a kiss.

I was posing lasciviously for him, but my thoughts were conflicted and unsure. I fantasized about being ravished by strong and handsome, dominating men like him, but that was safe and secure, alone in my home.

I was surprised to discover that my labia lips, the flower of my womanhood, were glistening with moisture. I was naked, exposed to this man's pleasure, sexually aroused, and I was embarrassed by it. How was this possible?

Lucas Cain is an alpha male, forceful, domineering, unyielding and uncompromising. He was brutally honest with me. I thought about the difference between him and my vanilla, timid pacifist husband, who shied from confrontation. He often would take the easy way out and capitulate. But, unfortunately, he was also a liar; how I despise a liar. Proverbs 12:19-"Truthful lips endure forever, but a lying tongue is but for a moment."

"Do you accept my proposal, Mrs. Foster?" "I nodded, yes, dropping my hands, and then I covered my breasts and my flower with my hands and arms.

"You don't have permission to cover yourself. Put your hands to your sides." He cradled my face in his callused hands while looking into my eye. "Nodding is not a definitive answer," and he lightly kissed my lips. "I accept," I whispered, and he kissed my lips again.

"Your lips are luscious, Mrs. Foster, like a fine vintage port' sweet and complex," He put two fingers on my throat, pressing lightly and traced down between my breasts and down my stomach to caress my flower, parting the petals and wetting his finger with the sweet juices of my arousal. I didn't try to move away; he then tasted his fingers.

He put his face close to mine and whispered in my ear, "The nectar of your flower is delectable. I want it shaved and available for my lips and tongue.

Your long hair will always be up in a bun or French twist. You will not leave the house with your hair down and loose, not even in a ponytail unless you are with me or have permission, including your days off. Disobey, and I may decide a short haircut," and he put the edges of his hands on the sides of my face, level with my chin, "starting here or shorter, will encourage you to comply. Do you want a short haircut?" he asked menacingly.

"No, Sir?" I promptly replied, confident he would carry out that threat. "Excellent, you're hired. Get dressed, Mrs. Foster; it will be a busy first day. Put your hiring bonus in your purse. My office is the first door on the right of the foyer. Please bring me a fresh mug of black coffee, and by the way, you look lovely in a ponytail. Make it happen," and my employer left me naked in his kitchen.

I had a strict but loving upbringing. My Mother and I attended Church on Sunday; my Father when possible. Every three weeks or so, I went with my Mother to her beautician to tidy up the identical short layered pixie haircuts she adored on us, and truthfully I was not fond of those haircuts; they made me look like a boy. Thankfully, I was allowed a chin-length bob during my last two years of High School.

I dressed, fixed my hair as instructed, and then brought Mr. Cain his coffee. His office, the largest room in the house, was not as I expected. It was more like a combination-study library. It had built-in bookcases filled with archive-quality leather-bound and other books, fiction, and non-fiction, including religious texts, such as the Bible. The walls were paneled, black walnut, I believe, the same dark wood as bookcases. There were Persian Oriental wool rugs on the floor.

There were two long, deep oxblood brown leather couches, a loveseat, and three comfortable club chairs with matching ottomans near the windows. Each chair had a Tiffany floor lamp. There was a library table with eight matching chairs--the table covered in paperwork and a laptop. There was an antique Dewey decimal oak cabinet; the many small drawers were where Mr. Cain kept his fine pen collection. The only photo in the room was of a small boy standing close to a woman. They were both smiling, and the little boy is holding up a fish he caught.